Dying
(Written in early June)
It is 1.30 in the afternoon. The sky is washed out and blinding, no particular colour at all. The breeze is heavy with moisture and brings almost no relief from the sweltering. It seems every living thing holds its breath, willing the rain to bring us back from the brink.
The gulmohars are beautiful against this backdrop, some bright orange, one a deeper reddish hue, another a light hearted frivolous shade. The branches are laden with sumptuous bunches of flowers, a blur of colour. From a distance, the individual flower is subsumed into the glory of the larger mass. But each flower is a masterpiece in itself, the petals speckled with white, almost orchid like in arrangement. Three darker petals bloom upwards, and the fourth, more speckled than the rest, grows downwards like the extended tongue of the Goddess.
An old parrot has been perched in a corner of the balcony for almost the entire morning. The other birds don’t disturb him. Instead, the sparrows are subdued, the koels are silent and the parrots sit on the neighbouring badam, keeping an eye on this old one. Only the crows, raucous and disrespectful, perch next to the parrot, and I’m watchful that they don’t harm him. So far, they have ignored each other but the crows are beginning to show greater interest in the stillness and silence of the parrot.
His tail feathers are all but gone. Two thin strands droop down, the slightest movement of air making them flutter. He grooms himself in a desultory way. The wings and back remain ruffled after he runs his beak through the feathers. They don’t smooth back in that shiny, healthy way of younger parrots. The rose ring around his neck is dull and faded and there is a bare patch on the back of his head. He sits close enough to the feeder but makes no attempt to crack the seeds. Instead, his head has dropped down and the sparrows are frightened away by the unnatural pose. I don’t want to go out and startle him off his perch. Perhaps he feels safe here on the balcony. I hope he does. I think he is dying. With quiet dignity and no demands.
All I can do is wait with him.
Post script: My doom and gloom got to him. He shuffled to the edge of the balcony and shakily flew away. Possibly to live another day. Probably to be pecked into oblivion by the crows. His departure was the signal for the other birds to return to the feeder and water bath, chirping cheerily.