fromnothingtonothing
Flutter
I am a smart, clever crow. Now, you will say, all, or most of the crows of the world are clever. Forget the ignoble greedy one who let the fox con him and whisked away his piece of cheese. Remember the brainy one who filled the pot with stones to make the water rise in it? I am most probably her preferred descendant. I was on a busy flight one day, thinking about how I could trace my lineage when my wing hit a high tension wire. How I survived the spiraling fall was a miracle beyond me. It however left the wing permanently damaged and my left leg half broken. I recovered from my pain in some days. Though afraid to fly again, hunger made me overcome my fear. No big deal, I thought, in a huge city like this, where half the humans are forever starving and where garbage bins are forever overflowing, I am lucky to be born a crow with a keen eye and a half.
As I slowly let myself rise to the height of two floors, then five, then ten, taking off vertically like a helicopter, I felt faint. I landed on the railing of a tenth floor apartment, took a deep breath, looked out for shooers and decided to chill there a while. The leg threatened to tear apart. I balanced myself on the good leg and looked around. I saw a row of neat plants and many pretty flowers in pots. There was something about the place which I liked. I think it was the goodness of the vaastu or Feng-shui present there. Beneath one of the pots, in a clay container, was some stagnant water. I hopped clumsily and had a refreshing drink. Fortified and refreshed, I took to the skies again.
I came to the same balcony the next day. Drawn to the place would be the right term. I had my sip of water and as I was limping on the railing of the balcony I heard a child exclaim ‘see, a crow with a white wing’. Good Lord! A white wing? When did I grow a white wing? Did the accident discolour me, the ravishing black beauty? There was no way to confirm the finding so I decided it could wait. As I tried to fly, I felt a searing pain in the wing. Instinctively afraid of humans, I tried to walk fast till the edge of the balcony railing. I could feel the clumsiness of my gait when I heard the small voice say ‘look mummy, the crow is injured.’ I cocked my head a wee bit to catch a glance and saw a little girl talking to her mother.
Soon this 10th floor balcony overlooking the sea became a foster home, or transit camp, to me. A bond of trust grew between us three. The little girl and her mother became my friends (fans may be the right word). As I tried to express my feelings by waving the good wing, the mother thought Flutter would be a good name for me.
We crows have an embedded digital alarm clock in our brain which needs no repairs or oiling. Every day at noon sharp I would land at the 10th floor balcony. The little girl would be back from school a little later. I would wait, often walking to and fro on the railing by way of physiotherapy for my broken leg. As soon as I heard a distant door bell, I would know it was the little girl coming home with her mother. I would caw in a distinctive voice to announce my arrival. She would throw her things and rush to the balcony to greet me. Her mother would also come calling me by my name. Then she would go into the kitchen. I would hear her voice call me ‘Flutter, Flutter’ and I would hop to the kitchen window sill. The mother would make a ball of cooked polished white rice – I think it was Basmati – the size of a tennis ball- and keep it on the sill for me. I assure you, it is the most fulsome, fresh and healthy food a crow could ever get. Piercing the ball of rice with my beak was a moment I grew to anticipate. It had the sexy feel of bursting bubbles. So addictive did I grow to these balls of rice that even looking at dead rats, our staple diet, made me throw up. Thus nourished and loved in a healthy place, my leg and wing healed. The streak of white did not bother me because it helped to distinguish me from the run-of-the-mill scavenger crows. It was like I had been elevated in status, like a commander-in-chief.
The girl and her mother would talk to me. About the birds and the bees, about the good and the bad, about how nice it was to have a pet crow. They would click my pictures on their digicam. The profile ones with my sharp beak were the most remarkable, they commented. They sent my picture, feeding on the ball of rice to National Geographic and it won them the ‘picture of the month’ prize too. They were overjoyed. So was I.
Then one day the girl’s grandmother came from her village. She was a misfit in this environment, I could say from my first glance. When she first saw me, she tried to shoo me away. She didn’t approve of crows cawing close to the house, why she herself could not tell. It was simply her nature to oppose whatever the girl’s mother liked doing. She did not approve of the ball of rice offered to me. She did not like my looks either.
One day however, everything turned topsy-turvy. Even a smart crow like me cannot make a flowchart of the events that followed, rather of the origin of it all. I only know that one day when I was as usual, waiting for the little girl to come home, I saw the grandmother come to the balcony. Behind her was a group of people. Are they going to catch me, I wondered. I revved up my wings and waited a second for taking off. But to everyone’s amazement, and mine the most, the grandmother told the crowd that I was a divine crow. The white streak on my wing showed that I was an extraordinary being, a messenger from Lord Shiva. If I had come only to their building, when there were a million other high-rises in the city, it was with a purpose. If the people venerated me and made me appropriate offerings, I was sure to grant their wishes. So confused was I by all this fuzzy logic that I did not wish to wait for my wholesome ball of rice. I flew away.
