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Journalism of Courage
I was on my routine stroll one quiet summer evening when, alerted by sounds that were not quite in harmony with the setting, I looked up to find a bird struggling for flight, flapping its wings desperately. She soon fell on the still-burning asphalt of the road and collapsed. An eagle swooped past me, making an unsuccessful attempt at recovering its lost prey.
I braved the eagle, picked up the bird in the palm of my hand, wrapped her in a kerchief and brought her to the shelter of my room. Below her right wing was the spot where the eagle had pecked her and I could see the pink of the flesh peeping through the down feathers. On it glistened a globule of blood, as it stole its way through a crack on the clot. Neither being a vet nor knowing where to find one, I took recourse to Dettol, powdered anti-biotics sprinkled on water, some poorly imitated bird-calls, and the efficacy of prayer.
Discreet inquiries and some diligent reading of Salim Ali revealed that the terrified little thing was a spotted dove. Brown in colour, with black spots all over, it was more like a pigeon, minus the pigeon8217;s elongated neck.
It was the terror induced by the eagle8217;s attack that had done the damage, rather than her wound. No sooner had I released my hold than she beat her wings, checked out the corners of my room and assumed a vantage position on one of the blades of the ceiling fan, as though to take a bird8217;s eye-view of things. I thought of playing Roosevelt and telling her that she had nothing to fear but fear itself; that she was in safe hands. But she wouldn8217;t listen. Nor budge.
A crate made for a ready home and a kilogramme of bajra grain her food. She wasn8217;t keen on either. Meanwhile, my attempts to bring her peace made me lose my own. I found that my mind and body would be in sync only when I was with her.
The hours at office seemed to pass slower than ever and I couldn8217;t wait to see how she was faring. On the first three days, nothing much happened. As part of her satyagraha, she seemed to be on an indefinite fast. No amount of coaxing worked. She shunned both food and friend with equal disdain.
But, back from work on the fourth evening, I found that things had definitely improved. The water from the container had been spilt into a puddle, the grains had certainly been eaten and lay strewn all over my bed and my books had been anointed with droppings. She had even abandoned her favourite position on the fan in favour of the makeshift dwelling I had prepared for her. And when I entered, she just gave me a sideways glance to acknowledge my presence and carried on with the grain. In short, she had broken all shackles and jumped back to life.
I made advances that evening and she responded with unprecedented fervour, allowing herself to be caressed and stroked. I, in turn, pampered her; let her nibble playfully at my fingers and even perch on my head. Later, we listened to some music and she settled herself near the speaker, drinking the notes in. I slept a happy man that night, quite unmindful of the jolt I was to receive the next morning.
I woke up heady with the euphoric feeling that she was there to stay; that she had left a whole world behind for me, as I was prepared to do for her. I kicked the door ajar to let some fresh air in. And lo and behold, before I could bat an eyelid, she was gone.
I followed her to the verandah outside only to find her airborne, labouredly flapping her wings as if trying to recapture the art of flight. There were several trees around, but she detoured every one of them as though chased by a phantom eagle, and soared higher and higher till she became a speck on the horizon.
