Diotima was afraid of flying

 

When a crow perches on the railings of your veranda begging for food, what do you do? Do you feed it or shoo it away? As a matter of fact, crows are not song birds, and their cawing is not sweet by any stretch of the imagination. We might be coloured people, but we are hypocrites to the core, as we hate their colour: pale black, sooty-black, charcoal-black or sometimes dark gray.

There are some people among Bengalis, who are prejudiced, superstitious, going one step farther; they hate crows because they think that crows bring bad omen for a propitious journey; in short, they believe crows bring negativity. I am slightly different from those people not because I love crows, but because I tolerate them: I know that they are my tree-dwelling neighbours. I don't scare them away when they perch on my railings, and sometimes, I give them food, but most importantly, I love to watch them nesting without interfering. What I am going to write is one such observation that happened very recently.

There is a rather young crow couple, whom I have christened as Phoebus and Juno, who live in a mango tree which is not more than a couple of meters away from my third floor veranda. The branch they chose to build their nest is around five feet below the level of my veranda, which meant that I got an excellent view to see their connubial activities. The crows are not married ceremonially, but they live together, and they are very faithful, unlike many of us, to each other throughout their life.

Now, Phoebus and Juno being young and inexperienced, I was a bit apprehensive of their nest-building capabilities. Humans have educational institutions to inculcate various skills in them, but what about crows? They don't have any engineering colleges. They learn the trick merely by watching others from their species. But watching a complicated thing and replicating it in real life are not the same thing. Are they? Can you construct a house by watching masons building your neighbour's house? If you can, then I have to admit that you have got god-gifted abilities.

But, as a matter of fact, crows, too, are gifted architects. To my utmost surprise, Phoebus and Juno built a moderate nest. Well, you can always find faults. You can say your neighbour's house is too small, or you can say the interior design is too gaudy, or or you can even laugh at the size of their kitchen. I have no such interest, but if I am forced to make a critical review of their nest, then I have to tell you that the nest didn't seem have sufficient space for even three hatchlings.

So, I hoped that they didn't procreate more than two nestlings. But, birds lay as many eggs as they deem necessary for the survival of their species. To my utter discomfort, Juno laid as many as four tiny bluish eggs. I shuddered to think what would happen if all the eggs gave birth to living chicks.

However, one egg didn't hatch, and Juno gave birth to three tiny chicks, around one week apart in time. A week's time may not mean much to humans, but for birdies, it is quite a defining period of time. No wonder when the second chick was born, the first one was of one week old, and when the third was born, the two-week old made its presence felt. Naturally, the first chick had the bragging right because of its primogeniture.

We tend to call humans who are not that bright "birdbrains". In my earlier days, I often wondered about the word. But, later on, after observing the behaviour of various birds, I do understand the reason. The birdies are indeed not very bright. For example, take the case of the new proud mom Juno. Her partner, and after a week or two, she herself, would hover around the streets relentlessly searching for food. When they got it, either the dad or the mom would come immediately to the nest for feeding the chicks.

But, the feeding procedure is completely different from that of us. The chick who is more agile, the chick who can lift its tiny neck longer than others, the chick who can show its red gullet more prominently to its parents, the chick who has got the oomph, would get the lion's share, and the others would get morsels. The parents are not fair to all at all. No wonder the youngest chick, who happens to be the tiniest or the runt among them will lose out in the battle for survival.

This is exactly what had happened to Juno's youngest chick. It died prematurely for want of food. I saw it with my own eyes. It was shy, it couldn't be termed as the fittest for survival. It just perished peacefully. I don't know whether the crow parents shed tears like us, but it seemed to me that they didn't care much. Its existence was like a security for losses for its elder siblings. I, too, didn't lose my heart, because firstly when it died, it was too small for reckoning, and most importantly, there were two left.

As a matter of fact, I could watch them only on weekends, because my place of posting was too far away for daily commutation. One week, when I came back to my home after a week of tedious work, I was shattered to find only one chick in the nest, which happened to be the oldest of the lot, and whom I christened as Diotima.

I could see the motionless body of the second chick, which grew around four cm in length, in the nest. I didn't know exactly the reason for its death, but my guess was that it had died for want of food, and there was a good reason for that. Previously, the residents of Salt Lake used to throw garbage at dustbins, and the municipality workers used to pile them up in a truck and carry them to a dumping ground in the Eastern Byepass. But, that system had changed long ago, and now the municipality workers visit every household to collect garbage. This has denied the scavengers to get easy access to food. Nowadays, they have to try hard and roam a lot for collecting food.

