Sheikh's Last Stoop & Other Avian Tales

by Pushpa Kurup



  Sheikh’s Last Stoop

  & Other Avian Tales

  Pushpa Kurup

  First Published in September 2015

  Copyright © 2015 Pushpa Kurup

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise except as permitted by law or with the prior written permission of the author.

  Readers should be aware that internet websites offered as citations and/or sources for further information may have changed or disappeared between the time this was written and when it is read.

  Limit of Liability/Disclaimer of Warranty: While the author and the publisher have put in their best efforts in preparing this book, they make no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. Neither the publisher nor the author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any other commercial damages, including but not limited to special, incidental, consequential or other damages.

  Cover Design by Praveen V.P.

  ISBN: 9781310354533

  for the little people in my life-----------------------------------------------------------

  Sitara

  Sarisha

  Sahil

  Kavita

  Rohit

  Siddhant

  Sameera

  CONTENTS

  Sheikh’s Last Stoop

  Black Beauty’s Fair Adventure

  The Hungry Chick

  The Escapist

  Scavenger in Distress

  The Linguist’s Loss

  Caw! Caw! Cacophony!

  The Proudest Creature on Earth

  On the Brink of Extinction

  Acknowledgments

  References

  1

  Sheikh’s Last Stoop

  I hear the familiar roar of the master’s BMW. From my perch on the roof of the green tiled villa I watch as the car sweeps into the driveway and comes to a stop. Khalid emerges from the driver’s seat and walks briskly to the front door, his spotless white khandura flapping at his ankles in the light winter breeze. The white ghutrah on his head is held in place by a black agal, a double rope-like cord, completing the traditional Arab ensemble.

  As I move to welcome the master I’m taken aback to see another peregrine falcon perched on his right shoulder. I hover around undecided. Should I alight on Khalid’s left shoulder? Or on one of his wrists?

  I slyly eye the newcomer, a dark female, who’s considerably larger than I am.

  ‘Hi there!’ Her voice is music to my ears. I’ve been lonely for so long.

  ‘Asalaam alaikum!’ I respond politely. I expect her to say ‘Walaikkum salam,’ but she doesn’t. I wonder if she understands Arabic.

  I gingerly perch on Khalid’s left forearm making sure my talons don’t injure him. He wears no gauntlet or gloves. Khalid is strong and sturdy and has a dignified bearing. His lean bearded countenance is handsome in a rugged way. He has piercing eyes just like us falcons.

  Khalid gently strokes my head, his touch reassuring. I throw the newcomer a sharp glance. She looks back at me brazenly.

  The master’s wife, Hamda, materializes on the doorstep and squeals in delight on seeing the novel acquisition.

  ‘Wow! A Shaheen falcon! How much did you pay for her, Khalid?’

  ‘A hundred thousand dirhams, my dear! She’s a present for your birthday!’

  ‘Shukran! Shukran, Khalid! I love you so much!’ She gives him a bear hug after carefully looking around to make sure none of the children or servants are around. Then she ushers us into the house and closes the door. She calls out to the maid to bring a weighing machine and Khalid places the new bird on it and checks her weight.

  I wonder why he doesn’t check Hamda’s weight. She seems to be growing larger every day. She has a pretty face though, with large black eyes, thick eyebrows and red lips. Her skin is creamy white and she has voluminous black hair which she keeps covered with a black cloth.

  Falconers have to make sure their falcons maintain an optimum weight. An underweight bird will be weak, ineffective, and unnecessarily aggressive, while an overweight bird may be unresponsive, reluctant to hunt, and likely to fly away.

  An inseparable part of Arabian lifestyle and tradition, falconry has been practiced in the Middle East since the 7th century B.C. This sport may have originated in Mesopotamia around 2000 B.C., as it is mentioned in the Epic of Gilgamesh. Widely practiced for over 3000 years, first by the nomads of Central Asia and later by the Bedouins of the Arabian Peninsula, falconry reached Europe around 400 A.D. It surfaced in the United States very recently.

  With the advent of firearms, falconry suffered a severe setback because humans no longer needed us to assist them in hunting. Today it has been reduced to a mere pastime, using mostly red-tailed hawks, Harris hawks, American kestrels and northern goshawks. In the United States a license is required to practice falconry. A falconer must pass an examination, set up adequate facilities and serve a two-year apprenticeship in order to be eligible for a license.

  Hamda doesn’t take her eyes off the newcomer. ‘Let’s call her Sultana,’ she suggests. ‘I’m sure Abu will be glad to have her company.’

  That’s me. They call me Abu. But I don’t like the name. I prefer to call myself Sheikh.

  I’m a Maltese or Mediterranean falcon, one of the nineteen species of falcons that occur worldwide. I’ve an aristocratic bearing, a black head, a blue-grey back, yellow feet and a barred white belly. My upper beak is notched at the tip, enabling me to sever the spinal column of my prey with a quick, neat nip. I prey upon nearly two thousand species of birds, often consuming fur or feathers to cleanse my crop and regurgitating the stuff later in the form of round pellets. Incidentally, the Quran mentions that quarry caught by trained falcons is halal meat.

  But what’s really special about me is that I’m the fastest creature on the planet. The swift and the cheetah are ranked second and third, but they’re considerably slower. I can attain a speed of 322 kilometres per hour during a high speed dive or ‘hunting stoop’ as it’s called.

  ‘I’m Sheikh,’ I announce pompously, trying to impress Sultana.

  ‘But I heard them call you Abu.’

  ‘My original name is Sheikh. That’s what they called me before I came to Ras al Khaimah,’ I lie glibly.

  ‘Okay, I’ll call you Sheikh if that’s what you prefer,’ she concedes, adding, ‘Tell me about this place.’

  ‘Ras al Khaimah is one of the seven emirates that make up the United Arab Emirates, the others being Abu Dhabi, Dubai, Sharjah, Ajman, Fujairah and Umm al Quwain,’ I explain.

  Sultana listens attentively. Feeling encouraged, I continue, ‘Ras al Khaimah was engaged in the pearling industry for many centuries. Once notorious as the Pirate Coast, the UAE was virtually controlled by the Portuguese before the arrival of the British. When the British gained ascendancy they suppressed piracy and abolished the slave trade.’

  ‘Do people still dive for pearls?’ Sultana is curious to know.

  ‘Not anymore,’ I reply. ‘The pearling industry collapsed in the early 20th century following the Great Depression and the Japanese invention of the cultured pearl. Fortunately, the oil boom occurred soon thereafter, saving the country from imminent collapse. In 1962 the first cargo of crude oil was exported from Abu Dhabi.’

  ‘And the rest is history!’ Sultana adds exultantly.

  �
��True! The UAE was never the same again,’ I agree wholeheartedly. ‘It gained independence in 1971. The Burj al Khalifa, the world’s tallest building, that dominates the landscape of Dubai, stands testimony to the oil wealth of this nation and the resilience of its people.’

  ‘And the peregrine falcon is the national animal, symbolizing power, speed and action,’ Sultana concludes.

  ‘Tell me about your yourself, Sultana,’ I suggest earnestly.

  ‘I’m also called Indian peregrine falcon or Black Shaheen. My home is in Sri Lanka, near the Sigiriya rock fortress. There are very few of us left in Sri Lanka - less than 50 breeding pairs.’

  ‘There’s a Sri Lankan housemaid here,’ I tell her. ‘She’s been with the family ever since the first child was born. Hamda’s very fond of her.’

  Sultana shows no interest in the maid. ‘I love Sri Lanka,’ she sighs wistfully. ‘It’s an exotic island in the Indian Ocean, separated from mainland India by the Palk Strait and the Gulf of Mannar. Some say that until 1480 A. D. it was possible to cross over to India on foot until a series of treacherous cyclones demolished the land bridge connecting the two countries.’

  The avian beauty pauses for a brief moment before continuing. ‘Sri Lanka was called Serendib by the ancient Arab traders. The British called it Ceylon. In the days of antiquity King Solomon imported peacocks and ivory from Sri Lankan shores. Cleopatra, the Queen of Egypt tried to send her son Caesarion to Sri Lanka to keep him safe from enemies, but he was captured and killed before he got very far.’

  Seeing that I’m all ears, Sultana goes on. ‘In ancient times, our people had close ties with the Romans. Male dancers from our country were eyewitnesses when the Roman Emperor Caligula was assassinated in 41 A.D. Sri Lanka was a virtual paradise until ethnic strife tore apart the social fabric during the last three or four decades.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘The civil war ended when the Tamil militants were vanquished and their leader, Prabhakaran, killed by army personnel. Now a fragile peace permeates the island, and everyone hopes it will prevail.’

  ‘The Indian epic Ramayana refers to the island as Lanka, doesn’t it? I ask.

  Sultana nods animatedly. ‘That’s perhaps the earliest reference to Sri Lanka in literature,’ she gushes. ‘The divine sculptor Vishwakarma was believed to have created Lanka for Kubera, the god of wealth. Kubera’s stepbrother, the demon Ravana overthrew him and became the ruler of Lanka. He had his own private aircraft, the Pushpaka Vimana which he used for the abduction of Sita, the wife of Prince Rama of Ayodhya, an act which culminated in the historic battle that ended with Ravana’s death.’

  This sounds like a cock and bull story. ‘Is the aircraft reference authentic?’ I wonder aloud. ‘I thought the Wright brothers invented flying machines only in the 20th century!’

  ‘No idea,’ Sultana sighs. ‘They say the Pushpaka Vimana, another creation of Vishwakarma, was originally made for Lord Brahma, who gifted it to Kubera. Ravana obtained it as part of the spoils of war. He apparently had an airport at a place now known as Wariyapola.’

  I try to set the record straight. ‘As far as I know humans have been flying for less than a hundred years. And we peregrines have been doing it for millions of years.’

  Sultana reverts once again to the topic of her homeland, ‘Do you know that Queen Anula, who reigned from 47 B.C. to 42 B.C., was one of the earliest recorded women rulers in the history of Asian nations? And that when Sirimavo Bandaranaike assumed office as Prime Minister of Sri Lanka in 1960 she became the world’s first female head of Government?’

  ‘And now Sultana has taken charge as queen of Ras al Khaimah!’ I conclude mockingly.

  She glares at me, indignantly.

  I quickly try to placate her. ‘What about Sigiriya?’ I ask.

  Sultana swallows the bait. ‘Do you want to go there? I can show you the way.’

  ‘I prefer to stay here.’

  ‘But why?’ she sounds disgusted with me.

  ‘I’ve got used to this place,’ I explain. ‘I go hunting for pigeons and doves and I’ve no need to fear predators such as golden eagles and bald eagles. Sometimes I enjoy a ride on the camel’s back.’

  ‘A camel? What’s that? ’ Sultana looks bewildered.

  ‘Come. I’ll show you.’

  We both fly to the back of the house where the farm stretches westwards for miles. A Bactrian camel is tethered to a tree. I perch myself on one of its humps, and Sultana settles on the other. The camel walks round and round the tree, presumably to entertain us.

  ‘Camels were domesticated around 3000 B.C.’ I announce, trying not to sound pompous. ‘They’ve been friends of the Arabs ever since, enabling them to travel for miles across the desert. And we peregrines have been their friends for at least 2800 years. We used to help the Beduoins catch game when food was scarce in the winter months.’

  ‘Interesting!’ Sultana observes, looking pointedly at the camel’s long eyelashes.

  ‘How old are you, Sultana?’ I ask shyly. I know it’s an impolite question, but curiosity gets the better of me.

  ‘I’m seven years old. What about you?’

  ‘I’m three. Will you be my life partner?’

  Sultana blinks demurely to indicate her acceptance of my proposal. I’m elated.

  We begin our courtship flight which involves spiraling sorties, aerial acrobatics and steep dives. Skills, speed, agility - that’s the stuff our romances are made of. I capture a fat pigeon and pass it to Sultana in mid-air. She flies upside down to receive the nuptial meal from my claws.

  We birds don’t need to bother about age differences. And once we form a bond we remain faithful to the partner for life. Humans could learn a thing or two from us. Here in the UAE they practice polygamy, with the men having up to four wives. But my master has only one wife and he’s devoted to her.

  ‘Do you love master?’ Sultana asks, her expression one of intense concentration as she scans my face looking for telltale signs of weakness.

  ‘Of course not! I’m not a sentimental fool,’ I retort quickly. ‘I’m immensely practical. Master’s presence spells food and safety. It makes sense to hang around him.’

  I ponder for a moment before adding, ‘These Arabs are great survivors. They led difficult lives for thousands of years, battling the elements in this harsh environment, until Allah finally blessed them and gave them oil.’

  ‘Allah? Who’s Allah?’

  ‘That’s what they call their god,’ I reply.

