Tags:
Journalism of Courage
It was a hot summer morning. While I was watering my pale and thirsty plants, I noticed a slight shivery movement behind a pot: a wet scared pigeon trying to become inconspicuous to human presence. It appeared to be wounded. Instinctively, not daring to hold the bird in my hands, I asked my maid to find out the nature of its ailment. She said the pigeon was hurt in the underbelly, and one could do nothing but leave it till some cat came and ate it up. It was nature8217;s law, she said.
I decided to bend nature8217;s law 8212; with an antiseptic cream, and then releasing the pigeon in my roomy workplace that came closest, with its glass walls, to the open free. Bobby, as I decided to name the pigeon, crawled to a corner, refusing to eat or drink anything. Before sleeping, I decided to turn off the lights so Bobby could also rest. Then, on second thoughts, I left one light on and watched from the gap between the door and the floor while standing on the iron ladder leading up to the room. Sure enough, Bobby crawled out from under the settee and headed towards the water and grains I had spread out for him.
Two hours later, before leaving home, I saw Bobby from under the door again. His red eyes looked at me in
a way that haunted me throughout the drive to the hospital to stay with an ailing friend. Was it anger I had seen in his eyes? Red was somehow not a colour of gratitude.
The next day, the telephone rang at
6 am to tell me that Bobby had died
in the night.
This was six months ago. I still wake up at night, in a cold sweat. I imagine him bashing his head against glass walls. His red eyes glare at me accusingly for letting a bird die in captivity. I wish I knew how or why Bobby died.