The chicks who are agile, flap their wings hard and try to jump to the nearest branch to satiate their hunger. Diotima was no exception, she too flapped her wings, but she didn't jump. I was a bit disappointed, but I knew that not all crow chicks fledge by seventh week. I thought she would learn flying in the forthcoming weeks without further ado.

Before narrating the final part, let me tell you some observations about Diotima's development, which I observed keenly and with pleasure. I don't know how many of you have seen the development of a nestling from its birth, but I will narrate a brief description for those who haven't have the privilege to observe it either in real life or in You Tube videos.

Diotima was born like a tiny little brownish mass hardly perciptable with naked eyes. She had neither any feather nor any black color that we generally associate with crows. Not only that, her eyes were closed for almost one week.

She ate only morsels of food during her first couple of weeks, but the amount increased with her rapid growth in the ensuing weeks. She opened her eyes after a week or so, and she became more demanding of food from her parents as the days passed by. As she grew older, feathers began to appear in her tiny body. The most prominent part of her body was her deep red gullet, which she would show to her parents for food.

I know the sound of grown up crows is not very pleasing, and sometimes it can be very annoying, but have you ever heard the sound of a fledgling? I can vouch that the sound is very soft. It appeared sweet to me every time in morning, when Diotima was conveying something to her parents. If you cannot distinguish the sound of a chick from an adult crow, as you have never tried to do, I urge you to remain percipient. They are completely different, and I am sure you will be able to hear the sweet sound of chicks.

You must have wondered why I named the chick a female name, when it's impossible to ascertain the gender of a crow from outside! Honestly, I made a guess considering the activities of the chick. Diotima was not very active, and I assumed it to be a female. Pardon me if I am wrong, but let me tell you about the final part of this story.

So, the next week, or the week after that, when I came back home, I thought she would definitely be gone. But, on one Saturday morning, I was disappointed to see Diotima still in the nest, and not only that, one of her wings had developed problems.

She couldn't shut her left wing to her body, as it was stiff. I thought she might have sustained an injury during the process of learning how to fly. I hoped that it would be okay. But on Sunday morning, the next day, I was shell-shocked to note that Diotima's body was not moving. I thought that she was sleeping. But, when I visited the balcony after breakfast, a chill ran down my spine to observe that Diotima's body was lying in the same posture. Juno was perching on the rim of the nest with food in her beak. But, Diotima was not responding by raising her neck to grab it.

It didn't take too much of time to sink in in my mind that Diotima was no longer alive. I felt tears welling up in my eyes. Diotima, the chick whom I loved to watch, had perished. Her motionless body, surrounded by flies, rested in the imperfectly-built nest.

I understood that I would no longer hear her soft and sweet cawing in the morning when I would wake up from sleep; I would no longer watch her desperation to grab food from her parents; I would no longer observe her attempts to fly by flapping her wings.

As I said, crows are not humans, they don't show much emotion. Most probably, if I am mistaken, correct me, they don't have any emotion at all. All they have is the instinct to live and propagate, I am pretty sure that Phoebus and Juno understood what had happened. They waited for another fortnight keeping the carcass of Diotima in the nest before dismantling the nest, and trying to build another one at a different position in the same tree.

Pictures taken from net  

 

 

My experiences with cats final part

We were simply dumbfounded, dis​com​bob​u​lated. Who would bite mom in that crowded place? I had read stories about Count Dracula, who loved sucking blood of his victims, but he would never choose this crowded place for his supper. But, my mom was indeed in agony, her face told it. We always knew that she was hyper, but this had to be real, considering the contortions in her face, the flushes of tears trilling down her heavily rouged cheeks, completely ruining her make-up, which she must have put on after hours of tedious work.

When urged to explain the matter, firstly, she pointed towards her left heel, which was bleeding slightly, and then she pointed towards the footpath. There was no doubt in our mind that there was something in the footpath that made that tiny cut in my mom's left heel. But, we could not see anything tangible threat there. My mom said that it must have fled.

Upon pressing her further to reveal the matter clearly, we came to know that there was a plump ginger cat resting on the pavement, whose existence mom was completely unaware of before stamping on his tail. Cheetahs or cats, no matter which species the feral creatures belong, one thing is very common about them is the fact that they simply adore their tails. Their tails are like gods! Any insult upon their precious possession, they will not tolerate it: they would protest, and as a matter of fact, of which my poor mom fell victim of, they don't believe in Gandhism.

