Since I can remember, I had always wanted a pet dog, to fuss over, at home. I would ask my mother if we could keep a horse, or a rabbit or some such pet. And I'd make plans of climbing the meters high trees around my house, telling my mother that I would pick one or two baby birds from the nests on the tree, and then pamper them with food and have them in front of my eyes all the time, to make sure they were 'happy'. Oh, how sure I was that those baby birds wanted to be in my sight, as much as I wanted to hold them in my hands, and stare at them, gape-mouthed in awe and affection. This goes back to the time when I was a nine year old. One day, I finally spotted a nest in the backyard that I could climb and reach up to, so one morning around 4 I climbed up and gingerly took out one baby sparrow from the nest. My summer vacations were on that time, so I was content in my heart that I could take care of it all day. I would bathe it in water, sometimes stuffing a fly in its mouth, only to figure out that the bird wouldn't eat it, and then feed it with cooked rice and pulses, thinking in my heart that surely the bird was happy to be eating such good food, from the raw tid-bits its mother might have been feeding it with. I would keep it in a basket at night, covering it partially with a thin cloth so it could sleep. A few days later, I picked up another baby sparrow from the nest.
They both died within a few days of each other. I would keep the basket under the bed or in the cupboard for hours while they'd be crying out for food each time I would uncover the flap of the basket to take a look at them. And I would keep them in secluded spots because my parents were strictly against me keeping the sparrows at home. I was so caught up with how adorable these creatures looked, and blind to what they must have been going through, being separated from their mother and siblings. They'd try to nibble at my fingers when I'd try to caress them, and I used to mistake it for them being angry at me for no reason and then in utter confusion, I would pull the flap over and go back to doing whatever I was. One died because I overfed it with water, thinking it wanted to drink more, only to realise that its mouth had been left open because I had already fed it with so much water already. It struggled in front of my eyes, and died. The other, had just started to hop and fly around in the house, from the past few days. One morning, I discovered it lying dead, when dad told me that he was just turning sides in bed early in the morning when it must have gotten pressed under his weight, and died eventually, for he saw it lying still on the bed when he woke up. He kissed the bird to his lips, uttering a prayer as he handed it over to me.
I had never felt as miserable in life. I don't know what I had mistaken love for when I was reaching out to the nest to take another baby sparrow. I buried them in the backyard and would light an incense stick there every evening, sitting there quietly for as long as I could before being called into the house. A few days later, the maid servant in the house called me out to the backyard, and I saw a fully grown sparrow, lying dead on the ground, while ants were beginning to collect around it. The maid servant, Savitri, looked at me and said, "The mother died of grief. You took her children away from her." I refused to accept the truth, outwardly. Inwardly, I was cursing myself. No matter how emphatically I may say that I love these wonderful beings called animals, nothing at all can make up for what I did that time, in a phase of selfishness at its peak. A few years later, my friend gave me a bird, for he knew how much I adored them. Not that I was aware that he would be giving me this. Only, this time, it was caged. Once again, my parents made it very clear that I could not keep it in the house, and that I must free it. This time around, I did not have the urge to protest. The only reason I had kept the bird at home for the two days that it was, was because he had then given it to me, I did not have the courage to give away something he had given to me as a token of affection. Talk about petty thinking. The evening after the third day, I took the cage to the backyard, and opened up the cage for it to fly out, shedding silent, happy tears, bidding farewell to my prisoner of a friend.
What happened over the next one minute has left such a deep impression on me, that I can never iterate it in words. The bird stood still, still. I realised, it wasn't aware, that now, it was free. I held it with my hands, took it out of the cage and let its feet touch the ground. It stayed there even then, but started to look around, with its head tilted. I did not want it to wait for another second to realise that it was finally free, that it must fly away to freedom, every moment that it still stood in front of me, was torture to the bird, according to me. I gave the parrot a gentle push, and it flew, for the first time perhaps, and perched itself on the wire running near the street lamp outside the boundary wall of the house. I felt happy, and free, at last. Since then, I have cursed myself innumerable times over what I did to the baby sparrows, as a kid. And have never kept a bird as a 'pet' again.
P.S. After that incident, the only times I have held a bird in my hands, was when I was leaving for college one day, when I heard a thump on the ground. I saw a baby pigeon, lying on the lawn ground. I rushed to it, holding it in my hands to see if it was injured, or dead. Its body was warm still. It had died of the impact, I assumed. I looked straight up to see three-four eagles circling the sky, several feet up, in the sky. I buried it, and left from home finally, with a heavy heart. Another day, I saw a pigeon in the backyard, struggling to stand still, and keep its neck straight. I went closer to realise that it had probably injured its neck in such a way, that its neck was getting bent over and over again, while it was struggling to get it up straight. I put some water into its beak, and let it rest in my hands, holding its neck straight, and it stayed this way for an hour or so. Of course, the pigeon didn't struggle to move away, being helpless as it was, but also realising that I meant it no harm. My parents were standing right behind me, feeling as miserable as I was. Eventually, I left the bird in the backyard, my parents assured me that it'll manage to fly up and reach its nest somehow, we just needed to leave it alone. A few minutes later, I went to the backyard again, to see the bird gone. And till date, I half hope that it managed to fly away, and half fear, that a cat ate it up.
I wonder, did I not know what love meant, as a kid? Does one learn it, with time? For how is that possible, if we are born out of love, as they say? What blinded me from realising what I was doing to the birds, when I was happy thinking I was giving them a good life? Indeed, I have no answers till date.
