Tags:
Journalism of Courage
Stop staring at me, I muttered, trying to concentrate on the cup of coffee and the newspaper. He stared without a blink. Please go! I mumbled louder, focussing my attention on his eyes. He stared back, look for look, then rolled from one foot to another like a drunken sailor, did an about turn and fled.
I don8217;t know whether I am growing into an old weirdo, whether I am lonely, or whether this is only one more Parsi peculiarity surfacing. But I have started talking to the crows! Now this is not my fault, really. My grandmother tolerated their persistent chatter with pleasure. My mother fed them 8216;jilebis8217; whenever something good happened in the family. My mother-in-law enjoyed their prattle and put out an occasional morsel for their approval, as she cooked. When a crow called at your window he was heralding a visitor! So crow-related beliefs have been handed down the passage of time.
Attached as I am to these much-maligned plain janes of the feathered species, I was upset when my maid rushed in one afternoon with the news that 8216;8216;ek kauwa patang ke manje mein us building par phas gaya hai!8217;8217; This happened in the lane next to our society. Oh my God! I panicked. Please don8217;t let him die! After a while, the quiet of the afternoon was pierced by the siren of fire engines 8211; the firemen all smiling. I sent my maid for more news. Shortly she returned 8211; the bird had been set free!
You lucky rascal! I grinned at him the next morning as he was meticulously arranging his breakfast on my sill. Men kill men all the time, and here they were rushing to save your silly friend! He stopped in his tacks, cocked his head to one side and grinned back.