When my mom, unknowingly though, put her left foot on the proud tail of the feline creature, he couldn't tolerate the unimaginable insult, which, perhaps, nobody that far had inflicted upon him. No wonder, he bit my mom's heel before going to heal his injured vanity in some secluded place. As I wrote earlier, father had had a good experience regarding how to react to bites of domestic animals beforehand.

So, instead of panicking, he simply enquired about the pedigree and conduct of the cat from various nearby shopkeepers. We were satisfied to know that the ginger cat, named Sallu, was adored very much by them, and he hadn't bitten anyone before that incident. Father told them to keep a close watch on him, as he would visit after a week to enquire about the well-being of Sallu Mian. He did it rigorously for a fortnight, and found him to be jolly and gay. This story ends here.

After a gap of two decades, I had another encounter with cats, which would constitute the final part of this blog. The faint-hearted people among you are advised to leave here as this incident you might find a bit unpleasant. At that time, I was living in a nondescript place in Nadia district. Krishnagar was my district headquarter where I had to visit once a month for meetings. One of my office staff had a car, and he used to take me there, out of coutesy, on such dates. He was a master in bike-riding, but car driving was not his cup of tea, which he had learned just a few months back after buying an azure Hyundai car, and that too by self-learning.

At that time, I didn't have much love for cats, as I had been a bit bugged by them in my place of residence. I shouldn't say them, because there was only one sable cat with tawny eyes which resembled a ghost in dark nights, and there were no dearth of dark nights due to frequent load cuttings. This mysterious creature had an odd knack of entering my flat on any pretext: whether in search of leftovers in the garbage bin or for her fondness for the warmth of my bed in my drawing room, where I kept a spare cot. 

As I said her color was sable, and eyes were tawny which changed their appearance at night, turning into burning coal, sometimes, I shuddered watching them, even though I was very courageous. Her sight was nothing more than an irritant to the eye, but what made me hate her was her habit of using my spare bed as if she owned it.

The moderate flat where I lived had three rooms, one drawing room, one dining room, and one bed room. I had two cots, of which one was at my bed room where she didn't have the guts to venture, and one was at the drawing room, where I used to spend evenings by watching television or gossiping with neighbours. There were 3 windows in that room, of which two were always closed, as they faced a swamp, which was a rich breeding ground for mosquitoes. But, I had to keep one window, facing the front, open for want of fresh air. This crafty creature took advantage of that, and had no qualms about using my bed for her comfort.

As I said, load-shedding was a routine feature in those semi-urban areas, there used to befrequent encounters with dark nights. But, it was not just the power cuts that bothered me, because for power cuts every one would suffer, and the power would come back eventually. But, my flat had also suffered from many short-circuits, where the fuse would be blown. That was why I was a bit jumpy to ascertain whether it was load-shedding or it was my fecking fuse that gave away!

This was the reason, I always visited the veranda to see my neighbourhood -- whether it was flushed with bright lights or it was solemn dark like mine --  and the veranda was in front of the drawing room.  In the process of ascertaining whether I had to awake my landlord for fixing the fuse, or I should wait for the line to come, I often found this unwholesome creature majestically snuggling on my bed. I must admit that it was extremely dexterous, because whenever I tried to throw something  -- whether a sandal or a magazine  -- or to wield a stick at it, it would vamoose in no time, as if it knew dark magic.

Therefore, despite taking the risk of less air passage in my flat, I chose to close all the windows in that room. Indeed, it yielded good result of her never ever getting a free access to my bed, but as a revenge she had taken the game to a different level. By saying, "Khela hobe", she began to defecate in my veranda with poop and urine, at least, once every week.

The housemaid would grudge and grumble everytime she had to clean it, and her bitter tone suggested as if I told that freaking creature to do those obnoxious deeds to trouble her. But, I was helpless, beacuse I had no powers to prevent the pussycat from defecating my veranda. But as a result of the cat's constant acts of unhindered defiance and abominable insolence, I lost love with this particular species.

The final part happened during this time. As I wrote earlier that the office staff who was taking me back from Krishnagar to my apartment was a novice driver, who had learned driving from on one but himself, and who had just a learner's licence at that time, was driving cautiously in the city area. But when he entered the rural area, he became a tad bold and careless, continuously pressing his right foot on the gas pedal as if it was a toy to experiment.

