I whistle like a Bulbul
By Julia Fernandes
God loved birds andinvented trees. Man loved birds and invented cages. -- Jacques Deval
I must have been around eight or nine years old when onefine evening Dad came home from work and gave us a little surprise. He placedhis bag in the middle of our room and put his hands inside his bag to reveal asmall nest that was home to three tiny baby Bulbuls. On one of his rotationalshifts, Dad was posted at
Bulbuls are a family of medium-sized passerine songbirds.The Bulbuls that Dad bought home were brownish in colour with a crest on theirheads. They were very small and unable to fly. As a little girl I was thrilledto see them. Next day, a cage was bought and the cage became their new abode.
Out of the three one of them died immediately. The remainingtwo Bulbuls grew up and soon became a part of our family. Out of the two one ofthe Bulbuls was my favourite. I remember grinding
After a full meal they would fly to their favourite place -- the swing situated at the centre-top of their cage and doze off blissfully. Iwould sometimes gently shake their swing to put them to sleep. When it would bedusk they would fly helter-skelter within the cage, giving us a signal that itwas time to cover their cage with a cloth and introduce darkness for them tosleep. The Bulbuls would sleep with their heads shoved at the back of theirwings making them look like cute little brown powder puffs. And they would taketheir one foot in and sleep on just one foot.
They were full of life with an innate capability of pickingup tunes. There’s a particular tune played in the last dance routine in mostIndian Catholic weddings. My parents would often whistle this tune repeatedly to our two Bulbuls. Gradually, they picked up this tune. One day when wecame home from a family function we were in for a little surprise. The momentwe opened the door both the Bulbuls merrily began whistling this same tune,which my parents had taught them. As if to express how happy they were to seeus!
In my home everybody knew how to whistle, except me. I wouldtry my best but I just could not manage to whistle. The time spent with myBulbuls enabled me to imitate their sounds. And then one fine day I, finally,learnt to whistle -- just like a Bulbul. Their love enabled me to reachout for what I thought was impossible.
After a year or so the second Bulbul, too, had died. Only myfavourite Bulbul remained all alone in the empty cage. And then one finemorning when I removed the cloth on their cage a ghastly sight greeted me. MyBulbul was dead -- lying upside down with his one foot tightly clasping theswing. He probably died in his sleep. Till today that image is still fresh inmy mind. From that day onwards we never kept birds as pets.
Even though we snatched their freedom they still loved us. Itis said true love leaves an indelible mark in some part of your mind or soul.But in my case my Bulbul’s love left its imprint in the most unusual place ofmy self -- my whistle! And till today, even after so many years, I continue towhistle just like a Bulbul…
(My small prayer)
Every creature is created in love by you. Man has noright to separate young birds from their mothers and put them in cages. Pourout compassion in our hearts that we may be compassionate towards other beings.I hope, wish and pray that birds all over the world may be released from theircages and soar high in the skies. For this world belongs as much as to theselittle beings as much as it belongs to us.
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