  ‘In Sri Lanka god is known as Buddha,’ Sultana says. ‘It’s all the same thing, I guess. Do you believe in gods?’

  ‘Of course not! They’re merely human fancies!’ I remark insolently.

  Sultana persists, ‘Do you know every creature on this earth has a soul? And when you die your soul moves on and is reincarnated in another body…’

  ‘That’s utter nonsense!’ I burst out scornfully as we come down to earth and perch on the camel’s humps once again.

  ‘Sheikh, let’s escape from here!’ Sultana words come as a bolt from the blue, driving a sharp wedge of fear into my heart.

  ‘Don’t be stupid!’ I warn her hurriedly. ‘You’ll be tracked and caught. Do you see that tiny gadget on your left foot? It’s a telemetric transmitter. It sends signals to the humans telling them where you are.’

  ‘But I don’t want to live here, Sheikh!’ Sultana’s defiant. Her passionate outburst touches my cold falcon heart.

  There’s a nostalgic gleam in Sultana’s eyes as she whispers, ‘You can’t imagine what Sri Lanka’s like. It’s one of the world’s top biodiversity hotspots. Abundant flora and fauna. Trees like ironwood, satinwood, teak and mahogany. Nearly 6000 elephants, both wild and domesticated.’

  ‘Elephant?’ I interject. ‘I’ve never seen one, except on TV.’

  Sultana sighs. ‘They’re the largest land animals. Black, bulky and beautiful beasts.’

  The
camel snorts angrily, stomps his feet and rudely shakes us off his back. Obviously he doesn’t approve of Sultana singing the elephant’s praises. I get the message and herd my frightened partner to the mews.

  ‘This is where we’re supposed to stay,’ I tell her. ‘Living quarters specially designed for us. See how the perches are carefully structured to prevent feather damage.’

  Thus begins a life of togetherness. Sultana soon becomes a consummate hunter, growing accustomed to the Dutch hood made of kangaroo leather, the leather strips called jesses attached to the feet, the anklets and all the other trappings of a trained falcon. She’d already been through the manning process during her brief sojourn in Oman, a process by which birds of prey are familiarized with humans, their abodes, automobiles, equipments and house pets.

  On most Wednesday mornings I go hunting with Khalid. Under his expert guidance, I’ve learnt to capture large houbara bustards and small mammals like hares and rabbits. We usually hunt at dusk or dawn. I need wide open spaces for hunting and desert landscapes are just perfect.

  And then Khalid decides it’s time for me to prove my true raptor credentials. He starts using me to catch small goats. At first I find the going difficult, but gradually I become more and more adept at the sport.

  ‘Do you have a passport?’ I ask Sultana one afternoon as we’re sunning ourselves on the camel’s back.

  ‘Why do birds need passports when we can fly anywhere on our own?’ she wonders. ‘We don’t respect national boundaries, do we?’

  ‘We have to follow the rules of the country we live in,’ I tell her. ‘The UAE launched a falcon passport scheme in 2002 to control the illegal trade in falcons. Now all birds have to be legally obtained or imported with all the necessary permits, and registered with the authorities. The country spends millions of dollars annually to protect and conserve wild falcons. We’re also bred in captivity on farms in the UAE, Qatar and Saudi Arabia.’

  Sultana’s razor sharp eyes nearly pop out of her head.

  ‘They even have falcon beauty contests,’ I announce proudly. ‘Last year I was the winner..!’

  ‘Hamda!’ We hear Khalid barking orders. ‘Keep the birds ready for tomorrow’s drive to Abu Dhabi. Sultana has to be registered and Abu needs to have his periodic health check up.’

  So that’s the schedule! I quickly brief Sultana. ‘We’re going the Abu Dhabi Falcon Hospital tomorrow. It’s an unusual avian hospital, the largest of its kind in the world, with air-conditioned space for over 200 hunting birds. Arabs from all over the Gulf region bring their prized falcons here for treatment of broken wings and other ailments. Damaged feathers are carefully repaired or replaced, because the loss of even a single feather can significantly unbalance a falcon’s flight.’

  The drive to Abu Dhabi is thrilling indeed. Master uses the new Lexus SUV which has special perches for birds like us. We know we can fly faster, but Khalid cannot fly, so this is the best alternative.

  The hospital is stupendous. The veterinary doctors tell Khalid that it caters to 6000 birds annually. Sultana simply can’t believe her ears! On the ride back home I find her unusually silent. She’s prone to bouts of homesickness and I know when to leave her alone.

  Months pass. One morning Sultana says, ‘Sheikh, I’m going to lay an egg. I need to find a proper place. Back home I sought cliff faces…’

  ‘You’ll have to lay it right here in the mews,’ I tell her. ‘There are no cliffs in the UAE.’

  ‘Bbb..ut…’

  ‘You can’t find a better place to lay an egg. There’s an incubator here. I’ve seen Hamda incubating chicken and duck eggs…’

  Sultana is astounded. ‘What! You mean we don’t have to do anything?’

  ‘We certainly don’t need to sit on the eggs for days on end waiting for them to hatch,’ I tell her. ‘Humans have found a better way. You just wait and watch.’

  And so Sultana lays an egg. And another. And yet another.

  Hamda is absolutely delighted. Two days later she takes the eggs away, much to my partner’s chagrin.

  ‘She didn’t even ask permission!’ Sultana moans.

  ‘That’s the way humans are,’ I explain patiently. ‘They never ask permission. They do just as they wish. They think the other creatures of the earth are merely their helpmates. And they mercilessly eliminate those who challenge them. See what they did to the lions and tigers.’

  ‘And we peregrines were smart enough to cooperate with them! Is that why we’re one of the most numerous birds on this earth?’ Sultana enquires.

  ‘Yes!’ I say emphatically. ‘In the mid 20th century we were nearly wiped out due to the use of pesticides such as DDT, but humans quickly realized their mistake and banned the substance, enabling us to rebound to earlier levels.’

  Sultana’s thoughtful for a while. Then she says sadly, ‘We have but a short life span of fifteen years.’

  I agree wholeheartedly. ‘Our species has a high mortality rate of 59-70% in the first year, but when we’re with humans they’ll make sure nothing untoward happens to the chicks. As long as we’re careful not to collide with man-made structures, we’ve nothing to fear. So do you still want to migrate?’

  Sultana’s dark countenance gives nothing away. ‘Not before my chicks are hatched,’ she whispers hoarsely.

  ‘You’ll be happy here, inshaallah,’ my voice is placating. ‘I’m sure Hamda will be back with the chicks soon. Then we’ll be a real family.’

  The next day at the break of dawn I hear Khalid’s signature whistle. Time for the hunt. Khalid is getting more ambitious day by day. He finds bigger and bigger animals for me to hunt. I wonder what it will be today. A camel?

  I soon find out it’s to be an antelope. Gosh!

  I give myself a pep talk. Come on Sheikh! You’re the king of the skies! Nothing is impossible for you!

  Soaring up into the blue sky I circle round and round. Soon it will be time to perform the great, mind boggling stoop. I usually strike my prey with a clenched paw and catch it in mid air. With mammals I’ve to adopt a different approach since they’re already on the ground.

  Spotting my quarry I begin my rapid descent. Feet tucked. Wings and tail neatly folded back. Down, down, down in a steep, death defying curve. The small bony tubercles in my nostrils keep the air pressure from damaging my lungs. The nictitating membranes or third eyelids keep my eyes dust free.

  In a lightning flash I complete my swoop and sink my beak into the antelope’s neck. But as it falls to the ground in a swoon, my beak is stuck in its spine and I’m unable to extricate it in time. Now my left wing is trapped under the weight of the fallen creature.

  I’m acutely conscious of the searing heat of the desert sand and the antelope’s warm blood dripping on to my pulsating breast. As if from far away I hear the faint roar of Khalid’s stentorian voice followed by an agonized groan.

  I realize the end will be coming soon. In my mind’s eye I see three little chicks bursting out of their egg shells. Allah! How I wish I’d listened to Sultana and migrated to Sri Lanka!

  As my eyes begin to blur, I see a hundred pachyderms parade along the golden beaches of an Indian Ocean island. Hordes of olive Ridley turtles crawl to the southern shores in the darkness of the night to lay their eggs. A pair of Shaheen falcons performs a courtship dance in the cloudy sky above the Sigiriya fortress.

  As my soul plunges into the darkness of oblivion, I wonder if I’ll be reborn as a falcon to savour the glory of an island paradise. Maybe Sultana was right after all. The soul may never die.

  2

  Black Beauty’s Fair Adventure

  ‘Where are the eggs?’ I ask my partner in a hoarse whisper.

  My black and beautiful mate turns his majestic head and his long graceful, S-shaped neck in my direction. His look is one of stark incomprehension. ‘I dd..ddon’t know…’ he stutters, sending me into an uncontrollable fit of rage.

  I’d been out foraging for a co
uple of hours and it had been his turn to guard our nest on the water’s edge where I’d laid three beautiful greenish white eggs in the last couple of days. The scoundrel must have wandered off in my absence. The irresponsible old bird! Is he having an affair on the sly?

  I brood and sulk, refusing to speak to him for hours. I stand on one leg on the shore and put my head under my left wing, pretending to sleep. My partner looks distressed and remorseful, and doesn’t go out to feed.

  I glide along the shore of the lake and he follows me, mumbling apologies in an effort to placate me. Eventually I come round and say, ‘Forget it. It’s okay.’

  This is the way we’ve always been. I’ve always forgiven him his indiscretions. And he’s forgiven mine. To tell the truth, I’m sad but not heart-broken. I can always lay a few more eggs. Like all black swans I lay eggs with the expectation of losing a few.

  Though a constantly quarrelling couple, we’re monogamous partners and we share nest building, egg hatching and cygnet rearing duties. Divorce does sometimes occur in our community and humans say the rate is 6%. Such break ups usually follow nesting failure – they’re not the result of marital disputes. Infidelity among us is not uncommon, though. Humans have recently discovered through DNA testing that a third of all broods are products of extra pair bonding. I don’t know what these humans expect to achieve by spying on us like this. I guess they’re suspicious of monogamous pairings, since they themselves are constantly unfaithful. I wonder what would be the findings if they applied the same tests to their own species!

  ‘What are you thinking?’ my mate enquires, seeing the dark frown on my dark countenance.

  ‘I was just wondering if we should migrate towards the interior,’ I reply without batting an eyelid.

  ‘No, you’re lying! You were thinking of something else….’ he counters.

  ‘So I was thinking of someone else!’ I blurt out, mischievously. ‘I’m not going to tell you!’

  ‘Then get lost…’

  ‘No, you get lost!’

  We quarrel for a while, pushing, shoving, pecking, hissing and arguing. Finally, when the pangs of hunger begin to gnaw our insides, we both go in search of food. As there are no eggs left, there’s no need to guard the nest. Nobody’s going to take it away. In fact we use the same nest year after year, as we believe in the dictum ‘Restore, Rebuild, Re-cycle, Re-use’. Humans could learn a lesson or two from us.

  My partner and I live on the shores of Lake Rotorua in the Bay of Plenty region in North Island, New Zealand. The lake was formed from the crater of a large volcano, whose last major eruption occurred 240,000 years ago. Several other volcanic lakes dot the vicinity and the active volcano, Mount Tarawera, rises to the east.

  New Zealand, a pristine and pure island group in the South Pacific, was one of the last countries to be occupied by humans. Polynesians settled here in the 13th century and later came to be known as Maoris. The Europeans came visiting in the 17th century and settled here in the 18th century.

  My partner and I may be rather quarrelsome, but other New Zealanders are not like us – they’re a peace-loving lot. According to the 2015 Global Peace Index, New Zealand is the fourth most peaceful country in the world after Iceland, Denmark and Austria.

  We black swans are large water birds, belonging to a family that includes ducks and geese. We live in loose companies, numbering hundreds or even thousands. We choose wetlands, lakes, rivers and swamps for dwelling. We’re rather noisy birds, producing far reaching bugle-like sounds, but we can also croon and whistle. Adopting a ‘V’ formation in flight, we make loud trumpeting calls, while our wings produce a whistling sound. Thus we fly to the accompaniment of a great cacophony.

  In fact, we’re among the largest flying birds with a huge wing span of 5 to 6.5 feet. Though primarily black plumaged, we have white flight feathers, red beaks, and grayish legs and feet. Our cygnets are grayish-brown and look rather ugly but they grow up to be exotic black beauties. Perhaps they were the inspiration for the Ugly Duckling story so popular in human folklore.

  My mate and I gorge ourselves on pondweed, stonewort and grasses, besides swallowing some tadpoles and insects. I drift into deeper water submerging my head and neck, up-ending and dabbling in a comical fashion.