But the next day, I was back again there at noon. To my utter surprise, there were about a dozen women there, with platefuls of elaborate offerings. Grandmother led the chorus. While I noticed that she herself did not bring me anything, she was quick to goad the others to generously give for a divine cause. As I was curious to know where this would lead, I too played to the gallery. I looked this way and that, I waved the streaked wing and the women became hysterical. Some thought I was foretelling good tidings, some became nervous. In all the offerings made to me there was none I could eat. There were flowers and there were whole coconuts. There were unpeeled fruits. There was not even a small bowl of Bisleri water to quench my thirst. Anyways gorging before these worshippers would be demeaning. There were shiny bits of cloth, there were incense sticks and there were coins and currency notes.
Then grandmother floated the theory that Tuesdays were special days for my worship. So I became a real spectacle on Tuesdays. They even built a special colourful tent on the balcony to house me! A priest was called to chant prayers to please me. The grandmother made sure that every woman contributed generously to be eligible for the privilege of seeing and worshipping me. I would stay on the balcony for exactly 7 minutes and then fly away. The grandmother told everyone that I came from Mount Kailas every noon and after blessing the devotees I flew right back to my abode. Slowly from being the messenger of Lord Shiva I became the Lord himself.
As word spread, journalists and television crew began to crowd the balcony. Flash, click, flash, click….I became the News Breaker. A ‘supernatural crow comes to a Mumbai high-rise to bless the city’ went one report. ‘a devotee won a million rupees in a lottery’ said another report. Soon I was on youtube as the sensation of the century. ‘is this an avtar of Lord Buddha?’ questioned Budhists, ‘the white streak in the wing suggests the bird is Buddha’s peace initiative for our strife-torn planet’. Scientists and skeptics formed another camp to counter these claims. ‘the alarming trend of global warming seen in a city crow’s streaked wing’. One zoologist claimed I was a new species of bird altogether.
Oops!
The attention I got made me supremely self-confident. I felt good about myself, quite superior in fact, to the rest of the avian world. I began to believe that if I could stir up such a mighty hurricane, comparable to Katrina, then I had to have something extraordinary in me, besides the smart genes of my forebears. I needed to figure out what it was.
Thus was I musing one glorious morning, carefully avoiding high tension wires. After all no one had yet come forward to insure my life. I decided to rest on the branch of an inviting neem tree, to mull in peace over the events of the last month when Wham! My leg touched a dangling live wire, that perpetual urban menace. To say that I was shocked out of my wits would be an understatement. I was roasted, grilled, fried and steamed all together. I saw myself exiting this wonderfully conniving world of the scamster and the gullible which had elevated me from nothing to - nothing.
In my delirium I thought I heard a small voice shrieking in anxiety “look mummy, Flutter is dying. Give her a ball of rice.”
I am a smart, clever crow. Now, you will say, all, or most of the crows of the world are clever. Forget the ignoble greedy one who let the fox con him and whisked away his piece of cheese. Remember the brainy one who filled the pot with stones to make the water rise in it? I am most probably her preferred descendant. I was on a busy flight one day, thinking about how I could trace my lineage when my wing hit a high tension wire. How I survived the spiraling fall was a miracle beyond me. It however left the wing permanently damaged and my left leg half broken. I recovered from my pain in some days. Though afraid to fly again, hunger made me overcome my fear. No big deal, I thought, in a huge city like this, where half the humans are forever starving and where garbage bins are forever overflowing, I am lucky to be born a crow with a keen eye and a half.
As I slowly let myself rise to the height of two floors, then five, then ten, taking off vertically like a helicopter, I felt faint. I landed on the railing of a tenth floor apartment, took a deep breath, looked out for shooers and decided to chill there a while. The leg threatened to tear apart. I balanced myself on the good leg and looked around. I saw a row of neat plants and many pretty flowers in pots. There was something about the place which I liked. I think it was the goodness of the vaastu or Feng-shui present there. Beneath one of the pots, in a clay container, was some stagnant water. I hopped clumsily and had a refreshing drink. Fortified and refreshed, I took to the skies again.
I came to the same balcony the next day. Drawn to the place would be the right term. I had my sip of water and as I was limping on the railing of the balcony I heard a child exclaim ‘see, a crow with a white wing’. Good Lord! A white wing? When did I grow a white wing? Did the accident discolour me, the ravishing black beauty? There was no way to confirm the finding so I decided it could wait. As I tried to fly, I felt a searing pain in the wing. Instinctively afraid of humans, I tried to walk fast till the edge of the balcony railing. I could feel the clumsiness of my gait when I heard the small voice say ‘look mummy, the crow is injured.’ I cocked my head a wee bit to catch a glance and saw a little girl talking to her mother.
Soon this 10th floor balcony overlooking the sea became a foster home, or transit camp, to me. A bond of trust grew between us three. The little girl and her mother became my friends (fans may be the right word). As I tried to express my feelings by waving the good wing, the mother thought Flutter would be a good name for me.
