Polly and I

I am lucky to work in one of the greenest areas of New Delhi. Tall trees surround my fourth floor workstation. Recently, the sight of a tiny...

int(2)

I am lucky to work in one of the greenest areas of New Delhi. Tall trees surround my fourth floor workstation. Recently, the sight of a tiny baby parakeet spread cheer. I got it checked for injuries from my veterinary friends, and since it was too young to be freed, took it home. Polly, the baby parakeet, became an integral part of my and my husband’s life. We doted on the noisy bird.

After weeks of baby talk, apple-flavoured Cerelac, cleaning its droppings and making its bed (newspapers in a cardboard box with enough windows to put Hawa Mahal to shame), things began to change. The white down feathers turned green, the beak became sharper. Polly became expressive: its calls changed with emotions. It loved to perch on our shoulders, enjoyed being talked to. However, Polly was a jailbird, confined to the house. Its affinity to humans worried me. It only walked around, was scared of heights, and would climb up or down when it could easily fly! Every night before sleeping, it would get under a newspaper, cover itself from head to claw, just like humans!

To acclimatise it to the outside world, my vet friends suggested a ‘‘soft release’’. So, every morning and evening, Polly was taken out to make it see and experience the trees, heat, sounds. And then one day, from behind the glass door, I watched Polly hop on to the balcony railing. Suddenly, it lost control and fell. I ran out and looked around but to no avail. My heart broke at this sudden accident. Polly was still not ready to tackle the elements or the predators, let alone find food.

Story continues below this ad

Well, Polly came back, perched on the shoulder of the building’s guard. Polly, the Phoenix, had had a second homecoming. Life went on. Polly was still clingy, loved being loved, and hated being alone — much like me.

Ironically, I would give Polly sermons about ‘‘being a bird’’, breaking the safety net, tasting life on its own. The other day, Polly was playfully fighting a pushy fly in the balcony when a crow swooped too close for comfort. Polly hopped away. But the crow flew menacingly towards Polly, forced it to fly higher and further. I saw Polly being chased for some distance till the predator turned away. Polly had passed the first acid test of survival but, in a flash, it was gone forever.

Polly came into my life, taught me the lesson I was trying to teach it, and vanished. It became a metaphor for my life: the loving cocoon of childhood followed by endless trials. The ‘‘real’’ world, both Polly’s and mine, is about surviving the hard knocks.