  While most of the black swans in this country are the descendants of introduced populations, my own ancestors flew across from Australia. When the Arctic tern can fly from Alaska to Antarctica and back, I suppose flying from Australia to New Zealand is no big deal.

  We’re migratory birds, with rather erratic movements based on climatic conditions. When there’s rain in the dry interiors, we migrate to these areas to nest and raise our young. However, if dry weather conditions return before the cygnets have been raised, we abandon them and move to safer areas. This may be a supremely selfish survival strategy but sometimes it pays to be practical.

  We nest in the rainy season in shallow water or on islands, taking two to three weeks to make huge nests using reeds and grasses. An average clutch contains four to eight eggs, which hatch in about forty days. Incubation is a long process, with the male taking his turn during the day and the female at night. The change of shift is a time for ritualized displays by both partners.

  Once the cygnets are hatched we nurture them for about six to nine months until fledging. Sometimes they ride on our backs for trips into deeper water. When they’re old enough to look after themselves we break the bonds with them and chase them away. Soon they join the first flock they encounter and stay with the same flock until they attain maturity.

  Cygnets are preyed upon by crows, herons, magpies and turtles, while both juveniles and adults have to watch out for foxes and mink. Human colonization has added several novel threats such as stray dogs, fishing-tackle, pollution, lead poisoning, overhead cables and bridges.

  I turn to my mate who’s floating gracefully in the afternoon sun. ‘Do you know how long a swan can expect to live?’

  He replies, ‘In a protected environment we could perhaps survive until the ripe old age of thirty. But in the wild, twelve years would be a reasonable expectation.’

  If anything untoward were to happen to me, I know my mate will take over the nesting process as he’s quite capable of rearing the cygnets alone. And if, God forbid, something terrible were to happen to him, I shall not seek another partner but go through the mourning phase just like humans do.

  My partner gives me a searching look. ‘You’re unusually thoughtful today,’ he remarks.

  ‘I was wondering what you’d do if some tragedy were to befall me…’

  ‘Such dark thoughts!’ he exhales loudly. ‘Since when have you become such a pessimist?’

  ‘Since you let some lurking predator consume my precious eggs,’ I reply coldly. I’m not letting him forget so easily.

  ‘Sorry, dear. I promise you I’ll take good care of the eggs in future.’ His tone is one of genuine regret.

  Deciding it’s time for cessation of hostilities, I deftly change the subject. ‘Looks like there’s ample rain in the interior of the island. Do you think we ought to migrate inland?’

  My partner gives me a strange look. ‘I’d rather stay here,’ he says bluntly.

  I know when it’s best not to argue. ‘Do you think our species is in the threatened list?’ I ask warily.

  ‘No,’ he replies. ‘We number about half a million and nowadays we’re being introduced to more and more countries as ornamental birds.’

  We glide along the lake joining several other birds that are busy feeding. I hear a distant rumble and wonder if a thunderstorm is brewing. But the others seem unperturbed. They begin to make small talk.

  ‘In this country the Maoris were not very nice to us and we ended up becoming extinct,’ says an elderly female.

  ‘Later, in 1864, we were re-introduced from Australia. There our tribe is found in great numbers in the southwest and southeast, and in places such as the Murray Darling Basin,�
� says another.

  ‘The city of Perth in Western Australia is situated at the estuary of the Swan River, a name conferred by European explorers in 1697 long before the city was founded,’ adds a third.

  All of a sudden the rain comes pattering down and everyone scrambles for shelter. Not that we mind getting wet. The water invariably dribbles off our backs, leaving our feathers dry. Several of us huddle together under a tall tree on a small island in the lake.

  My mate decides it’s time for him to exhibit his superior knowledge. He loves to show off. ‘New Zealand has a unique biodiversity because it was geographically isolated for eighty million years,’ he announces pompously. ‘Due to the absence of predatory mammals, birds like the kiwi and the kakapo evolved flightless characteristics. Tuataras, skinks and geckos are among the other indigenous animals.’ He concludes with a flourish, looking pleased with himself and taking in the admiring glances of the females.

  I add my bit rather shyly, ‘Almost half the world's whales, dolphins, and porpoises are found in New Zealand waters. There are more penguin species here than in any other country.’

  Everyone looks at me in surprise. I’ve always been a silent one, opening my mouth only to argue with my mate. They obviously didn’t expect me to be so well-informed.

  My partner’s chest swells with pride. He gives me an encouraging nod. I take a deep breath and continue. ‘The advent of humans together with their retinue of rats and dogs brought about the extinction of several species, including large birds like the Haast’s eagle and the moa.’

  My partner adds, ‘Eighty percent of the country was covered by forests before the humans came. The Polynesians did the most damage. Half of the forest cover was lost to fire even before the Europeans arrived.’

  ‘Was it intentional?’ asks a puny cygnet.

  ‘May be they were just stupid!’ remarks another.

  ‘Why would anyone set trees on fire?’ asks the first cygnet.

  My mate elucidates, ‘Humans created their living spaces by logging and clearing. Thus today forests occupy only 23% of the land.’

  I nod my head coyly and add, ‘Recently they’ve woken up to the dangers of deforestation and they’re making frantic efforts at damage control. Recently they’ve initiated several methods to help wildlife recover.’

  As the days pass, I become more and more talkative. I also lay half a dozen eggs. Just a few more and I’ll be ready to start the incubation process. But something happens one dark night that changes my life forever.

  I’m fast asleep while floating on the water, when a cold wet hand seizes the back of my neck, jolting me awake. Before I’m able to call out, my beak is muzzled and my feet are tied with a string. I’m unceremoniously loaded into a dark chamber at the back of a strange fast moving vehicle and taken to a faraway place. I try my best to stay awake, but being really exhausted after a few hours of travelling, I fall into a deep slumber.

  When I wake up I find myself in a zoological park teeming with wildlife. The weather is oppressively warm. Ostriches and emus stand around in separate enclosures. A resplendent blue peacock struts about, showing off his plumage. I gape open-mouthed. A huge black monster with large ears and tiny eyes walks past me and I scream in terror.

  ‘Relax! It’s only a harmless elephant,’ says a soft voice behind me. I turn around and almost jump out of my skin. There in front of my eyes stands a huge white swan!

  I wonder whether I’m dreaming. I peck at the leaves of a bush and find they’re real. I dive into a nearby pool and realize the water’s real too. If this isn’t a dream, then the swan must be real. Could he be an albino?

  Plucking up my courage, I sidle up to the white swan.

  ‘I’m a mute swan,’ he says, introducing himself. If he’s mute, how come he’s speaking to me?

  Soon another white swan comes into view…and another and another. Their beaks, legs and feet are black and they’re bigger than the biggest swans I’ve seen. Gosh! They can’t all be albinos!

  ‘Where did you guys come from?’ I ask suspiciously. ‘In this part of the world we’re all supposed to be black!’

  ‘Wow! Black swans must be the most graceful creatures in the world!’ gushes a white swan effusively. ‘Now I know why humans often say black is beautiful!’

  ‘White swans are exquisite too!’ I return the compliment, my eyes glowing in admiration. ‘But which part of the world do you come from? You’re not Australians or New Zealanders, I’m sure.’

  ‘Our home is in the British Isles and we’ve come to Queensland across the seas in a sailing ship,’ says another white swan.

  Gosh! If this is indeed Queensland, then I’m thousands of kilometers from home! What on earth am I going to do?

  The white swan continues, ‘In Europe and in the entire northern hemisphere, all swans are white in colour. While the Mute swan is the most numerous and the least noisy, there are other migratory species such as the Trumpeter swan, the Tundra swan or Whistling swan, and the Whooper swan. In Britain the only permanent resident is the Mute swan. There are a handful of Black swans imported from Australia. They’re found on the River Thames, and in the small seaside resort of Dawlish in Devon county.’

  Another white swan speaks up, ‘In the southern part of South America, there’s a Black-necked swan which is said to be the most beautiful of all swans. I’ve never seen one, but I’ve heard its neck and head are black while the rest of its body is pure white. It breeds from the Falklands to central Chile, southern Paraguay and south-eastern Brazil, and rarely comes on land.’

  ‘Wow! That’s sounds really cool!’ says another.

  Yet another says, ‘And there’s the Coscoroba swan in South America which is rather like a cross between a swan and a goose. It gets its name from its loud trumpet-like call ‘cos-cor-oo’. It’s white in colour with a shorter neck, a red bill, and pink legs and feet. It’s found in southern Chile and is a frequent visitor to the Falkland Islands.’

  I listen in bewilderment. I’d been under the illusion that all swans were black. I’d also believed the world had only two countries – Australia and New Zealand, and the continent of Antarctica, where most of the penguins lived. Listening to the white swans served as a real eye-opener. I learnt so much about our planet in just a few hours.

  ‘Tell me are all of you Mute swans?’ I ask, bewildered.

  ‘Yes,’ replies one. ‘You may be interested to know that we’re among the oldest bird species still extant. We evolved in Europe or western Eurasia not less than 5 million years ago. And what’s more, we’re your closest relatives.’

  I gasp in surprise. ‘Don’t tell me!’

  ‘Honest!’

  ‘Tell me about the other swans,’ I request.

  The most loquacious of them begins his narrative. ‘The whooper swan, found in Europe and Asia, is very vocal in flight, with a deep resonant call that sounds like hoop-hoop,’ he explains. ‘It’s shy and aloof and has a striking yellow and black bill. It migrates from Iceland, Scandinavia, and northern Russia to parts of Europe, Japan and China. It’s the national bird of Finland. And do you know that five flying swans make up the symbol of the Scandinavian countries?’

  I gasp in surprise. ‘And what about the trumpeter swan?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s the largest and rarest member of the swan family,’ he says. ‘It’s found in Canada and Alaska. Its numbers were decimated by the European settlers but now it’s on the path of recovery.’

  ‘And the whistling swan? Does it really whistle?’ I enquire. Everyone bursts into loud cackles.

  ‘Oh, no!’ one of them clarifies. ‘It produces a variety of honking and clanging sounds and a soft musical ‘wow-wow-wow’. It’s known as the Bewick’s swan in Europe and Asia and the Tundra swan in North America. Sixty percent of tundra swans breed in Alaska.’

  I venture to tell the white swans a little about myself. ‘The Black Swan is featured on the flag of Western Australia,’ I announce pr
oudly. ‘We’re protected in Australia but due to over- population a short hunting season has been allowed in Victoria and Tasmania. In New Zealand, though, we’re 100% safe.’

  Little squeals of delight fill the air, taking me by surprise. The white swans rush in the direction of the sound and I follow them eagerly to a shallow pool where another white swan stands by the side of a large nest. She looks incredibly proud. The other birds scramble up to the nest and peer inside. Hearing the oohs and ahs, I go over to take a look, but the mother swan looks at me suspiciously and blocks my way.

  ‘She’s not a black sheep. She’s a black swan, a native of New Zealand,’ one of the Mute swans remarks humorously.

  The mother swan reluctantly allows me to take a look at her newly hatched cygnets. I’m greatly disappointed to see that they’re just as plain as the cygnets back home. No one would believe they’d grow up to be such snow-white beauties!

  Finally one of the Mute swans comes over to me and whispers in my ear, ‘I think they’ll take you to some other country to live in a zoo or park.’

  ‘Look at us. Our wings have been clipped so that we cannot fly,’ says another. You’d better escape while the going’s good.’

  I lapse into a horrified silence. When the sun has set and many of the birds have tucked their heads under their wings, I lie awake, my heart full of fear. Will they clip my wings too? Will they take me to Europe or America? Should I make good my escape before the sun rises?

  I wait until all the humans have fallen asleep. Hearing their loud shameless snores, I pluck up my courage, flap my wings and take off making sure not a sound escapes my beak. I fondly hope no one hears the sound of my wings.

  Once I’m airborne I fly in a south easterly direction until I reach the sea coast. Then I stop on the water’s edge to feed and rest. I know the flight across the ocean is going to be the toughest part.

  Soon I take off again and fly for hours and hours across the open sea. Sometimes I rest on the ocean surface, feed on seaweed and algae and sleep briefly, hoping the sharks won’t get me. Then I take off again. As my wings grow tired and I lose momentum, I wonder how the Arctic tern and even the puny monarch butterfly manage to travel such long distances across land and sea. They must be really crazy, I tell myself.

  One morning as the rising sun cast its orange-red rays on the eastern horizon, I spot the familiar peaks of Mount Tarawera and my heart breaks into song. A few giant leaps and some frantic flapping of wings and I’m back in my nest where my lonely partner waits, sad and forlon.

  I notice he’s lost a lot of weight. He must have been hatching the eggs all by himself without venturing out to forage for food.

  ‘Where have you been you idiot?’ he asks crossly, feigning anger.

  ‘Didn’t you notice I was captured by humans?’ I ask angrily. ‘What if they’d cooked and eaten me? What if I’d settled in another country and found myself a younger mate, perhaps a white one?’

