Sentenced to death by the gas chamber yet again. I have fled and sought asylum in Goa once more, hoping to meet up with some of my old acquaintances here. They, I find seem to be goofing off too but news of my arrival seems to have gone around and now, somewhat sheepishly, I suspect they are showing themselves again.My old friend the magpie robin seems to have given up his position on top of the water tank for his flute concertos (crows and jungle mynas disport themselves on it) – though you can’t really blame him because this is not the season for birdsong as such. So, he hops around diffidently in the garden, letting off the occasional long whistle and harsh ‘chrr’ to ensure other magpie robins don’t get ideas. I think he ‘puts up’ as they like to say somewhere just behind the house because I hear him calling from that side too.The always invisible scops owl greeted me once fairly loudly but has remained silent ever since – though agreed I have not woken up at 4 am to listen to him. The big barn owl that made a balcony overhang her yoga roost has also vanished though I have been informed that she visits from time to time.The shikra lets out its hunting cry usually every morning and zooms over the pool one morning and the black drongoes throw themselves like black blades after insects flushed from the mango tree at the far end of the garden. That other old geezer, the crow pheasant hops furtively under the hedges, letting forth its haunting, ‘hoop-hoop’ calls, its russet cloak shining. Tree pies call out from the mango tree, too, and here a pair of grey hornbills squeal at each other as they take a break before flying off, as always following each other in tandem.Little cormorants fly across like black crosses and every evening a flock of egrets (probably little egrets), perhaps 20 strong, fly high in a dignified V formation, due north. What was new was the squadron of jungle mynas that zoomed past the balcony in the early evening like a squadron of Spitfires on a mission – all completely silent. They’ve flown past over two or three evenings in succession, with deadly intent and purpose.Of the peekaboo pair of black-rumped flamebacks (nee golden-backed woodpeckers) that hitched their way up the tall palm tree at the end of the garden, only one has so far marked its presence and I can only hope that nothing terrible has happened to its other half. They used to be hugely entertaining as they corkscrewed up the tree peering out at me from behind the trunk out of their bright black eyes. Even the flamboyant white-throated kingfisher has not shown itself yet, though I have heard its call ‘kill-lill-lill’ in the distance. And I’m still looking out for that silky silvery rocket – the paradise flycatcher, which was quite a regular last year as it streaked past its silver ribbon tail streaming behind it.I was wondering about the apparent absence of those other missile birds – the plum-headed parakeets, having seen only a singleton whistle past, until yesterday when a whole posse of them zipped past whistling like schoolboys. Even the handsome brahimy kites, in russet and white, seemed absent until recently when a whole flotilla circled high above calling peevishly. For such smart birds they really have whiny calls as if forever grumbling about something or the other!Story continues below this adAmidst the hibiscus and bird of paradise beds, purple rumped sunbirds (alas, not clad in their finery at this time of the year) flit and squeak as do anonymous little warblers. The jet black koels let off their bubbling whistles and, occasionally, check out the areca palms, which have begun to flower. (They love the berries which will probably appear in November sometime).Dragonflies patrol the swimming pool – zipping up and down and low over your head, cobalt blue, fuchsia, orange, black and gold, occasionally crashlanding into the water, cellophane wings outspread. As for butterflies, the common mormon is well, common and the common rose in velvety black, marked out in crimson and white is always a delight though outgunned by the gorgeous crimson rose! The somewhat shabby looking common palmfly, in tacky brown and cigarette ash grey, is already checking out the areca palm on which it will probably lay its eggs – I saw one emerge from its cocoon from one such last year. I haven’t as yet carefully examined the curry patta plants in the garden for the caterpillars or eggs of the lime leaf butterfly.They say the monsoons are now reversing eastwards from the Western Ghats on the way out, so every evening the thunderheads build up, sailing over from the east – a dark, clean gunmetal grey and lightning spits lasers at each other, exploding with sharp cracks as they score a direct hit on something on the ground. Thunder reverberates like an artillery bombardment, shaking the world, and then it buckets down furiously, for perhaps 15-20 minutes before peace is declared.Also by Ranjit Lal | 200,000 killed by cars, a few by tigers: Double standards in man-animal conflictsI still have to make my way down to the beaches as yet; ill-health (inherited from Delhi) has prevented me so far, but I have time on my hands. Also, the air here is not killer poison gas that should be used on vermin (and the political dispensation), and the last time I checked, the AQI here in Arpora, north Goa, was 34 as against Delhi’s rampaging, rabid, 345 plus. Even Beijing cleaned up its act. Here our priorities are babies with black lungs.