We reached Naukuchiatal around 3:00 p.m. on the last day of our trip to Corbett-Pangot-Sattal.

We had been walking all day around Sattal. We’d had a very forgettable meal in one of the shacks on the lakeside. We had spotted dozens of birds, none of which we could ID. Our feet were tired and our hearts were heavy that our holiday was drawing to a close.

As lakes go in that area, Naukuchiatal is quite middling. It’s an elongated lake in the shape of the Indian subcontinent. The promenade around (all lakes in these areas have well maintained promenades) were dotted with lackadaisical shops and eateries. Probably because we were about a week ahead of the tourist season, there weren’t many people around.

We walked around desultorily. A territorial dog chased a cyclist for a remarkably long distance. A kitschy swan-shaped boat was taking an enthusiastic family on a glide across the lake. Real noisy swans were making a ruckus as they crossed the road. A water hen was shyly sticking to the water hyacinths lining the edges of the lake. There was a tree full of cormorants—both common and Eurasian.

We covered all this in half an hour, wondered what to do next. We realized that we were really thirsty for a cuppa. It was getting to be cold too.

We made it back to a coffee shop that went by the name “Café by the Lake” we’d noticed earlier. It looked well-appointed and inviting from outside, angel lights twinkling merrily.

We stepped inside and were greeted by a joyous Christmas song on the pipe. There was a middle-aged man at the counter—something about him, probably his discreet ear ring or his eyes, belied that here’s a musician. He warmly greeted us and led us to our table overlooking a small walled garden.

The place was delightful, filled as it was with musical references wall-to-wall. Jim Reeves vinyl jostled with the Beatles coffee table book and Bob Dylan poster. The menu boasted quinoa sandwiches and rocket lettuce salads. Clearly, the place catered to international, health conscious travelers.

We ordered coffees and spent a happy 45 minutes in the café, going through our photographs and leaning back on the cushions to let the entire holiday wash over us. We sank into the Christmas spirit the place was overflowing with.

We stepped out, much rejuvenated and cheered. As soon as we did, there was a shout and a commotion. In front of us, a click-worthy scene.

A couple of shop keepers had just rescued a pigeon from being dinner to a Shikra. The wounded pigeon had withdrawn under some cardboard boxes. The frustrated Shikra decided to hang around—he sat on a low branch, one leg up in some sort of attention pose. Three or four old men sat on a bench, watching the spectacle with interest—probably the highlight of their otherwise quiet day.

Our morbid driver went to check on the pigeon and came back with ghoulish tales of its bloodied body. A Common Kingfisher hunted for food, unconcerned by the hubbub. Rufus Tree pies chattered loudly on a high tree.

Despite the failing light, we photographed everything, wondering how justified it is for us humans to interfere into nature’s unspoken deals between the hunters and their prey. Did we just cause a butterfly effect by letting the pigeon be saved from being the justified morsel for the Shikra? But then again, aren’t we constantly poking our noses where they don’t belong? The blazing stare of the Shikra perched on his branch may have spoken clear to us, had we known the ways he communicates.