  ‘A white swan? What on earth are you talking about…?’

  And then we talk and talk and talk. I tell him how the swan is revered in India because it’s the vehicle of Saraswati, the Goddess of learning and wisdom, how it is considered the epitome of purity and prudence, how the Mute swan is not really mute and the Whistling swan doesn’t really whistle…

  As my mate coos and whispers sweet nothings into my ear, my mind goes back to the wonders of the world I’ve just left behind.

  ‘The world outside is an exciting place,’ I tell him, ‘But there’s no place like home.’

  ‘And there’s no partner like you,’ he gushes romantically.

  ‘And you!’ I reply truthfully. This is not the time for quarrels and reproach. There will always be plenty of time for that later.

  As I speak, the eggs in the nest crack open one by one and six ugly cygnets peek at me in wonder. I throw my partner a grateful glance. He smiles benignly and slinks away into the dark silence of the lake.

  I smile to myself. My shift has begun without ceremony.

  3

  The Hungry Chick

  My name is Puffita and I live in Vestmannaeyjar (Westmann Isles) off the coast of Iceland. Actually I’m here only during the breeding season from April to mid August. For the greater part of the year I live in the open sea. Sounds exciting? You bet it is!

  I’m an Atlantic puffin, a cute black and white sea bird with a large colourful beak and orange coloured feet. I’m rather stout but I can fly at a speed of 55 miles per hour and dive to a depth of twenty metres. When I swim underwater I appear to be flying. I know some of the fishes are jealous of me, especially the dolphins. My walk is rather comical, though. It’s a real pity, but you see, no one is perfect.

  My mate is called Puffman and we have a month old chick. We call her Puffiba. We’ve hidden her in an underground nest lined with feathers and grass. This was originally a rabbit burrow but now we’re using it as our hideout. When ready-made burrows are not available, we make them ourselves, digging into the earth with our bills and shoveling away the loose sand with our feet.

  Puffman says we have cousins in the North Pacific from Alaska to California. They’re the horned puffins and the tufted puffins. The Dow puffin it seems has long been extinct.

  ‘Puffita! Puffita!’ My mate calls out, jolting me out of my reverie. He had left two hours ago in search of food, while I stayed back to guard our chick. We puffins lay only a single egg in a year, so you can understand how precious the chick is. During the six weeks needed for incubation we had taken turns at guarding the egg. Now we need to guard Puffiba for a few more weeks before she’s ready to take on the great ocean on her own.

  Puffiba is going ‘peep, peeep, peeep!’ She’s full of expectation. I come out of the nest to welcome Puffman. I’m immensely relieved to see that his beak is full of sand eels. We puffins eat small fish such as herring, hake and capelin.

  ‘It’s good for us that very few humans live on Vestmannaeyjar,’ Puffman says, taking a few sand eels out of his beak.

  ‘But unfortunately for us, Icelanders eat puffin meat and eggs,’ I add solemnly. ‘Besides, the Faroe islanders and the Norwegians are also fond of puffin meat. How I wish they would eat sea gulls instead!’

  ‘I’ve heard that humans in other parts of the world mostly eat chickens and ducks.’ Puffman announces. ‘How sensible they are! I wish they’d teach the Icelanders to leave us alone.’

  Puffiba eats greedily, gulping down the sand eels as quickly as she can. It has been several hours since her last meal. In the morning it had been my turn to go out fishing and I’d been singularly unlucky.

  ‘I’m going out again,’ Puffman announces. ‘It wouldn’t do to waste my time here. Puffiba is full now but she’ll soon be hungry again. I’ve left some fish for you in the nest. I know it’s not enough, but that’s all I could manage to get.’

  Puffman is a faithful and protective partner, like all puffin males. He shares the domestic burden of nest building, egg-hatching and chick-rearing. I wonder what I’d do without him. Humans can learn a few lessons from puffins, I tell myself.

  ‘What’s on your mind?’ Puffman wants to know. I smile benignly. I’m certainly not going to tell him. I don’t want him getting fancy ideas about himself. ‘Oh, I was just thinking of going fishing myself,’ I mumble hastily.

  ‘Just wait until I return. It won’t do to leave Puffiba unguarded even for a moment.’ Puffman is insistent. I know he’s right. After all, seagulls and falcons are forever on the lookout for unprotected pufflings.

  ‘Okay dear, come back soon.’ I call out affectionately. ‘And come back with your beak full.’

  But Puffman is already out of earshot.

  Puffiba’s having a short nap. I eat the fish left over in the nest and my hunger is partially appeased. But I know I’ll have to go out hunting as soon as Puffman returns. These are difficult times. In recent years, thousands of chicks have starved to death due to scarcity of fish. When fo
od supplies are scarce, we puffins prefer to stop laying eggs. You see, we can’t bear to see our chicks die of starvation.

  Why do humans have to eat fish? There are so many other animals on land. And if they really like fish so much, can’t they catch sharks, whales and dolphins and leave the small fish for sea birds like us?

  ‘Mama, Mama!’ Puffiba is awake now. “How long will I have to remain at sea before coming back to Vestmannaeyjar? How will I find my way back?”

  An audible sigh escapes my beak. Oh boy! That’s a tough one! Nowadays Puffiba asks a lot of questions.

  ‘You will live in the sea for three to five years,’ I explain. ‘And when the time comes to lay an egg, you will return to Vestmannaeyjar. I don’t know how, but you’ll find your way.’

  Puffiba looked doubtful. ‘Why can’t I go and lay an egg somewhere else?’ she asked petulantly.

  ‘That’s not a good idea,’ I reply rather curtly. ‘We’ve been coming back here for generations. This island is our home. Moreover, where else would you go?’

  ‘Papa told me Skomer Island is a nice place. It’s off the coast of Wales.’ Puffiba isn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer. She’s rather self-willed. I know it’s best not to argue with her.

  ‘Yes. Skomer is beautiful,’ I agree. ‘But there’s no place like home. When you grow older, perhaps you’ll understand. There are half a million seabirds on Skomer but only 10,000 or so are puffins. We are much safer here in Vestmannaeyjar.’

  ‘Mama, why do we choose uninhabited islands for breeding?’ she asks.

  ‘When humans are not around, we get plenty of fish to eat,’ I remind her. ‘And we have few natural predators. So we can live up to twenty years or more.’

  ‘Papa says there are many islands called Puffin Island. Some are in Canada, some are in the United States and there’s one right here in Iceland.’ Puffiba has learnt her geography reasonably well.

  ‘There are more Puffin Islands, my dear,’ I elaborate patiently. ‘There’s a Puffin Island off the coast of Wales, where puffins nearly got wiped out due to the introduction of brown rats by humans in the 19th century. Another Puffin Island lies off the coast of Ireland. Lundy in the Bristol Channel derives its name from an ancient Norse word meaning Puffin Island. However, rats have nearly obliterated the puffin population there, and only a few pairs are left now.’

  ‘I don’t want to go there,’ Puffiba says shuddering. I’m glad there’s at least one place she doesn’t want to explore.

  ‘Lundey means Puffin Island in Icelandic,’ I tell Puffiba. ‘In fact there are three islands called Lundey, one near Reykjavik, the capital, another in Skagafjorour fjord and the third in Skjalfandy Bay. Do you think you’ll someday go to one of these islands to lay an egg?’

  Puffiba looks confused. ‘Mama, why do you think Vestmannaeyjar is the best place?’

  Before I can reply there is a loud commotion in the vicinity. ‘Hush…!’ I whisper. Puffiba falls silent and moves deeper into the burrow. I come out of the nest to investigate. A group of humans have come over from the mainland in a motorboat and they’re walking towards us.

  ‘Tourists!’ I say to myself, heaving a sigh of relief. They’re a real nuisance but they’ll do no harm. They’ll gawk at us for a while, click photographs and then leave.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I call out. ‘They’re not hunters.’ Puffiba’s never seen a hunter yet. I’ve told her they often adopt the ‘sky fishing’ technique, using nets to catch puffins in flight. Some of my sisters were caught last week and I’m sure they ended up on the menu of a nearby hotel. I’m not going to tell my little one that.

  ‘These are tourists, Puffiba. They’re here to see us.’

  ‘Whatever for, Mama?’

  ‘Because puffins love to show off,’ I tell her, laughing. ‘When humans come ashore we pose for their cameras and make our usual body language displays to entertain them. Sometimes we even pretend to fight and this evokes peals of laughter.’

  ‘Wow! That sounds like fun!’ Puffiba says effusively. ‘Can I peep out for a minute and see what’s going on outside?’

  I don’t see any harm in that. I readily agree. Puffiba comes out. A little boy lets out a delighted shriek when he sees her.

  ‘Look Mommy, a chick!’ he cries, jumping up and down in his excitement. Puffiba is elated. She likes being the centre of attention. All the children in the group are looking at her now. She walks a few unsteady steps in their direction.

  ‘Look, Mommy, the chick is dancing!’ cries a girl with golden pigtails and large blue eyes.

  All of a sudden Puffiba trips and falls flat on her face. Startled, I huddle her into the safety of the nest, putting an end to her brief adventure.

  ‘Papa will be back soon,’ I assure her, trying in vain to make her forget the unfortunate event. But Puffiba is unable to contain her disappointment. She’s inconsolable.

  ‘Let me tell you about Vestmannaeyjar, my dear,’ I try again to divert her attention. ‘This island has plenty of volcanic activity. The Eldfell volcano erupted in 1973, causing the 4000 odd humans to escape to the mainland.’

  Puffiba looks pleased. ‘Is it true that nearly 60% of the world’s puffins breed in Iceland?’ she enquires. I reply in the affirmative, adding, ‘Here we have the largest single puffin colony in the world with 1.3 million nesting pairs.’

  ‘Why do you hate human beings, Mama?’

  Gosh, how does she think of these questions? I search the recesses of my bird-brain for a suitable explanation. ‘Their activities are doing untold harm to puffins,’ I state eventually, ‘They’re polluting the rivers and seas with chemical effluents from their farms and factories. Their actions are destroying the earth’s ozone layer and causing global warming and rising sea levels.’

  ‘How does that affect us, Mama?’ Puffiba looks puzzled.

  I make an effort to find simple answers to these complex issues. ‘These factors are combining to make us sick, besides diminishing our food supplies and making our breeding grounds inhospitable,’ I explain. ‘Therefore, my child, I fear for our future.’

  ‘Are we endangered, Mama?’ Puffiba asks anxiously.

  ‘No dear,’ I reassure her. ‘Today we are not in the endangered list but we’re certainly under a grave threat. Do you know what happened to the puffin colony on Rost Island in Norway?’

  ‘No, Mama. You tell me.’

  ‘Well, thousand of chicks starved on Rost Island because the humans callously depleted the herring stock.’

  Puffiba turns purple with fright.

  I wonder whether I ought to narrate more stories like this one. In the end, I decide to continue. ‘In America, by 1900 puffins had virtually disappeared from the Gulf of Maine and only two colonies were left,’ I state solemnly. ‘And Eastern Egg Rock lost all its puffins to hunting.’

  ‘That sounds horrendous!’ Puffiba exclaims, ‘But Papa says humans are trying to restore former nesting colonies. Is that true, Mama?’

  I make an effort to explain, ‘Well, a few decades ago they came up with a program to resettle chicks from a large colony in Newfoundland to Eastern Egg Rock. They called it Project Puffin. Nearly a thousand chicks were raised on the island and later some of them came back thinking it was their original home. In 1981, after a century wide gap, a new chick was hatched on Eastern Egg Rock. Similarly puffins were coaxed into re-colonizing Seal Island in 1992.’

  ‘So there are humans who are well meaning and wise?’ Puffiba responds.

  ‘Yes, they’re not really evil creatures,’ I tell her, trying to sound convincing. ‘Most of the time it is their ignorance that makes them destroy the earth’s flora and fauna.’

  ‘Who is our worst enemy?’ Puffiba fires the next question.

  ‘Our greatest natural predator is the Great black-backed gull,’ I inform her. ‘It can catch adult puffins in mid-air.  And herring gulls frequently steal our food.’

  ‘Are we safe at sea then?’ Puffiba
asks.

  ‘Not really,’ I reply. ‘There are predators everywhere. We need to be ever watchful. Sometimes humans cause oil spills at sea. That can be a real death warrant for us.’

  Hours have gone by and there’s no sign of Puffman. I’m sick with worry. What could have happened to him?

  Puffiba looks worried too. ‘Mama, why don’t you go look for Papa?’ she suggests. ‘I can take care of myself. I promise I won’t come out of the nest.’

  ‘No, my child, I don’t want to take any chances,’ I tell her.

  Midnight is fast approaching. The sun will soon be setting. You see, in the far North, the summer sun usually sets after 11 p.m.

