BEES: A Hive of Short Stories

PURCHASE IT HERE

SIVARAM HARIHARAN PhD

aka SHIVA IYER

ISBN: 0-646-44479-4

Email: drsivaramhariharan@gmail.com

https://sites.google.com/site/omsriguru/sivaram

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PREFACE

Bees is a collection of twenty short stories that I have written with inspiration about matters that I have a great deal of passion for. ‘Bees’ does not stand for the winged insect in this context but is transliterated from Hindi, which means the number 20.

Of the twenty short stories, seventeen are fictional pieces. Two of the pieces, ‘King of the Windowsill’ and ‘Tanni Pidikkal (Catching H2O)’, are actual real life reminiscences of my Mumbai childhood days, while the one titled ‘Eternal Friendship’, is a mythological tale from the Hindu-Puraanaas known to most Indians. I decided to include that in this collection as a tribute to my late paternal grandmother from whom I had heard this tale countless times as she recounted with passion each and every time. Another reason to include this mythological piece is that it continues to profoundly move and inspire me even to this day and I hope this does the same to those that are reading this tale for the first time. I have reproduced it as my grandmother narrated it to me.

I do hope you do get as much enjoyment in reading this collection of short stories as I did in writing them.

I express my deepest thanks to Peter Wong and Shankar Ramanathan for their help in the thankless tasks of proof-reading and print-runs.

Sivaram Hariharan

Sydney, Australia

Copyright 2010: No part of the following Short Story shall be reproduced in any part, form, or manner without explicit written permission of the author Sivaram Hariharan. (Latest Short Story, Not part of BEES)

JAIL-BHARO : THE FIGHT

(A short story by Dr. Sivaram Hariharan)

The middle aged professor had steel in his eyes as he pointed the realistic looking toy gun at the stunned bank cashier. “Just give me that 1000 rupee note that you are holding in your hands else bheja uda doonga.” The cashier handed the rupee note with shaking hands. “So now I have crossed the line that I have never crossed before in my life; the line that separates a criminal from society. But I really needed to do this.” The professor then flipped a visiting card through the counter window at the still speechless cashier. “These are my contact details here. You can give this to the police when they arrive here looking for me,” the professor passed his the palm of his free left hand over his pepper grey hair and winked at the cashier. He was a quite handsome man for his age. “Goodbye and thanks for your cooperation,” the professor turned abruptly and was gone.

It did not take the police much time to come knocking at the departmental office of the professor at the local pharmacy college. He was the head of the department of chemistry there. “Are you Dr. Soma Sundaram Saar,” Sub-Ispector Bhoopathy boomed at the man sitting on the chair.” The professor, still holding the toy gun in his hands, looked up and shook his head in the affirmative. “You are under arrest sir for bank robbery and I would advise you to put that gun down immediately.” The professor obeyed without any protest and rose up offering his hands to be fettered. “There is no need for that,” the inspector boomed. “Just come with me to the station. The bank cashier told me everything. Enna saar, ippidi ellaam seyyarenga, (why did you do this) a decent padicchavanga (educated man) like you. Tanni potengala (did you drink). Paata appidi illaye (doesn’t seem you have).” There was no reply from the professor as he accompanied the SI and two of his constables to the waiting police jeep. By that time, a huge crowd of students, staff members, and other curious onlookers had gathered at the college entrance as the professor was whisked away.

And by the next day the incident had created a storm in the media, both visual and printed. There were various theories speculated as to why the professor had become a bank robber. Opinions of colleagues and shocked friends were sought, but nothing seemed to indicate that the respected professor had this streak of robbery in him. The professor was a well respected man in his field and was well loved by his students and colleagues. The most shell-shocked were his family: his old parents and his wife. And then as the days passed other rumors and theories began to float in the media. These rumors and speculations carried deep taint and innuendos. But the professor still maintained an iron silence. There was a constant media circus outside the station where the professor was still lodged in the station cell. One of the media-men even got to see the professor after cajoling the SI but the professor refused to speak. And the unsubstantiated rumors got murkier and in a matter of days, the media had torn down the professor’s image to shreds. And to top this, the professor’s college stood him down from his job.

And then the day came when his trial began at the local court and again it was a full blown media circus. The professor refused legal representation for his case. The public prosecutor barraged him with questions for which he just replied with a yes or no for the questions regarding his name, occupation, and address. But the prosecutor got no answers for any questions regarding the bank incident itself. A visibly flustered presiding judge, Hon. Shri Balakrishnan asked him the reason for his silence. And it was then that the professor spoke for the first time after the bank holdup.