I had no intention of disturbing him by talking to him, as I was a bit apprehensive of his driving skills. But he was in a joyous mood, probably from being relieved of the duty which had bored him for the last three hours or so, and he began to boast of the new chimney system that he had installed in his kitchen. When he learned that even I, a city-dweller, didn't have any such thing at that time, his joys knew no bound, and he became reckless in driving.

There was a huge noise as he made a sudden brake, and my head almost hit the front seat, while my spectacles flew off on to the car floor. After gathering my composure, when I enquired what had happened that made him to do this sudden brake, he had been already out of the car. His voice was throttled, his face was pale, and he pointed his fingers to a certain thing on the road and said,

" I am extremely sorry, Sir! I had no idea!"

I thought he was talking about his poor driving skills, and he had no idea of driving at a high speed. So, after an enormous effort of stifling my anger, I said rather calmly,

"It's okay. It happens to new drivers: these sudden brakes!"

He didn't seem to take heart at my consolation, as he continued lamenting,

"How can I wash my sin, Sir? How do I make penance?"

I was a bit astonishined because of his unduly scruples, as I thought making sudden brakes was not a big crime. Perhaps, he was thinking of  the discomfort that he caused me. Looking at my bewildered face, he understood that I had understood nothing. So he said,

" Sir, haven't you seen it? Please look there."

This time, looking at his pointed fingers, I could see the reason of his scruples. Indeed,  there was something very unpleasant and gory spectacle lying in front of me. I took a stride forward to see that a little kitten, hardly one month old, milky white in colour, was lying in a pool of blood. My inexperienced driver had crushed it under the left front wleel of his car. The tiny innocent creature must have been like a soft, fluffy white clew. But, at that time, its tender body was maimed, mashed, ground by some evil power, and was covered with blood, and most importantly, it ceased to breathe. In short, my greenhorn driver took a kitten's life.

I knew that people like him might not have been village idiots, but they were prejudiced to the core. I understood that he would lose his sleep for many nights before losing his health caused by extreme mental agony. So, I had to find a remedy for him, lest I should lose the service of one my important employees.

I told him that since he had popped the clogs of a cat, which is considered as a vahana of Ma Sahsthi, a goddess of fertility, he should do his atonement by offering a grand puja of the said goddess, and not to forget about feeding Bhahmins of his village. He seemed to have been satisfied by that solution after asking numerous times whether it would suffice, and later on I learned that he did exactly what was bid.

My story ends here. Please feel free to comment.

My experiences with cats: Part 1

 

Some people love cats, while some despise them as if they were untouchables. I know of a Bengali jounalist who had 17 pet cats in her house (the number might have increased manifolds by now). Just imagine the scenario when she enters her flat. Surrounded by cats: here a cat, there a cat; everywhere a cat cat; here a meow, there a meow, everywhere a meow meow. A cat on your lap, while a cat on your hat. A fat cat, a bony cat, a sable cat, a tabby cat and whatnot! Personally, I have nothing against them, and at the same time, I have no fascination for them either. Let me tell you a few experiences of mine with this feline creature.

My mother used to hate cats as much as a pious Muslim hates eating pork. In my childhood, I always wanted to have some animal as a pet in my house. I loved watching them. My first choice, though, was dog. Once, a bitch (literally so) gave birth to 6 snowy healthy puppies. Two of them died, while four survived. All the children in our locality adored them (if you don't love a puppy, I am afraid, you are heartless), but no one was ready to adopt any of them. However, I was eager to adopt one. When I raised the issue with my parents, my father had no objections, but my mother dug in her heels. The reasons: it would make the house dirty, it would not survive without its mother's care and most importantly to her wild imaginations, it might bit us. She told me stories about dogs who bit their owners to death before eventually eating them.

When my first application was rejected, I was disheartened a bit, beacuse I, indeed, loved one the pups and was almost sure of adopting him, but I filed my second appeal. What about a tiny little kitten? A fluffy furball? It would not be ferocious, and it would be easier to manage. I vouched that I would clean the mess, it might create. But, my mother said she read somewhere that the hair of a cat could cause a deadly disease called diphtheria. So, she sneered at my proposal, and the left the room in a pet. She had lot of objections towards adopting birds as well, but somehow I eventually managed to adopt a bird. I will tell you about that story later.