We crows have an embedded digital alarm clock in our brain which needs no repairs or oiling. Every day at noon sharp I would land at the 10th floor balcony. The little girl would be back from school a little later. I would wait, often walking to and fro on the railing by way of physiotherapy for my broken leg. As soon as I heard a distant door bell, I would know it was the little girl coming home with her mother. I would caw in a distinctive voice to announce my arrival. She would throw her things and rush to the balcony to greet me. Her mother would also come calling me by my name. Then she would go into the kitchen. I would hear her voice call me ‘Flutter, Flutter’ and I would hop to the kitchen window sill. The mother would make a ball of cooked polished white rice – I think it was Basmati – the size of a tennis ball- and keep it on the sill for me. I assure you, it is the most fulsome, fresh and healthy food a crow could ever get. Piercing the ball of rice with my beak was a moment I grew to anticipate. It had the sexy feel of bursting bubbles. So addictive did I grow to these balls of rice that even looking at dead rats, our staple diet, made me throw up. Thus nourished and loved in a healthy place, my leg and wing healed. The streak of white did not bother me because it helped to distinguish me from the run-of-the-mill scavenger crows. It was like I had been elevated in status, like a commander-in-chief.
The girl and her mother would talk to me. About the birds and the bees, about the good and the bad, about how nice it was to have a pet crow. They would click my pictures on their digicam. The profile ones with my sharp beak were the most remarkable, they commented. They sent my picture, feeding on the ball of rice to National Geographic and it won them the ‘picture of the month’ prize too. They were overjoyed. So was I.
Then one day the girl’s grandmother came from her village. She was a misfit in this environment, I could say from my first glance. When she first saw me, she tried to shoo me away. She didn’t approve of crows cawing close to the house, why she herself could not tell. It was simply her nature to oppose whatever the girl’s mother liked doing. She did not approve of the ball of rice offered to me. She did not like my looks either.
One day however, everything turned topsy-turvy. Even a smart crow like me cannot make a flowchart of the events that followed, rather of the origin of it all. I only know that one day when I was as usual, waiting for the little girl to come home, I saw the grandmother come to the balcony. Behind her was a group of people. Are they going to catch me, I wondered. I revved up my wings and waited a second for taking off. But to everyone’s amazement, and mine the most, the grandmother told the crowd that I was a divine crow. The white streak on my wing showed that I was an extraordinary being, a messenger from Lord Shiva. If I had come only to their building, when there were a million other high-rises in the city, it was with a purpose. If the people venerated me and made me appropriate offerings, I was sure to grant their wishes. So confused was I by all this fuzzy logic that I did not wish to wait for my wholesome ball of rice. I flew away.
But the next day, I was back again there at noon. To my utter surprise, there were about a dozen women there, with platefuls of elaborate offerings. Grandmother led the chorus. While I noticed that she herself did not bring me anything, she was quick to goad the others to generously give for a divine cause. As I was curious to know where this would lead, I too played to the gallery. I looked this way and that, I waved the streaked wing and the women became hysterical. Some thought I was foretelling good tidings, some became nervous. In all the offerings made to me there was none I could eat. There were flowers and there were whole coconuts. There were unpeeled fruits. There was not even a small bowl of Bisleri water to quench my thirst. Anyways gorging before these worshippers would be demeaning. There were shiny bits of cloth, there were incense sticks and there were coins and currency notes.
Then grandmother floated the theory that Tuesdays were special days for my worship. So I became a real spectacle on Tuesdays. They even built a special colourful tent on the balcony to house me! A priest was called to chant prayers to please me. The grandmother made sure that every woman contributed generously to be eligible for the privilege of seeing and worshipping me. I would stay on the balcony for exactly 7 minutes and then fly away. The grandmother told everyone that I came from Mount Kailas every noon and after blessing the devotees I flew right back to my abode. Slowly from being the messenger of Lord Shiva I became the Lord himself.
As word spread, journalists and television crew began to crowd the balcony. Flash, click, flash, click….I became the News Breaker. A ‘supernatural crow comes to a Mumbai high-rise to bless the city’ went one report. ‘a devotee won a million rupees in a lottery’ said another report. Soon I was on youtube as the sensation of the century. ‘is this an avtar of Lord Buddha?’ questioned Budhists, ‘the white streak in the wing suggests the bird is Buddha’s peace initiative for our strife-torn planet’. Scientists and skeptics formed another camp to counter these claims. ‘the alarming trend of global warming seen in a city crow’s streaked wing’. One zoologist claimed I was a new species of bird altogether.
Oops!
The attention I got made me supremely self-confident. I felt good about myself, quite superior in fact, to the rest of the avian world. I began to believe that if I could stir up such a mighty hurricane, comparable to Katrina, then I had to have something extraordinary in me, besides the smart genes of my forebears. I needed to figure out what it was.
Thus was I musing one glorious morning, carefully avoiding high tension wires. After all no one had yet come forward to insure my life. I decided to rest on the branch of an inviting neem tree, to mull in peace over the events of the last month when Wham! My leg touched a dangling live wire, that perpetual urban menace. To say that I was shocked out of my wits would be an understatement. I was roasted, grilled, fried and steamed all together. I saw myself exiting this wonderfully conniving world of the scamster and the gullible which had elevated me from nothing to - nothing.
In my delirium I thought I heard a small voice shrieking in anxiety “look mummy, Flutter is dying. Give her a ball of rice.”
posted by meera @ 9:51 AM
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