  My anxiety is mounting. Finally, I decide to go and make a quick survey of the coast. Perhaps Puffman is late because he’s still hunting for food. Maybe he’s reluctant to come home with an empty beak. I fervently wish he hasn’t been caught by humans.

  I fly up and down the coast looking for Puffman. And then, all of a sudden, I spot him in the distance, coming in from the sea, his beak full of fish. I’m overjoyed. I greet him enthusiastically, and we fly back to the nest together.

  A peregrine falcon is standing just outside our burrow. The massive bird is moving its beak as though it is chewing something. A cold wave of fear grips my heart.

  Puffman and I pounce on the falcon at the same time, though we know it’s a lost cause. For a brief moment the predator’s beak falls open and in the blink of an eye I see my darling chick with its neck broken and its eyes closed shut. I fall to the ground in a dead faint.

  When I open my eyes the falcon is gone. Puffman is lying on the ground looking mournful and devastated. Our colony mates are crowding around making sympathetic noises. They tell me it wasn’t my fault. They say Puffiba would have been safe had she not ventured out of the burrow to see what’s happening outside.

  I don’t utter a sound. I know my little one will never fly out to the ocean now. She will never know the thrill of diving underwater to catch fish. She will never practice the clumsy walk that makes humans laugh. It’s a heartless, soulless world – where only the cut throats survive.

  4

  The Escapist

  ‘Start! Run!’ Mbanga shouts at the top of his voice. A tall strapping lad with sparkling black eyes and ebony skin, Mbanga’s my favourite among the jockeys. In fact he’s the only person I like in the corral. The others are so cruel and hateful.

  ‘Run! Run!’

  As Mbanga utters these words, I set off as fast as I can with the two hundred pound white man poised precariously on my back. Donald it seems has travelled all the way from Seattle in the United States to my farm in Oudtshoorn in the Western Cape province of South Africa just for this joy ride. Alongside me my Brother Jo is trotting along carrying another white man. This specimen is called Erik, has platinum blond hair and hails from Finland.

  I whisper something to Brother Jo and both of us stop dead in our tracks, throwing our riders to the ground. As they get up screaming and cursing we put on the most innocent expressions we can muster. Brother Jo wears a most puzzled look, which makes me want to laugh. I struggle to maintain my composure. It wouldn’t do to give the game away!

  ‘Damned ostriches!’ Donald mutters, rising to his feet and dusting himself off.

  ‘Did they do that on purpose?’ Erik wonders, shaking the sand out of his hair.

  ‘I don’t think the stupid birds can converse,’ Donald remarks caustically.

  Brother Jo gives me a knowing wink. Mbanga throws a suspicious glance in my direction. I don’t bat an eyelid.

  The goons seem to be unhurt. With the help of Mbanga and the other jockeys they manage to scramble on to our backs again. I hate being saddled with a saddle. The reins in Johnny’s gnarled hands also irritate me a lot. But if I refuse to carry him my keepers will starve me for days and beat me with sticks. So I obey their orders and run the remaining distance with much reluctance. Brother Jo, as usual, is docile and obliging.

  When Donald alights I’m immensely relieved. It’s the last ride of the day and I’m looking forward to getting some food and rest. I see Donald pass a ten dollar bill to Mbanga. Mbanga is only fifteen and doesn’t go to school. He works on the farm all day. He’s an orphan.

  It’s been a few months now since I was taken prisoner on that fateful winter morning in June. They captured me while I was asleep. When I woke up I found myself in a large corral in a place they called Oudtshoorn. This province was once inhabited by Bushmen. The first European explorers came here in the seventeenth century but they settled only in the mid nineteenth century. They soon realized that ostrich feathers were in great demand in Europe, so they destroyed the crops and planted alfalfa to feed the ostriches.

  Today Oudtshoorn is virtually the ostrich capital of the world, with innumerable ostrich farms, and several wild as well as feral populations. People come here from all parts of the globe just to ride on our backs. What a ridiculous obsession! Humans can be really weird sometimes.

  We ostriches are large birds with powerful, long legs and long necks. We can run faster than any other bird on this planet, attaining speeds of seventy kilometres per hour and covering ten to fifteen feet in a single stride. Only the cheetah can comfortably surpass our speed. We’re unable to fly though. What a pity! No wonder they say God doesn’t give everything to everybody.

  We do have some distinctive characteristics to brag about. Do you know we lay the largest eggs? A single ostrich egg equals twenty four chicken eggs. Once upon a time there were birds whose eggs were larger than ours. The elephant bird of Madagascar and the giant moa of New Zealand are two examples. Unfortunately for them they were pushed over the brink of extinction by humans.

  We ostriches are highly adaptable and can survive in diverse environments. At the dawn of the 20th century there were an estimated 700,000 ostriches in captivity. I’ve no idea how many there are now. The IUCN has classified us in the ‘least concern’ group, as we are still rather numerous. We have an average lifespan of forty to forty five years in the wild and up to sixty years or even more in captivity.

  I’m a North African or red-necked ostrich. My breed once roamed the continent of Africa from Ethiopia in the east to Egypt in the north and Morocco, Senegal and Mauritania in the west. During the last two centuries our tribe disappeared from twelve out of the eighteen countries where we were once found in large numbers, leading some people to classify us as critically endangered. Arabian ostriches that were once numerous in Syria, Iraq and the Arabian Peninsula became extinct in 1966. In China and other parts of Asia, ostriches became extinct at the end of the last Ice Age and are known only from fossil remains and prehistoric cave paintings.

  Today there are ostrich farms in many parts of the world, but wild ostriches are seen only in Africa. Preferring open land, we inhabit the savannas and Sahel as well as the deserts of southwest Africa. There are Somali ostriches, Masai ostriches and Southern Ostriches.

  I’m nine years old, nine feet tall and weigh 130 kilograms. I’ve mostly black feathers with white primaries and white tail feathers, while my head and neck are bare. Females have brown instead of black feathers. My head and bill are small in relation to my overall size. I’ve a superior sense of hearing. My legs are bare but my tarsus is covered in red scales. I’ve just two toes on each foot just like the camel. The outer toe has no nail, whereas the nail on the larger, inner toe resembles a hoof. This adaptation is meant to facilitate running but it can also draw blood.

  My eyes are as big as saucers. No, I’m not exaggerating! I have the largest eyes among land vertebrates. I can spot predators from a considerable distance. The most dangerous of them is the cheetah because it has sharp vision and greater speed. The lions, leopards, hyenas and hunting dogs are my enemies too. Fortunately I can outrun most of them, so they frequently try to ambush me at an unguarded moment by leaping out from behind some bush or obstacle.

  Our eggs and chicks have to be protected from ea
gles, vultures, jackals, warthogs and mongooses. In our community both males and females nurture and defend the nests and the young. Sometimes we distract the attention of a predator by feigning injury. When the unsuspecting beast approaches us we attack fiercely and often manage to deliver a fatal blow. Ostriches have even succeeded in killing lions in direct confrontations. Believe me, I’m not boasting!

  What’s more, ostrich attacks have sometimes killed even humans. I know I can kill a lion or even a human with a single kick if the need arises. We ostriches perceive humans as enemies and keep away from them. When I’m threatened by an enemy my first response is to run away. If it’s no use running I lie flat against the ground.

  Do I hide my head in the sand? Of course not! I’m not an escapist - that’s a popular misconception. At the approach of danger I lie low and press my head and neck to the ground in an attempt to become invisible and appear like a mound of earth from a distance. My dull plumage blends well with the sandy soil and gives the impression that I’ve buried my head in the sand. I do stick my head in the sand occasionally but only to swallow sand and pebbles, which are essential for digestion. The pebbles help to grind the food in the gizzard.

  I’m mainly vegetarian though I sometimes eat insects, locusts and lizards. I can manage without drinking water for many days, using moisture from ingested plants to ward off the debilitating effects of dehydration.

  Until I was captured and brought to this farm I lived with a thirty eight member nomadic herd. I was the proud owner of a harem with five females and several chicks. Yes, those were the days!

  Our herd was headed by a majestic matriarch, whom we all loved and respected. We moved around with a herd of zebra in a perfectly harmonious association. At the first sight of a predator we would flee together often scattering in different directions and later rejoining when the threat had been overcome. The biggest challenge was to find enough food. But we had our freedom which as I know now is priceless.

  The females laid their eggs in a communal nest, which is a simple pit about two feet deep and ten feet wide scraped in the ground by the male. The dominant female would lay her eggs first, followed by the others. Before the eggs were covered for incubation, she would discard some of the eggs laid by the lesser females, leaving about twenty eggs in all. The male and the dominant female would take turns at incubating the eggs, the female taking her turn during the day and the male at night.

  When the eggs hatched after 35-45 days, the male would protect and defend the chicks and teach them to feed. Despite joint efforts by both sexes, less than 10% of nests would survive the incubation period, and only 15% of chicks would survive the first year.

  This is how I lived in the wild. But life changed for the worse after my capture. I can’t tell you what torture I had to endure. I still can’t get used to the humans riding on my back. The merciless morons!

  After coming to the corral I learnt so many bitter truths. I understood that our feathers are used for decorative purposes and for making feather dusters, while our skin is used as leather. I learned that our meat and eggs are eaten in many countries in Africa, that humans enjoy ostrich steaks and sausages and omelets, and that ostrich meat tastes similar to lean beef and is low in fat and cholesterol, and high in calcium, iron and protein. They also told me that Bushmen in the Kalahari use our eggshells as water containers.

  One morning we’re all resting after a sumptuous meal. It’s Sunday and the jockeys have gone to church. No rides or races today. Brother Jo turns to me. ‘Brother Zak, do you know the kiwis of New Zealand, the emus of Australia, the cassowaries of New Guinea and the rheas of South America are related to us?’

  Brother Zak is what they call me in the corral. I never had a name until the day I came here. I hate the name. It sounds so crude. And moreover it is a constant reminder of my captivity and all the agony that goes with it.

  ‘I’ve never heard of these birds,’ I mumble apologetically.

  “I’ll tell you about them,’ Brother Jo offers helpfully. Beginning with the rhea, he elaborates, ‘The greater rheas, found in Argentina and Brazil are the largest birds in South America. They form mixed groups with deer and guanacos. People eat rhea eggs and meat and the rheas in turn eat the farmers’ crops. So you see, there’s no love lost between them.’

  ‘Interesting! And what about the emu?’ I ask.

  Brother Jo continues, ‘The emus are second only to ostriches in size, being about six and a half feet tall. Like us, they ingest stones to grind food in their crop. They can even swim. Their legs are strong enough to rip metal wire fences and they have three toes. The Tasmanian emu and the King Island emu became extinct soon after the arrival of Europeans in the 18th century.’

  ‘Who are their enemies?’

  ‘Well, mainly the dingoes. They’re dog like creatures, you know,’ Brother Jo explains. ‘The emu has a peculiar jumping technique to defend itself against the dingo that usually lunges for its neck. It leaps into the air and claws the dingo’s face on its way down.’

  ‘And the cassowary?’

  ‘The cassowary is found in the deep forests of New Guinea and northeastern Australia and is smaller than the emu. It’s a shy bird but it’s known to deliver fatal blows to dogs and people if they happen to approach. It has three toes with sharp claws. It’s a good swimmer, a fast runner and a bad enemy.’

  Overcome by a sudden wave of drowsiness, I close my eyes.

  Brother Jo continues unperturbed, ‘The kiwis are chicken-sized, shy, nocturnal, flightless birds endemic to New Zealand, and some sub species are critically endangered.’

  He goes on and on and on in a dull monotone. I fall asleep and dream that my herd has come to fetch me. They attack and kill all the humans in the corral and rescue me. I wake up with a jolt and find that that the sun is up in the sky and I’m still a captive.

  Brother Jo walks over to me and says ‘Good morning.’

  I reply in Afrikaans. ‘Goeie môre.’

  Brother wears an astonished look. ‘You’re a quick learner,’ he remarks.

  ‘Dankie,’ I reply, smiling.

  ‘Do you know that ostriches have inspired human civilizations in Egypt and Mesopotamia for over five millennia?’ Brother quizzes.

  I shake my head.

  ‘A statue of Queen Arsinoë II riding an ostrich was discovered in an ancient Egyptian tomb,’ he announces.

  ‘Who was she? I’ve never heard of her.’

  ‘A pharaoh of Egypt in the 3rd century B.C., Arsinoë fought battles and even won three Olympic events.’

  ‘That’s amazing! Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely! She was the daughter of Ptolemy I, ruler of Egypt and founder of the Ptolemaic dynasty to which the celebrated Cleopatra VII belonged. Arsinoë was married to Lysimachus of Thrace who had been one of Alexander’s bodyguards during his campaign to India.’

