The watcher in the wall

A presence in the weep hole

This morning, while in my study, I noticed something brown nestled in the weep hole of the retaining wall just north of our plot. These small openings are meant to release stormwater run-off, easing the burden on the concrete behind.

With camera in hand, I stepped out onto the deck, thinking it might be a bird’s nest tucked safely into the dark recess. But what met my gaze was something far less expected—a rat snake (ptyas mucosa also called dhaman), coiled with quiet confidence at the mouth of the hole, its gaze steady, unblinking, watchful.

The moment our eyes met, it slid silently back into the cool shadow.

I let it be.

A little later, I noticed it again—emerging slowly and gliding down toward the tender green of the baby bamboo below. A pair of red-vented bulbuls had spent the last week weaving a nest deep in that leafy cover.

The snake moved without urgency, its tongue flickering. It had likely scented the eggs. With calm precision, it disappeared into the thicket.

There was nothing I could do—only watch from a distance, as life and instinct played out in full view.

Or so I thought.

A couple of hours later, I saw it again—sliding silently across the lawn, this time heading straight toward the outdoor bar area beside my study. Tucked into the hollow of one of our teak root bar stools was a nest belonging to a pair of Tickell’s blue flycatchers, who had just hatched three tiny chicks.

Something I had once read came rushing back: rat snakes often observe the comings and goings of parent birds, waiting for the right moment to raid a nest when no one’s watching. This wasn’t a random wander—it was a calculated, opportunistic move.

I intervened.

Before it could reach the stool, I carefully trapped the snake. After photographing it—more out of habit than anything else—I took it a kilometre away and released it into the wild, away from our hatchlings.

The snake, about four and a half feet long, slipped into the undergrowth without protest. Its presence still lingers in my mind—beautiful, purposeful, a reminder of how tightly coiled instinct is beneath the surface of everyday life here.

In the city, life blurs past. Here, even a wall can hold a story.

Postscript: Living here means learning when to watch and when to act. Most days, I try not to interfere. But sometimes, sharing space with the wild calls for gentle boundaries—ones that protect, not control.