“My honor, I have finally decided to break my silence. In fact, I was waiting to get to court for this. My honor, I have gone through a lot all these days ever since I forcibly took Rs. 1000 from the bank. All these days I have borne so many insinuations, allegations, and strong doubts on my sanity even from my near and dear ones and rightfully so. I have robbed a bank isn’t it sir, even though it was just one thousand rupees. But believe me sir; there are many people in this nation of ours for whom this one thousand rupees make a big difference. And that is why I will declare my guilt without any hesitation and accept any punishment that is meted out to me by the law. And yet another part of my heart is rebelling against the punishment. It is unwilling to accept the punishment in the light of what is happening in our country regarding our political leaders and the gory loot that they are indulging in. And, my honor, this has been going on unabated and unchecked since we got our hard fought independence from the British and yet sadly our nation remains a slave, a slave to all this humongous corruption and dacoity of our elected leaders who have absolutely no hesitation in betraying our trust.

But the more shocking thing is the passivity and the total lack of reaction by the populace in response. There has been no agitations, no protests by the people, especially by those poor for whom Rs 1000 makes a big difference in their lives. My honor, when the British ruled this land, we had the likes of Bhagat Singh who proudly stood up to their atrocities and injustice. It was that fierce national pride that made them even lay down their lives for the nation. In this light, I ask where is that fierce national pride against this corruption that is threatening to ruin this great nation of ours for good. Forget about laying down their lives, the youth of today are not even game to make token protests and are busy with their cell-phones, M-TV and Facebook. I am shocked and aghast at this apathy my honor and am seriously concerned for the future of our ancient land.

My honor, I did not rob the bank to make a statement against corruption. I robbed the bank as a protest against this national apathy. Speeches and rallies and processions are not going to make any difference, tired as our citizens are by all these empty speeches, rallies, processions, and promises of our political leaders. Now it is time for bold and serious action. It is time to revive an old freedom-fighting technique once again; the jail-bharo aandolan used by our great freedom fighters against colonial injustice. I request the youth of this country to re-launch this moment against corruption. In fact, I exhort the youth to indulge in token crimes enough to send them to jail and literally fill and crowd out the jails of this country. Now that would make a serious statement against our corrupt leadership. And there are other methods as well and again I’m taking the example of our great freedom fighters. Methods like mass civil disobedience and noncooperation can bring down these corrupt hyenas to their knees in no time. These villains will then realize that the true strength lies with the honest citizens of this land and not in their ill-gotten wealth and power.

In this light, my honor, I’m gladly willing to undergo any punishment for my crime. In fact, it would be better for the law to give me a long sentence in jail because I can promise you I’ll commit another token crime to get me back in jail again. And this I will do again and again till my fellow citizens wake up and DO SOMETHING BY ACTION. That’s all from my side sir.”

Judge BaalaKrishnan was as stunned as the rest of the courtroom. He had never seen a case like this in his long legal innings. But the thing that was bothering him more was about the punishment to be meted. Not punishing the professor will make him an instant national hero and punishing would make the man a martyr. Moreover, the man had promised that he would revisit the jails if set free. But the judge had no doubt that the professor had made a big statement and ignited something that would be very very difficult to put out.

EPILOGUE

With mixed feelings, the judge handed out a 2 months jail sentence to the professor which the latter accepted with visible glee. And the professor had indeed become the darling of the nation and of course the vultures of the media. But he was unconcerned of this newfound adulation. What he was more happy and satisfied about was that there was a tidal wave of jail-bharo that had now taken the nation by storm and suddenly the powerfully corrupt, previously untouchable from their seats of power, were virtually quaking in their boots. This was a firestorm that no media spin or empty speeches and promises or enquiry commission or JPCs could quell. This was a firestorm that would only leave ashes in its wake. The nation, it seemed, had finally awoken from its corrupt slumber.

(This story is a tribute to all our great freedom fighters and their sacrifices and the need to make our nation corruption free)

JAI HIND & VANDE-MAATARAM

Dr. VSH

The following Short Story/Stories are excerpted from Sivaram Hariharan's book BEES: A Hive of Short Stories

Copyright 2005, 2007: No part of the following Short Story/Stories shall be reproduced in any part, form, or manner without explicit written permission of the author Sivaram Hariharan.

JAAGRAN: THE AWAKENING

It was all over very quick. All it took him was a quick smother with the pillow or a hit on the head with a hammer or a rock and it was all over. There were other ways though; using the crushing weight of a cot by wedging under the cot-leg or smashing the head on a small granite slab that he carried for this very purpose. In fact he liked to experiment these days about even more quicker ways of ushering in the end. In his mind, it was very logical compared to the excruciating travails of Chameli. Bhika-ram, the only child to his parents, could still remember it like yesterday. He was just past his sixth birthday when his uncle (father’s younger brother) Tota-kaka became a father once again to a new born girl. But the atmosphere was akin to a funeral in the family. Bhika could still remember his widowed paternal grandmother, Phoolan-rani, rain abuses and blows on her hapless second daughter-in-law Ruma-kaki for giving birth to a third girl in a row. ‘Kulnaashini-kutiya,’ she screamed and pulled at the plaits of the hapless woman who had just gone through a prolonged and very painful labor. ‘You have brought nothing but misery to this family.’