I strongly doubt about the cocept of karma, but there were some strange occurrences with my mother regarding cats and dogs, where some diabolical mind might infer that she paid for her karma. Let me first tell you about the incident involving dogs.

My mother hated dogs to the extent of having them in her house, but not to the extent that she would deny the poor creatures of the leftovers of our meals. There was a dog, whom she herself named as "Blackeyes" because of the black stains around her eyes, who used to eat the leftovers which was thrown away towards her. As it became a regular wont, she would come early and wait for mom to come out to the kitchen veranda to throw the leftovers.

One day, we heard her fearful screams after dinner. When we rushed to the spot, she told us that Blackeyes had bit her. When we enquired further, we came to know that while she was throwing away the leftovers, Blackeyes, who might have been starving for want of food, in her desperation to grab some grub, jumped and took the food directly from my mom's hand. In the process, my mom got a tiny little cut in her right forefinger. There were a few droplets of blood.

My mother was a kind of hypersensitive person, and she took no time to raise a hue and cry. She was sanguine of getting rabies. She was so pessimistic that she thought that she would eventually die a painful death. Though very rational, my father was not a man of science. He didn't know much about rabies. So, being very scared, next day, as the incident happened at night, and we all had to bear with mother's wailing and forebodings about her imminent death, he took mother to the local hospital.

Fortunately, the doctor was a sane guy, and he asked whether the dog that bit mom was a healthy one or a sickly one. There was no reason to believe that the little bitch, which was around one year old, had any symptoms of being rabid. Hearing that the doctor advised dad to keep a close watch on that bitch. He told dad to inform him if that bitch showed any signs of ferocity or any abnormality. Meanwhile, he administered a Tetvac and told mom to chill. The dog stayed healthy and story ends here. But, the agony of my mom with domestic animals didn't end there.

A few years later, we went to the Gariahat market, which was renowned for being the best apparel market in West Bengal, for puja shopping. Durga puja is the carnival that the Bengalis enjoy most, and they save throughout the year to indulge in a shopping spree for this occasion. I didn't have much interest in buying clothes, but my main attraction for these going-outs was food. Being a gourmet, some people had sometimes accused me of a being a gormandizer, unjustly though, my sole concern was food. So, when we were done with buying my yellow baggy t-shirt and blue jeans, I lost all interest in the purchase of my parents' clothes.

It didn't take much time to buy my father's attire, but my mother, being very finicky about her dresses, took eons to choose her saris. She visited two renowned shops without much success, and eventually we were in the third shop. By that time, it felt like angry rats were marching in my stomach, and even each second passed seemed epochs to me. I was praying to God to end my ordeal soon. My father, too, had had enough, and when he pressed her to choose from that prestigious shop and that too quickly, finally, she had to submit, but with a lot of grudges. She wanted to see more. Father consoled her by saying that he would bring her here in Christmas again.

At last, we came out of the shop, and my father asked me the question which I had been longing to hear. It was about the food, but he told me to choose something that would not take long to prepare, as it was  by then quite late. I had had heard of a food shop named Beduin, which was famous for its rolls. It was famous because their cuisine was exquisite: they added boiled potatoes mixed with special masalas in their rolls, making the taste awesome. At that time, and even nowadays, other shops added only cucumber, onion and few sauces in their rolls. No wonder whosoever had tasted Beduin's rolls had praised them wholeheartedly. I, too, had heard it from my friends, and I had no difficulty in suggesting that we should get 3 egg rolls from Beduin.

Beduin was not a permanent shop situated in the market, but it was temporary stall near the footpath. As it was famous, there was quite a throng near it. We ordered 3 egg rolls, but there was already a queue, and we knew we had to wait. While we waited, we had been constantly jostled by the great crowd which gathered for puja shoppings. My father never liked hustle and bustle, so he gave mother the money and took me to a relatively less-crowded place. While we waited, we suddenly heard a scream from a womanly voice, and the voice seemed a bit familiar to me. I thought my dad, too, had the same line of thought as he asked, "Did your mom scream?"

We were just 10 meter away from Beduin, and it took no time for us to reach there. We asked mom whether she screamed, merely hoping that the sound came from somewhere else. But, when we looked at her face, it was full of tears, and she told us,

"It bit me. I am going to die."

Picture taken from net 

Final part on next Saturday