  As my eyes widen in surprise, Brother elaborates, ‘After her husband’s death in 281 B.C., Arsinoë II married her half-brother and ruled Egypt. Later she came to be revered as a goddess. Today her image is seen on ancient coins both individually and with her half-brother.’

  ‘And what about the legendary Cleopatra?’ I enquire. ‘I thought she was the only queen of Egypt.’

  ‘No! No! Brother Zak! Ancient Egypt had a long train of women rulers. Haven’t you heard of Hatshepsut, the powerful queen who ruled about 4000 years ago and whose dilapidated temple still stands near Luxor on the Nile?

  ‘And Cleopatra? What about her?’

  ‘Cleopatra VII was the last queen of Egypt. The Ptolemaic dynasty ended with her suicide in 30 B.C. Before her, six other queens by the same name had ruled Egypt, but little is known of them.’

  Mbanga comes along and we fall silent. He gestures to us to move towards the race track. I was mistaken. It’s not Sunday after all!

  ‘Do you know that humans ride horses just like they ride ostriches?’ Brother Jo enquires as Mbanga prepares us to begin our wor
kday.

  ‘Really? Who told you?’

  ‘I heard Erik, the white head, talking to Mbanga,’ Brother says in a coarse whisper. ‘He said horses are easier to ride than ostriches since they’re more people-friendly.’

  ‘I wish there were more horses in South Africa,’ I mutter under my breath. ‘Then perhaps these scoundrels would leave us alone or set us free.’

  Brother Jo looks sceptical. ‘I don’t think they’ll let us go that easily,’ he states thoughtfully, ‘We are a major tourist attraction. Tourism means money. And Oudtshoorn is probably the only place in the world where humans can actually take part in ostrich racing.’

  Another ostrich speaks up now. ‘Donald says there’s an Ostrich Farm in Jacksonville in Florida that was set up in 1892. The place was once famous for its ostrich races and ostriches were even used for drawing carts.’

  Brother Jo adds, ‘I hear that Chandler in Arizona hosts an annual Ostrich Festival featuring ostrich races.’

  ‘Shall we go there and participate in the race?’ I suggest excitedly. ‘I’m sure we’ll both emerge winners. We’re faster than most ostriches around here.’

  ‘What if the ostriches bred in captivity in America are bigger and stronger than us?’ Brother counters.

  I give him a scornful look. ‘I doubt it very much. We have the blood of Africa and that’s enough. Haven’t you seen those puny Ethiopians winning major athletic events in the Olympics?’

  ‘But Usain Bolt is Jamaican!’ squeals a female ostrich who’d been silent all this while.

  I turn towards her. ‘Bolt undoubtedly has African blood,’ I reply firmly. ‘That makes all the difference.’

  We have a long hard day. Too many tourists. Far too many rides. My back aches miserably. As Brother Jo and I lie down to rest for the night, I whisper to him, ‘Tomorrow I’m going to escape.’

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ Brother is aghast. Perhaps he was born in captivity and that makes him a bit of a coward. But I was born free and every day spent in captivity is humiliating as hell.

  ‘I hate this place! And I’m not going to spend the rest of my life running along a racetrack with silly ogres on my back,’ I state insolently.

  ‘Please don’t harm Mbanga,’ Brother Jo’s voice is subdued.

  I nod my head. ‘I won’t. But you must do something for me. Tomorrow when it’s time for me to execute my plan, you must divert the attention of the jockeys by pretending to fall down and get hurt. Do it only when I give you a clear signal. As soon as you’ve fallen, I’ll quickly unsettle the rider from my back and make my escape.’

  Brother Jo looks frightened. I continue, looking him straight in the eye. ‘Mbanga is the only one who has a gun. If he draws, you must immediately kick him, otherwise I’m dead.’

  Brother Jo looks horrified now. His eyes turn into veritable saucers.

  I coax and cajole. ‘Come on! Can’t you do this much for me? I’m determined to go – even if it means being shot dead in cold blood. The life of a slave is not for me.’

  Fear and sadness cloud Brother’s countenance. He doesn’t want me to die, but he’s mortally afraid of Mbanga and the others. All through the night in the corral I try to persuade him.

  The next morning, as we get ready for the first race, I’m delighted to see that our riders are going to be children. Not only are they lighter, but much easier to shake off. What a piece of luck!

  Brother Jo comes close to me. ‘Please don’t go,’ his eyes seem to beseech me. But my glance is firm, my neck upright and determined.

  Brother Jo and I aren’t the only ones racing today, I quickly learn to my dismay. There are going to be seven other ostriches in the race. Thankfully, the riders are all children below the age of ten.

  I do some quick thinking. This is going to be a slow running race. There are three jockeys, including Mbanga. Only Mbanga has a gun. He rather likes me, but he’s afraid of his masters too. What will he do if he sees me trying to escape? He certainly can’t capture me, so he might shoot. Will he have mercy on me and let me go? I doubt it.

  The race begins. My heart is in my mouth as I trot at a medium pace alongside the other ostriches. The child riders squeal in delight. The jockeys run behind, struggling to keep up with us.

  And then I give the mutually agreed signal, which is merely a sideways glance, followed by an abrupt slowdown. Brother Jo takes the cue and falls to the ground along with his rider, a green eyed little girl with adorable eyes. Pretending to be wounded, he puts on a great show of writhing in agony. The jockeys surround him. The other ostriches stop and stare. The children look bewildered.

  In the midst of the commotion, I suddenly shake off my rider and bolt. The jockeys are too preoccupied to notice my absence. I leave the race track and take off in the direction of the vast open savannah, mustering up a spectacular speed of 75 kilometres per hour. Now and then I use my wings as a rudder to change direction while running.

  If the humans give chase in their monstrous vehicles, I’m doomed. Or if they send their murderous hunting dogs in hot pursuit…..God forbid!

  But today, Destiny is on my side. Nothing of the sort happens.

  The saddle soon falls off my back, and is gone with the wind. I keep running. Hours later I stop abruptly when I reach a river bank. I throw a fearful glance in the direction I’ve come. Not a soul anywhere in sight. What a relief!

  The sun has set and in the purple haze of the twilight I see a herd of antelopes drink from the sweet waters of the Zambesi. I lower my head to the water’s edge and take a deep draught. I’m hot and dusty and I step into the water to take a bath, looking out for crocodiles all the while. I see a baby antelope dragged under water in a fraction of a second. Instinctively I leap out of the water as it momentarily turns red.

  I’m tired but I cannot sleep until I’m reunited with my family once again. I follow the herd of antelopes into the endless expanse of the bush. The next few days are going to be crucial. But for now, I’m free and that’s all that matters.

  5

  Scavenger in Distress

  ‘Mama, why are we so ugly?’ my little chick asks me, as we sit on a tall tree on the outskirts of Kathmandu.

  We’re in Nepal on a sight-seeing trip, having flown across from Sikkim in India. Nestling in the crown of the Himalayas, Nepal is sandwiched between China and India and has eight of the ten highest mountains in the world. We’d had a glimpse of Mount Everest and the Chitwan National Park before landing in the capital city to have a look at the casinos and gawk at the international tourists.

  ‘Who says we’re ugly?’ I ask, amused.

  ‘Everybody does! Tell me Mama, is there a single bird on this earth uglier than a vulture?’

  Seeing Chikki’s agonized look, I smile broadly. ‘I think the Great Indian hornbill is ugly too,’ I venture. ‘And so is the python, the gharial, the lizard and the crow. It’s merely a matter of perception.’

  My cute little Chikki remains unconvinced. She continues to bemoan her fate. ‘Just look at me, Mama! In the prime of my youth I have a bald head. My feathers are so colourless. How I wish I looked like the peacock, the parrot or even the plain mynah!’

  I don’t know how to console my little one. Was it a mistake to take her to Chitwan? Chikki now has a fair idea of the wealth of flora and fauna that the earth possesses.

  In Chitwan we’d spotted Bengal tigers, Indian rhinos, elephants, gaur, sambhar, chital, hanuman langurs, rhesus monkeys, mugger crocodiles, starred tortoises, sloth bears, striped hyenas and golden jackals. Rare birds such as the Bengal florican, the Oriental darter, and the spotted eagle had taken our breaths away. Chikki had been captivated by the paradise flycatcher which had presented a spectacular display in flight with its long undulating train.

  Now Chikki has begun to compare herself with other birds and animals. And she’s acutely conscious of her defects. As she presents a pathetic picture of dejection and despair, I wrack my bird brain thinking of
something positive to say about vultures.

  ‘We may not be exceptionally good looking,’ I concede. ‘But we’re neat and clean birds. We take frequent baths…’

  Chikki interrupts rudely. ‘It’s not just our appearance, Mama. Our food is disgusting too. Why do we have to feed on the carcasses of dead animals? And that too the leftovers that tigers and leopards leave behind! Why can’t we hunt for our own prey? After all, we have sharp beaks….’

  I interrupt ever so politely. I’m always careful about my manners. Humans say that good manners can add to our face value.

  ‘Well, my dear, that’s because we’re born scavengers,’ I state patiently. ‘We perform a spectacular clean–up operation, stripping the dead bodies of animals to the bone, thus eliminating the need for a costly disposal. We’re the most eco-friendly creatures on this planet. It’s a pity humans still haven’t realized this.’

  ‘Are vultures found everywhere, Mama?’ Chikki enquires.

  ‘We’re found on every continent except Antarctica and Australia,’ I explain. ‘We’re classified into two categories – New World and Old World vultures. The two groups evolved separately and came closer and closer as time passed – a phenomenon known as convergent evolution. Now the similarities are so striking that people can barely distinguish between the two groups.’

  ‘Wow! That’s a revelation!’ Chikki enthuses.

  I continue, ‘Seven species of New World vultures are found in the Americas - the Andean and California condors, the Black vulture, the Turkey vulture, the Greater and Lesser Yellow-headed vultures, and the King vulture. Many of them have a well developed sense of smell, and can detect the odour of death from nearly a mile away. The Old World vultures, on the other hand, rely exclusively on their sharp vision.’

  ‘Mama, where are Old world vultures found?’ Chikki asks politely. She’s learning to be courteous, thank heavens!

  ‘Old World Vultures occur in Europe, Africa and Asia,’ I inform her. ‘We belong to a bird family that includes eagles, hawks, kites and buzzards. There are sixteen species, nine of which are found in India and two in Pakistan.

  ‘Are any of them endangered, Mama?’

  ‘Four species of vulture in Asia have been classified by the IUCN as critically endangered,’ I explain. ‘And foremost among them is our own species - the Oriental white-backed vulture or white-rumped vulture. The Long-billed vulture or Indian vulture, the Slender-billed vulture, and the Red-headed or King vulture are the others in the Red List.’

  I stop for breath and continue my narrative, ‘The Egyptian vulture is also endangered, having undergone rapid population decimation in India. Bearded vultures, hooded vultures, Griffon vultures, Himayalan vultures, and Cape vultures are, perhaps, safer at the moment.’

  ‘Hey! Lll…oookk at that bbb...ird! What’s wrr..ong with it?’ Chikki stutters, her voice distraught.

  On the ground below sits a sickly looking vulture with its head bowed. It has white patches all over its body, giving it a strange appearance. We fly down to take a closer look.

  ‘I think he’s dying,’ I whisper.

  ‘Oh! Poor thing!’ Chikki says softly. ‘Look at the white residue on his wings! He can’t fly!’

  ‘Let’s ask him what’s wrong. May be we can help in some way,’ I suggest.

  Moving closer to the feeble creature, I ask in a tone full of compassion, ‘Tell me, my friend, what ails you?’

  He raises his bowed head and looks at Chikki. His eyes betray an indescribable sadness. His voice is a barely audible croak.

  ‘I made the mistake of feasting on the carcass of a cow in Kathmandu,’ he says, his tone full of remorse. ‘In Nepal people don’t eat cows because they’re considered sacred. So the carcasses are freely available for us to eat.’

  ‘Yeah, we know that,’ I tell him. ‘In India too most people don’t eat cows.’

  ‘To which tribe do you belong?’ the sick bird enquires.

  ‘We’re Oriental white-backed vultures,’ Chikki announces proudly. Then she adds as an afterthought. ‘Once we were the most numerous raptors on earth, numbering eighty million or more, but now we’re barely a few thousands. Gyps bengalensis is what the scientists call us.’

  ‘I’m a Himalayan vulture, Gyps himalayensis,’ our new found friend tells us. ‘My home is high up in the mountains where the carcasses are not contaminated, but I came down to Kathmandu for a brief holiday, and see what’s happened to me! Soon after I’d eaten the foul carcass I fell ill, and day by day I grew worse. Now my kidneys have failed, so I know my days are numbered. All my friends who’d shared the same carcass are dead already.’

