Beings of past

As a child, I was fond of little animals. Not all, only the little ones. I had a fish tank, which I acquired with my marvellous talent of pleading and crying to my parents, it was the most beautiful part of my life then. I adored it, I truly did. There were many phases my fish tank had, at the very first there were a dozen mid sized fishes in it, mostly 8-10 cm. That wasn't my favourite phase tho, I liked better the time I had only and only small fishes, 2-3 cm, scores of them. I loved it when they dived their world in schools of different colours. Admittedly the tanks wasn't huge, hardly 25-30 inches, but it was gigantic when my little hands held it by it's flanks as if hugging one big fish, a collective pet made of several others.

I was fond of birds as well. But in this genre there was no partiality done on the basis of height, each were as lovely as the other. I had many as pets throughout my childhood.

I remember the first one I had. 2 pairs of the loving birds and a parrot. I remember the visuals of the day I got them. My father came home unannounced, it was afternoon if I'm right, which isn't the usual time my father got back, not till late evening. His job required him to travel within the city a lot, my father. So thinking back now, I think he left all his "big people" errands to get this to me. Anyways, i remember him presenting it to me, two cages, one with the 4 loving birds and one with the parrot, almost bending down to reach me. His smile, almost ear to ear, presenting me with the birds. I don't remember the words he used, but I remember the happiness, the excitement, the screaming in happiness and excitement. 

My father wasn't much of a gifter, so it really was a surprise for me. 

Speaking of gifts i remember he once got me a cake for my birthday, on my mother's suggestion. But, made of jaggery... I kid you not it was a jaggery cake. Too hard to even mark it with me teeth. My mother had a good laugh out of it and arranged another cake at short notice from elsewhere.

Getting back to the point, birds. I would not remember it but I'm sure I bugged my parents for weeks for some birds as pet. And my father got them for me.

It was my summer vacation I think, when the parrot died, while i vacationed at my grandmother's. And the two out of four other birds did too. At last it was a decision to free the other two birds as well, as suggested by my mother. The day I freed them, I remember, thinking they will return, as all those loyal and loved ones do. I waited days, sure in my heart of their homecoming. 

One night there was a sound of a bird flapping it's wing frantically on the terrace. Me and my brother, playing video games on the computer, looked at each other, and ran at once, towards the terrace. There were no birds ofcourse.

I wish there were.

My fondness for birds never died. I became sort of a bird hunter for a while, except I didn't want to kill them, only capture. I had a brilliant idea, perhaps from watching too much Tom & Jerry, to catch the migrating old world sparrows, which at that time painted my skies brown, using a tokri, a stick, a rope and a handful of wheat. I used to set my cartoonish style trap and wait behind a pillar with rope for hours on my terrace. I think I got success once or twice. I remeber once I got a hold of a little sparrow. I tied her fragile leg with a harsh coconut rope. She tried flying but always crashed. At the time I was oblivious of the pain I was causing to her, that innocent little creature. It was only after I observed her fragile leg all scratched, broken, that I realised it was a monstrous act I did. I freed her ofcourse, and she flew away.

But I doubt she survived long with that injured leg of hers.

Those old world sparrows have abandoned their canvas that afloats above my head. I haven't seen a flock in years, a decade maybe. I miss them, their art. The way they painted the sky with such precise strokes, all of them painting like one painter, from east to west, then to north, and back to east. Those hundreds of wings of marvellous engineering, maneuvering like one. I miss them. 

If they could talk I'd promise them of never plotting against them again. Just get back and paint on my bland blue of a sky again.