India, Jan. 30 -- It's an all-too-familiar ritual at the roundabouts: Flocks of pigeons perched like expectant customers at an open-air buffet. And there is always someone ready to play the role of benevolent caterer, feeding in the name of faith. The script is predictable. A car screeches to a halt, a scooter wobbles dangerously close to the kerb, or an autorickshaw pulls up as though the driver has suddenly discovered enlightenment. Out comes the packet: Old rotis wrapped in newspaper, oily mathris, or leftover namkeen that even ants have snubbed. With a flourish, the benefactor hurls the contents onto the asphalt, convinced he has just secured a premium seat in heaven. In Jaipur, I once saw a man step out of a glossy black Thar with the swagger of a film star. In his hand was a packet of spicy bhujia. He tossed it like confetti at a wedding. Within seconds, the birds descended in a frenzy. Wings flapped, beaks pecked, and for a moment, it looked like a joyous feast until you remembered what they were actually consuming: Salt, oil, and spices. If pigeons had cardiologists, they'd have declared a national health emergency by now. Instead, they keep flocking, trained by habit and blind trust. The Indian roundabout has become a cafeteria funded by human guilt and pantry leftovers. In Delhi, I watched a man toss a packet of chips, still sealed, expecting the birds to navigate plastic packaging. In Ahmedabad, someone offered fafda with more enthusiasm than they'd show their own relatives. In Lucknow, I've seen rotis so stale they could double as cricket balls. All this, offered in the name of devotion. The birds, of course, never complain. They gather and flutter as though auditioning for a synchronised dance routine. Meanwhile, the traffic honks impatiently, scooters swerve to avoid the feathered cloud, and the roundabout dissolves into a chaos of cars, wings, and crumbs. It is devotion, certainly, but one with significant collateral damage. As a people, we have perfected the art of misplaced charity. We fling oily leftovers at pigeons but rarely think of building proper grain feeders or putting out clean water pots during the blazing summer. It is far easier to empty yesterday's snacks than to plan actual compassion. This is convenience disguised as kindness. What adds to the comedy is the performative nature of the act. People don't just feed pigeons; they stage it. A grand toss, a reverent expression, and occasionally a selfie with birds whirling in the background as though sainthood is just one Instagram reel away. If only salvation came sprinkled with chaat masala! I, too, have been guilty. On occasion, I've slowed down and offered a handful of rice grains. But there is a distinction between raw grain and spicy bhujia. One sustains; the other corrodes. Karma, after all, is not measured by intent alone, but by consequence. The irony is profound: Pigeons trust us blindly, lining up at their favourite circles, while we, in turn, poison them lovingly. Perhaps the real roundabout isn't on the road at all; it's in our minds, circling between faith, folly and fixation. As the birds might say if they could tweet: "With friends like these, who needs predators?"...