  Chikki shudders uncontrollably. ‘What do you think went wrong?’ she asks, anxiously.

  The sick bird narrates a shocking story. ‘It’s due to the presence of a chemical called Diclofenac in the dead animal’s body. It’s an anti-inflammatory drug used for treating sickness in livestock.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Chikki’s tone is sharp and shrill. I can see she’s on the verge of panic.

  ‘A team of scientists examined me and that’s what they said,’ Himalayensis explains. ‘Humans started administering this drug in the early 1990s. It look a few years for them to notice that it was causing a genocide of sorts, as vultures developed visceral gout and succumbed en masse.’

  As Chikki and I listen in cold silence, I suddenly recollect something my mother had told me when I was a chick. Humans had noticed for the first time in 1998 that the number of vultures in the Keoladeo National Park in Rajasthan had declined substantially. The following year similar observations were made in Pakistan and Nepal. In 2003 nationwide surveys conducted across India indicated a 90% deficit in vulture populations since the early 1990s, despite evidence that their food supply and habitat remained intact. Meanwhile, the Keoladeo population had become extinct. Scientists were baffled. They started making frantic efforts to unveil the mystery of the vanishing vultures.

  I share this piece of information with Himalayensis. He nods his head weakly.

  ‘You’re right,’ he says after a pause. ‘Researchers soon unveiled the real cause of the disaster. They discovered that Diclofenac residues in animal carcasses found their way into the bodies of vultures and resulted in total system breakdown, beginning with the buildup of uric acid in the body, which soon crystallizes and coats all the internal organs, leading to inevitable death.’

  ‘What happened after they discovered that Diclofenac was doing such damage? Chikki asks, sounding alarmed.

  Himalayensis takes pains to enlighten us. His breath comes in short, sharp bursts. ‘By the time the humans shook themselves out of their stupor, a decade had passed and 99.7% of white-backed vultures had been wiped out.’

  Gosh! I’d no idea of the magnitude of the tragedy! I make up my mind to be more careful in future. And to take better care of Chikki too. I usually don’t control her eating habits because I know our stomach acids can digest the strongest of toxins, but now…

  Himalayensis continues, ‘We Himalayan vultures are relatively safe because we invariably stay in the mountains. I should have known better…’

  He utters a heart-rending moan. I’m unable to find words to console him.

  ‘Do you think the humans did it deliberately?’ Chikki speculates. ‘After all they often recoil when they see us. And it’s these heartless humans who control the earth and its resources. They can do anything.’

  Himalayensis smiles when he hears this naïve statement. I laugh in merriment and the tension eases.

  ‘No, it happened quite unexpectedly,’ our new found friend asserts. ‘In fact, the scientists sounded quite remorseful. And they were discussing ways and means of protecting vultures, breeding them in captivity and releasing them in the wild.’

  ‘That’s because they need us to dispose of the bodies of dead animals!’ Chikki remarks sarcastically. ‘Who else will do it for them?’

  Himalayensis speaks up, ‘
You aren’t completely wrong, Chikki. There are different facets to any issue. Anyway, a substitute for Diclofenac was quickly developed and tested on Asian and African vultures to make sure it was harmless. The new drug, called Meloxicam, hit the market in 2006, and simultaneously India, Pakistan and Nepal banned the use of Diclofenac.’

  I breathe a sigh of relief.

  ‘How many vultures are left now?’ Chikki enquires. ‘Does anyone have the figures?’

  Our sick friend replies, ‘Of course! The humans have all the statistics. In India in 2007 white-backed, long-billed and slender-billed vultures numbered around 11,000, 45,000 and 1000 respectively.’

  I take a deep breath and begin, ‘Now that vultures have started disappearing, people in the cow belt in Central and Northern India are encountering unprecedented and unmanageable problems,’ I state solemnly. ‘With no one to do the cleaning up, rotting carcasses are littering the fields, contaminating the drinking water and spreading communicable diseases. We vultures had provided a cost-free waste disposal system that humans failed to appreciate until our deaths. Now cattle owners have to pay to have the carcasses burnt or buried.’

  Our sick friend feebly nods his head in agreement.

  ‘There are lots of animals in India, aren’t there?’ Chikki asks.

  ‘India has an estimated five hundred million head of cattle, of which hardly 4% are likely to be consumed by humans,’ I elucidate. ‘Therefore the presence of vultures is of crucial importance to the environment.’

  ‘You mean without us there will be a great environmental disaster?’ Chikki asks, sounding baffled.

  I nod my bald head, agreeing wholeheartedly.

  Himalayensis speaks up, ‘Now rats and stray dogs have multiplied around carcass dumps and consequently rabies and other maladies have become a major threat to humans. We vultures had hitherto restricted the spread of rabies, anthrax, botulism, cholera and plague because our digestive system is designed to destroy the viruses and bacteria that are harmful to humans. Dogs and rats on the other hand are carriers of the pathogens.’

  ‘Absolutely true!’ I interject. ‘India records an annual tally of 30,000 deaths from rabies - more than half of the deaths occurring worldwide. And 70% of the victims are children. The cost of treatment and containment of animal bites and rabies is said to be costing India billions of dollars.’

  Himalayensis is listening patiently. Chikki is restless. She keeps tapping her right foot against a rock, pretending to clean it. ‘India had eighteen million stray dogs at last count,’ she adds indifferently. ‘Don’t ask me how many rats are there. I don’t know.’

  I notice she’s no longer polite. I ignore her and continue to speak. ‘The Parsis in India had to abandon their traditional sky burials, where vultures were required to consume the bodies and release the souls of the dead from bondage,’ I announce rather pompously. ‘Today a corpse placed at the Tower of Silence takes six months to disintegrate.’

  ‘Look Mama!’ Chikki shrieks. ‘Another sick vulture!’

  I turn to look. Slowly ambling towards us with a painful gait is a female vulture. She stops close to us and asks, ‘How is it that the two of you are healthy? Looks like you don’t belong here.’

  ‘We’re from India,’ Chikki says, introducing us formally. ‘I’m Chikki and this is Mama.’

  ‘Hello Chikki! Hello Mama!’ the newcomer says, smiling broadly. I’m surprised she’s so cheerful despite her obviously failing health.

  ‘Vultures in India aren’t safe either,’ I inform her. ‘Though the deadly Diclofenac has been banned, it surfaces here and there in illegal forms, and poor unsuspecting birds quickly fall victim to the scourge. In Pakistan the two extant species are on the brink of extinction.’

  Turning to the sick male, I enquire, ‘Are you hungry? Can I get you some food?’

  We vultures don’t carry food to our chicks by holding meat in our claws. We swallow it and later disgorge it from our crop. Sounds disgusting? Not at all! That’s just Nature’s way.

  At that precise moment, a weak groan emanates from the male bird and he falls dead. The female looks stricken and I realize with a jolt that she must be his partner. I try my best to console her, while Chikki looks awfully distressed.

  A few minutes later the sick female topples over, trembles briefly and then lies motionless on the ground. She’s still alive, perhaps unconscious, but I know it’s only a matter of hours.

  I turn to Chikki. ‘Let’s go back home,’ I say softly.

  ‘I’m hungry, Mama,’ Chikki whines.

  I look around for something to eat. I lose no time in finding the carcass of a cow, but now we’re afraid to eat.

  Chikki looks at me questioningly. I nod my assent. Together, we hungrily devour the putrid flesh. When we’re truly satiated we perch ourselves on a treetop. When food is abundant, we vultures typically stuff ourselves until our crop bulges. Then we sit down to digest the food, growing torpid and groggy in the process.

  As sleep threatens to overcome me, Chikki asks a question. ‘What about the vultures in Africa? Are they safe?’

  ‘They’re facing multiple threats,’ I reply bluntly. I see no point in camouflaging the truth.

  ‘In South Africa vultures often eat poisoned carcasses meant for jackals,’ I continue. ‘Sometimes they’re killed by collision with power lines. Sometimes they’re captured for use in traditional African medicine due to the widely held belief that the use of vulture body parts grants clairvoyance and brings good fortune.’

  ‘How ridiculous!’ Chikki observes. ‘How can people be so stupid?’

  ‘That’s not all,’ I continue, ‘In East Africa, vultures have died in large numbers due to misuse of chemicals by humans. In West Africa, their populations have been rapidly declining due to loss of habitat.’

  ‘Do vultures have enough food in Africa?’ Chikki asks anxiously.

  ‘Occasionally, they die of starvation,’ I reply, causing Chikki to open her beak in terror.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘The Dark Continent is known for the abundance of animals, but humans eat most of them,’ I explain. ‘When a vulture has to compete with humans to obtain a carcass, he doesn’t stand a chance. Where drought is common and food is scarce, what can one expect?’

  Seeing Chikki’s stricken look I make an effort to highlight the positive side. ‘There’s a Vulture Restaurant in South Africa where vultures are fed during times of food scarcity,’ I inform her. ‘It’s a sort of Wildlife Rehabilitation Centre.’

  ‘Are the New World vultures better off, Mama?’ Chikki enquires hopefully.

  I ponder for a while before replying, ‘Some are relatively safe, while others are endangered. In the last few decades, the California condor came dangerously close to extinction.

  ‘What happened to it?’

  ‘With a wingspan of nearly 10 feet, the California Condor is North America’s largest flying land bird,’ I begin. ‘It was formerly widespread in the mountains along the west coast, but by the 1980s, it had disappeared from all locations except California. In 1987, the last wild California condor was captured. It joined the 26 remaining birds in captivity to become part of a captive breeding program. In the early nineties, several captive birds were released in California and Arizona. Today the overall wild population is about 240 birds, while another 200 remain in captivity.’

  ‘Wow! That’s a nice success story!’ Chikki exclaims. ‘Do you think there’s hope for us too?’

  ‘There’s light at the end of the tunnel,’ I announce gleefully. ‘Now India and Nepal have Vulture Conservation Breeding Centres.’

  ‘So humans are trying hard to save us?’ Chikki enquires, sounding hopeful.

  ‘Yes. They’re observing September 1st as International Vulture Awareness Day to remind people of our importance as a crucial link in the global food chain,’ I say in a feeble voice. My throat hurts and I’m feeling quite listless and lethargic. I wonder wh
y. Has Diclofenac entered my bloodstream?

  ‘So they don’t think we’re vicious birds, Mama?’

  ‘We are not vicious birds!’ I protest. ‘We do fight but we don’t kill each other like humans do. We eat meat but we don’t kill other creatures, though on rare occasions we may attack mortally wounded animals which are bound to die anyway. We’re not killers but cleaners. In fact we’re scavengers par excellence.’

  ‘But today we’re in dire straits, aren’t we?’

  I nod wearily. ‘We’re scavengers in deep distress…’

  ‘Will we become extinct too?’ Chikki’s voice is a croaking whisper. My blood runs cold. What’s happened to her?

  ‘If we descend into oblivion, then humans will soon follow. I’m sure of that,’ I utter a dark prophesy as my head lolls on my chest.

  I hear Chikki snoring gently. She’s never done that before. I wonder if she’s sick.

  I groan weakly and close my eyes.

  6

  The Linguist’s Loss

  My feet curl around the grey iron bars, and I shudder, wishing for the hundredth time that I could escape this prison. It’s supposed to be a special home, not a prison. The human family I live with calls it a cage. Living here isn’t all that bad really, but after you’ve had a taste of the wild, being caged up is hard to bear.

  I was born into a family of African Grey Parrots in a forest in Southern Mali in West Africa. It was wild and exciting, a lush green paradise, full of wonders and surprises. Let me tell us how I ended up in this uninspiring place.

  One evening, as I flew down to the forest floor to pick up something that had dropped from my beak, I was suddenly trapped in a net. As I struggled hard to escape, a dark, tailless creature came walking along on two legs and bundled me into a cold, hard wooden enclosure. Terrified, I fell down in a faint.

  When I opened my eyes I found myself in a cage. I didn’t know what it was called then. It was the first time I was seeing such a peculiar contraption. Many hairless two legged creatures were milling around. They called themselves humans. From them I learnt many words. Like ‘ship’, ‘travel’, ‘sell’, ‘bonjour’, ‘merci’, ‘dirhams’, ‘Dubai’, ‘Arab’ and ‘inshaallah’.

  This was the beginning of a saga of indescribable sorrows. Honestly, I don’t know how to describe the sequence of events that occurred in quick succession after I was caught. I was frequently moved from place to place in monstrous moving vehicles they called jeeps, carts and boats. But all the time I remained in the cage. It tried telling the humans I could easily fly to any destination, but they didn’t seem to understand me.

  Finally, after many a sojourn across land and sea, I found myself in a market, a crowded and filthy place where people came and bought a variety of birds and animals. Imagine my surprise when I spied some of my cousins from the forest! Each of them was in a separate cage, exactly like the one I was in.