And the infant Chameli had just stepped into virtual narak. While the rest of the family doted on Bhika, Chameli and her two older sisters were sidelined. The two older girls somehow scraped through, but the infant Chameli bore the brunt of the neglect and bias. In five months time, Chameli would die in her sleep and her second older sister would succumb within the year to typhoid. Now with less burdensome female mouths to feed, the fortunes of the eldest girl dramatically improved and took her above the line of survival which was sheer for little girls in that setting.

The floods that engulfed his village during his early twenties took everything and everyone of his family away from Bhika and he was reduced to a wandering beggar doing small chores here and there for calming the fires of his belly. And that is how he came into contact with Ispector Parkash Singh, who got recently posted as the station in-charge of Bhika’s district. The police had picked up a drunken Bhika and thrown him into the cells on a public nuisance charge. And it was here that Parkash Singh made an offer to Bhika that would forever change the course of his life. He offered Bhika freedom if he could do a small job for him. Moreover, the inspector also promised Bhika a sum of 500 Rupees for a job well done. Bhika jumped at the offer and was then escorted by the inspector to his palatial bungalow in his jeep. He was then taken to a dark room in the interior of the huge house, where Bhika could hear the cries of a brand new baby. He then turned and looked questioningly at Partap Singh.

‘My newborn daughter Bhika.’

‘Mubarak ho inispector sahib,’

‘Let me complete Bhika. This is my third daughter in a row and we do not want her. And you are going to help us with that.’

‘Sahib,’ Bhika took a step back in surprise.

‘Maar daal Bhika. I would have done it myself but my wife would not permit that. She would rather some third person does it.’

‘But Sahib, this is murder.’

‘Do you want to fucking rot in jail Bhika. This is your way out. Do it. Now! It’s just a small child. A little bit of force and everything would be over.’

‘But Sahib..’

‘Maderchod,’ a thunderous slap sent Bhika whimpering to the ground. ‘Should I get my constables to insert a hot iron rod into your gaand in the jail?’

And that’s how Bhika-ram began his career as a professional strangler of female infants, most of them newborn. After that first time which required all the threats from the inspector, the subsequent times became correspondingly easier. A good puff of ganja before the job also helped him long ways, Bhika found. Every time he walked into a job, he pictured in his mind the hapless visage of Chameli. And that is how he rationalized what he was about to do. It was better this way than being diabolically starved. That is why he did not resort to poisoning. He had done that once and the newborn had contorted in excruciating agony. So he had to cook himself into an artificial rage to inflict the finality on that night.

Yes, Bhika only worked during the night; the darkness somehow seemed to offer him comfort from all the mayhem, from all the protesting wails of some half hearted mothers who changed their minds in the last second. The disposal of the corpse was left entirely to the client-family. He made it clear to the clients that his job was just to walk in, take the payment in advance, extinguish, and then walk out. And he kept it gruesomely professional. Sometimes there would be two or three jobs in a night and his personal record was five. The oldest child that he had silenced was a three and a half year old who had put up a feisty struggle and Bhika still had her nail marks on his forearms. From that time he had resolved that he would not take on any case more than a year old. After every working night, Bhika would arrive home to his hut and then empty five or six buckets of cold water over his head, even if it was the height of winter. The cold waters gave him the sensation of his sins getting ablated in the chilly waters of the Ganges in Hardwar, which he had visited once during his teens with his father. After the bath, Bhika would have a hearty meal and would then sleep through the day, waking up only after sunset.

It was Gokul-Asthami, the festival marking the birth of Lord Krishna, when Bhika, high on ganja, walked past the village Devi temple after a very long time. He was on his way to a job at the adjacent village. Ever since he had begun his macabre occupation, he had stopped visiting the temple. But now he hesitatingly halted at the temple entrance and looked forlornly at the deity of the Godess inside. There was a discourse going on in the temple by a visiting Hindu scholar and there was a throng of devotees huddled around the small dais where the speaker was seated. The scholar was talking about the birth of Lord Krishna:

