The mighty neem was the first to crash, like a gentle giant,
apologetic about its broken arms that betrayed the trust of many nestlings. The
rain tree was the next to succumb to the joint venture between builder and
apartment owner towards project ‘new for old.’
The unassuming old buildings and the trees that grew around
them, planted by wind or bird, unmindful of pattern or symmetry, were a slice
of the unhurried eighties that I could still cherish, from the side of the compound
wall that I shared with this middle class housing board colony. Today, having
razed all to the ground, a yellow demolition army of machines rests, on the
still expanse of land, like prehistoric monsters spent of rage.
No stray neem leaf
shall float to my backyard; no strange bird call shall interrupt my reverie...Soon
this too shall pass into the memory file named nostalgia to be turned gold
alongside the simple joys of an 'unwired' life like perhaps waking to a crisp
morning of incessant sparrow chatter.
March 20th is World Sparrow Day announced a
recent newspaper write up. And would it return to the environment it had
renounced? Perhaps, if lured by free grain schemes and detergent box homes, the
article suggested!
Looking back, I wonder when the little brown bird flew out
of our everyday lives, that we now need to bring him back from his refuge where
he is probably still sulking over our indifference to his meagre needs. After
all, for anyone who grew up in the sleepy eighties, the simple sparrow was no
celebrity, just an unobtrusive bird that chirped in the background of our
lives, right from our predictable Binaca toothpaste mornings to the insipid
Doordarshan evenings.
During those endless summer vacation days, as we whiled away
hours playing checkers with friends in the veranda, sparrow couples would perch
on the clothes line seriously twittering away opinions and concerns about the
nesting prospects in our old lived in house and then unanimously agree to call
it home. Many weeks later faint chirps would emerge from father’s old helmet
hanging on the wall or from a window ledge or loft. They were now a family!
Sometimes a skinny
little fledgling would fall off his precarious nest only to be promptly
deposited into his home by our maid. ’Kuruvi koota kalacha paavam’(it is sin to
destroy a sparrow’s nest ) she would say in all her rustic wisdom, warning any
of us who wanted to play with the adventurous youngster or take a sneak peek
into the nest for a closer look.
As kids, the sparrow never featured in our list when we
reeled out names of birds while playing ‘categories’. We showed off with an
albatross or a toucan. Neither did it feature in our school essays. They were
all about proud peacocks and splendid swans but ironically it is the plain
little sparrow that taught more than all those magnificent picture book birds.
I learnt my first lesson in’ feminism’ in nature when mother pointed out to the strikingly
attractive male bird as he desperately wooed the rather nonchalant plain Jane grey headed female. And I thought
that the pretty one was the female!
Their amazing devotion as they built a home one patient
straw after another and then lovingly nurturing their perpetually hungry chicks,
belied their little forms. Yet, above all was their unquestioning acceptance of
the most painfully profound rules of nature, in letting their young ones fly
away into freedom with no bondage of gratitude. A cycle of life so filled with
earnest simplicity compared to the trivial complexities of our human existence.
So, will the sparrow return to our window sills once more to
nudge us gently out of our sleep with his love song before we are startled
awake by shrill cell phone alarms?
Will they inhabit our antiseptic match box flats where
children ‘water’ virtual plants on Farmville, converse with Talking Toms and
play only with Angry Birds?
Will they consent to be part of a habitat where panic alarms
are raised on spotting a cockroach and where good home makers must be armed
with colour coded insect sprays and have pest control on speed dial?
We will have to play pied pipers of a different sort to coax
the sparrow to forgive and return.
As I write this, I hear busy noises outside, below my window
air conditioner. Someone is building a nest out of pilfered fragments of a
broom and lining it with strips of my mop cloth.
No, it is not the elusive sparrow; just a pair of squirrels
making a home. I am a homemaker too, so I will play fair and let them stay.
Sparrow Verse
At my
Window, sepia
Flutter of wings bring fond
Tidings from sunny yesterday on
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