  ‘Do you guys know what’s in store for us?’ I asked them anxiously.

  They shook their heads sadly. ‘They’ll take you away from here, and you’ll never be seen again,’ they said darkly. That was all I could get out of them.

  I stayed in the cage for several weeks until one evening an Indian family came by. Their son, a boy with dark curly hair and a deceivingly innocent face, pointed at me and said he wanted me. His parents were unsure. They said something about me making a racket. While I glared at them indignantly, the boy threw a tantrum. He wailed and screamed and kicked, making more of a racket than I’d ever made in my life.

  The boy’s sister was standing by. She rolled her eyeliner coated eyes coquettishly and pointed to an evil looking black cat. She said in a snooty voice that it was what she wanted. Finally, their parents gave in to both of them. That was how I came to my new home.

  During my days in the market, I’d picked up English, French and Arabic. Now it was time to learn Malayalam and Hindi. I loved learning new words. ‘Ishq’, mohabbat’, and ‘pranayam’ were some of my favourites.

  The girl named the cat Sweetie, a name I found totally inappropriate. By nature, parrots and cats don’t get along, but Sweetie was worse than my worst nightmares. She was always pouncing onto my cage with her razor sharp claws, leaving me to cower in a corner. Eventually, the humans would pry her away from my cage. I would the shower her with some of the choicest abuses in Malayalam and Hindi, but she wouldn’t understand a word, the stupid bird-brained feline!

  I soon learnt that the girl’s name was Rosy and her brother was Sunny. The parents were Bobby and Susanna. They were a small happy family, though the children sometimes had their play-fights. And Susanna did once have a brief affair with the neighbour’s adolescent son…..Oops! Did I say too much?

  It has been five years since I was brought here. I’ve watched everyone in my new home grow. Sunny is no longer a child, but rather, he’s on the threshold of manhood. And Rosy, now a fully grown woman, no longer lives with us. She visits often though, and every time she leaves I’d fondly hope she’d take Sweetie with her, but she never does.

  Before Rosy left home she built up my vocabulary of ‘bad language’, much to the horror of her parents. I often use her favourite words when she comes by, bringing a mischievous smile to her face. Bobby and Susanna have grown too. Their hair is now streaked with silver and their bodies have accumulated fat in unseemly places, but they still look at their children with the same loving gaze. One thing I’ve learnt after my capture is that human bonds are very strong. They love one another like parrots never do.

  I sit in my cage now, looking around the tiny room that has been my home for five long years. Sweetie walks in, and by force of habit, I recoil. I remove myself to the far end of the cage.

  ‘Oh relax!’ she says, rolling her yellow eyes nonchalantly. How very uncharacteristic of her!

  I look at her again, surprised she’s not in attack mode today.

  ‘What do you want?’ I ask guardedly.

  Sweetie makes no move to hurt me. She sits down on the table beside my cage and looks pointedly at me. Somehow, her eyes are different. They don’t seem to have the same spark in them as before.

  ‘I’m going to die soon,’ she says bluntly. No beating about the bush, no sugar coating.

  My curiosity gets the better of me. ‘How do you know?’ I ask.

  ‘I can feel it in my bones,’ she says.

  And then, for the first time since our first encounter, I feel sorry for Sweetie.

  ‘You can’t know for sure,’ I protest, trying to console her.

  ‘It’s okay. I don’t mind dying,’ Sweetie announces, her voice emotionless. ‘Cats have a very short lifespan, just twelve to fifteen years. I hear African Greys live fifty to seventy five years. You’re lucky in many ways, do you know that?’

  ‘What luck?’ I ask caustically. ‘What’s the point in living for half a century in a cage? In any case I don’t know my age. I can’t count. Don’t be fooled when you hear me say ‘One…two...three…four…five...’ I’m just repeating what I’ve heard, not actually counting.’

  Sweetie looks weary. She mumbles something in a sad tone. ‘I was born in Dubai. I’ve never been anywhere else in my life before.’

  I pause for a moment, wondering what to say. Suddenly, I have an inexplicable urge to share some of my innermost thoughts.

  ‘See my dull grey feathers. I guess I don’t really look like a parrot,’ I moan, my voice full of self-pity.

  ‘I guess most parrots are really colourful,’ Sweetie agrees.

  ‘I’ve always envied my cousins who had colorful feathers and beaks,’ I confide. ‘My mother once tried to make me feel better by saying that they all envied my communication skills. They’re good mimicry artistes, but they’re no match for me. I’m one of the most intelligent birds. …’

  ‘You have fancy ideas about yourself, don’t you?’ Sweetie says, showing some of her old spunk. But I’m not the least bit offended now. I’m happy to see Sweetie rev
erting to her old aggressive self.

  ‘I can stop if you want,’ I say, cocking my head one side, as I often do. I know she’s enjoying the conversation and she’s not going to let me stop now.

  Sweetie tries to sound indifferent. ‘Continue if you want to,’ she concedes, half-heartedly.

  I suppress a smile and say softly, ‘You may think I’m bragging, but right now I can justifiably call myself a linguist. I’m fluent in Arabic, French, Hindi, Urdu, Bengali, Tamil, Malayalam and English.’

  ‘Phew!’ Sweetie snorts, brimming over with jealousy. She knows all she can say is, ‘Meow, meow, meow!’

  I continue my bragging bout. ‘I can also whistle, click, shriek, scream, and mimic the sound of the telephone, the alarm clock, running water, the mixer, the computer and any other machine, animal or object. And what’s more, I can speak in different voices, both male and female.’ To give a demo, I mew like a cat.

  Sweetie smiles indulgently. ‘So you’re the one who keeps crying like baby?’ she asks. Susanna had another little baby last year. Bobby called it an ‘unplanned pregnancy’. I never understood what that meant.

  I often mimic the baby’s characteristic high pitched wail when Susanna has her noon siesta. And sometimes I even admonish her in the master’s voice.

  ‘Yes, of course it’s me!’

  I’m not done blowing my own trumpet. I go on, ‘The other day, when my cage was placed in the corridor of the apartment complex for cleaning, I saw a young girl pass by and I whistled. When she turned back to look for any possible intruder, I said “Hello, how are you?” in a deep male voice. My, wasn’t she startled!’

  Sweetie is really amused, her pain forgotten.

  ‘Tell me about your original home in the forest,’ she requests.

  Consumed by rising waves of nostalgia, I begin to speak, ‘I used to live in a rain forest in Mali until a hunter trapped me and brought me here. It was a beautiful place, teeming with plant and animal life. I would soar through the sky, weaving in and out of trees, imitating the sounds of other birds and animals. Sometimes I would roar like the lion, and it was hilarious to see the other creatures running for their lives.’

  I smile at that nebulous memory. It seems so long ago, so distant, like another life.

  Sweetie’s smiling too. She seems to have forgotten her woes for the moment. I wonder if she can visualize the scene.

  Delving further into the past, I come up with a vivid description of the jungle scenario. ‘I used to feed on nuts, seeds, fruits, and leafy matter in the wild - not the parrot food they give me here. You may think I’m a noisy bird, but in the wild, they’re much louder.’

  Sweetie nods understandingly. Does she really understand?

  I go on, ‘There are two subspecies of African Greys - the Congo African Grey parrot, which is found in the Congo, Cote d’Ivoire, Angola, Kenya and Tanzania, and the Timneh African Grey which is found in Sierra Leone, Guinea-Bissau, and Southern Mali. Both have been categorized by humans as near threatened.’

  ‘To which breed do you belong?’ Sweetie asks politely.

  ‘The Timnehs are the friendlier breed,’ I inform her. ‘That’s the group to which I belong.’

  Sweetie seems to agree with me. She looks tired, though. I hesitate, wondering if I should stop. But Sweetie nods her head, urging me to go on.

  I pick up where I’d left off. ‘We parrots nest in the natural hollows of old trees. Whenever the rainforests decline, so does our population. Conservationists have opined that about 21% of African Greys are taken from the wild annually and sold as pets. When we’re trapped in a cage we don’t lay eggs, so we’re doomed to extinction unless humans stop hunting us.’

  ‘That’s sad,’ Sweetie empathizes. ‘But come to think of it I’ve never seen you lay an egg!’

  I emit a loud cackle. ‘I’m a male, silly! I can’t lay eggs!’

  Sweetie looks sheepish.

  ‘I wish I could be a cat in my next life,’ I say wistfully, trying to help her overcome her embarrassment. ‘Cats have no concerns about survival. Humans take good care of them.’

  ‘They take good care of you too!’ Sweetie argues. “Here you don’t need to hunt for food and you never go hungry.

  ‘Hey! Don’t get me wrong,’ I quickly set the record straight. ‘I do like these folks. But I miss the company of my friends and brothers. I often wish I was back in the rain forest.’

  Sweetie nods understandingly.

  ‘Why can’t humans come to the forest and make friends with us?’ I ask no one in particular. ‘We could teach them quite a few interesting games. It’s much more exciting to live in a real jungle than in these concrete monstrosities they call houses!’

  Sweetie is gazing at me with an inscrutable expression on her face. But I haven’t finished. In fact I’ve a lot more to say.

  ‘The United States and the European Union have banned the import of birds caught in the wild,’ I tell her. ‘The Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora (CITES) has stipulated that African Grey parrots cannot be exported without a permit issued by a national authority. Yet it appears that 350,000 birds were exported between 1994 and 2003.’

  Sweetie says ever so sweetly, ‘I guess it’s because you guys show off so much.’

  ‘We can’t help being great entertainers!’ I blurt out in an effort to justify my stand. ‘African Greys were kept by the ancient Greeks and Romans. They were popular with Portuguese sailors who took them along on their voyages. King Henry VIII of England also had African Greys.’

  Sweetie intervenes hastily, ‘Well that’s nothing! The ancient Egyptians revered cats. They thought we were gods!’

  ‘Alright, alright,’ I concede quickly. Sweetie looks mollified. Her eyes wear a faraway look.

  ‘I’m going to die thinking of the rainforest you described,’ she says. I can see she’s calmly accepted the idea of impending death. The thought fills me with a profound sadness.

  Three days later, Sweetie passed away in her sleep. She was lying next to my cage and I knew when she was gone, though she made no sound. I let out a loud wail, waking up the family in the middle of the night. I was astounded when they too started weeping copious tears. Human beings were not heartless after all! I used to think they loved only themselves and their children, but now I know better.

  I still feel a deep sadness for my old enemy. It’s rather queer, I’d hated her for so long, but now that she’s no more, I’m grieving for her. I miss her presence. I miss our long conversations.

  Sweetie had died smiling though. That’s some consolation. I imagine she was dreaming of the wild, of a live she had never known.

  7

  Caw! Caw! Cacophony!!!

  ‘Come on! Come on! There’s a meeting!’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On that tall cedar overlooking the beach! Let’s go!’

  ‘What’s the agenda?’

  ‘I think they’ll be discussing ways to deal with the garbage crisis.’

  ‘There! Look! The evil man comes!’

  ‘Oh, that thin lipped, mean-eyed shortie who lives on Nasser Street! So he’s back from his trip to Canada?’

  ‘Looks like it. He spends six months every year in Canada with his son Rashid.’

  ‘Thank heavens he doesn’t live here all the time! He’s the devil incarnate. I really hate him!’

  ‘He even burns the kitchen waste to make sure we crows don’t get anything to eat!’

  ‘If all humans were like him, we crows would all starve to death! After all we survive on the foodstuff that humans discard.’

  ‘I really love that little old lady who lives opposite the evil man’s house. She never forgets to leave food for us.’

  ‘And her grandchildren throw away lots of tidbits too. They sometimes chase me, but I don’t mind. They really don’t do any harm. ‘

  ‘It’s the evil man who throws stones and sometimes uses the catapult.’
/>
  ‘Shall we attack him? What about giving him a sharp peck on the back of his head?’

  ‘No let’s not give tit for tit. We’re man’s best friends, aren’t we?’

  ‘But humans don’t realize that. They think the dog is their best friend!’

  ‘What morons they are!’

  ‘I don’t understand why humans refuse to recognize our worth!’

  ‘May be it’s because we don’t look that great!’

  ‘Men prefer their horses and dogs because these animals are more easily domesticated. Before humans manufactured cars and airplanes they used horses for land transport.’

  ‘And they used dogs for hunting, guarding sheep and goats, and protecting their homes from burglars.’

  ‘They used cats for catching rats, didn’t they?’

  ‘Oh, the cats don’t catch rats any more! Humans have spoilt them by feeding them with fish and milk.’

  ‘They are unable to tame crows, so they hate us, and often try to drive us away.’

  ‘They can’t tell us apart, but we can recognize each one of them by their faces. And what’s more, we remember individuals even years later.’