And then the demon Kamsa charged into the dungeon housing his sister Devaki and her husband King Vasudeva and their newborn,’ thundered the scholar into the loudspeaker: ‘Where is the child?’ Kamsa demandingly roared at a cowering Vasudeva and Devaki. And then his eyes fell on the beautiful child in the basket. ‘She is not the one you are looking for. Please spare her brother,’ Devaki pleaded. ‘It is just a girl, O great Kamsa’, Vasudeva joined his wife. ‘It is our son that you want and who the prophecy spoke would be your nemesis. So please show some mercy and spare our daughter,’ the king convulsed at Kamsa’s feet. But Kamsa was crazed with vengeance and hardly seemed to hear his sister and brother-in-law’s cries. He had already smashed the heads of seven of their newborn sons in a row even though the prophecy portended the eighth son as Kamsa’s vanquisher. Kamsa picked up the infant by its legs and swung it with all the force at the dungeon wall again with the murderous intention to smash its head to smithereens. And that was when the miracle happened. The child slipped from his hands and rose upwards laughing deridingly at Kamsa. ‘O foolish demon, your death is certain,’ the child spoke in abject mirth. ‘The one who is going to kill you, the Lord of this universe, has already taken incarnation. But you can’t get to him now. When the time comes, he will slay you, he will tear you apart, O evil monster,’ the child shrieked demonically and ascended into the heavens…

Bhika did not wait for the tale to finish. He now hurried along to his job. He had to get there within the next hour as the child had just been born. The newborn was the first grandchild (son’s child) of the local politician/thug Sundar Singh. But to Singh’s extreme disappointment, it turned out to be a girl and now the services of Bhika were urgently needed. It would then later be announced that the child was lost during birth. Bhika was calm and collected as usual when he was finally alone with the child in the backyard outhouse. The clients had desired strangulation. The child was quiet and was looking into him with all the innocence of the world and again Bhika could picture in his mind those bony arms of Chameli. And then as he brought the pillow down for the close, he could hear diabolical laughter from above. Bhika was hallucinating; the ganja was really strong this time around. ‘O foolish demon, your death is certain,’ the child was now speaking to him. ‘The one who is going to kill you, the Lord of this universe, has already taken incarnation. But you can’t get to him now. When the time comes, he will slay you, O evil monster,’ the child seemed to rise up from its crib.

Bhika staggered back as if king hit and was reduced to a blabbering mess. He tepidly walked towards the crib pillow in hand, ready to smother again and again the sounds of the maddening laughter broke in his brain and again he stepped back. Bhika now began to weep silently; he wept for Chameli for the first time in his life. And then he picked up the infant from the crib and slid out of the backdoor into the fields. Somebody from the house saw him escaping with the child and raised a commotion. Shots were fired in the dark in Bhika’s direction. One found its mark on the back just below Bhika’s right collar. Bhika thumped forward crying in sharp pain but somehow managed to hold on to the baby as he was falling. But he got back on his feet with Herculean effort and staggered forward. He knew where he had to go first. When he staggered into the village Devi temple it was empty and went straight to the side sanctum that housed the deity of Krishna. ‘Haaa Krishna, Dwaarakanaatha, kwaasi-Yadukulananthana, lord of this universe, show mercy on this sinner and save this nanhi bacchi and save me from the wrath of Devi. You are the only one that she will heed to in the present circumstance,’ Bhika placed the infant girl on the sanctum steps and sobbed uncontrollably. And then he remembered the house of Vandana Sinha. It was just a stone’s throw away from the temple and he had to get there fast. Vandana was the president of the Grameen Mahila Adhikaar Samrakshak (Organization for rural women’s rights). Bhika collapsed into Vandana’s arms as the latter opened the door in response to his frantic knocks on her door. ‘Mem-Sahib, save this child Mem-Sahib, please save her. Her own parents are after her life. Godess Devi will not spare me if this child is harmed in anyway. Please save her, please please please……….’

EPILOGUE

Inispector Parkash’s Singh’s gorily decapitated body was found in his bedroom the following morning. And then the female-infanticide scandal erupted, implicating lots of powerful names and families. The scandal spread like wildfire engulfing the whole state and then the entire country itself. Powerful politicians, Chief Ministers, and then the Prime Minister himself took to the air condemning the brutal practice of female infanticide and the plummeting sex ratio. A solid campaign had ignited all over India, with Vandana Sinha playing a vanguard role despite constant death threats and the hasty political cover-up orchestrated by the rich and powerful vested interests. The little girl was taken into protective state care and was christened Jaagran (Awakening).

As for Bhika-ram, nobody knew where he had gone after he left Jaagran with Vandana Sinha. After confessing to her all his macabre deeds on a tape recorder, he had indicated that he was going to see Inspector Parkash Singh for a confession. Consequently, a massive manhunt was launched for Bhika but he was nowhere to be found. Vandana however doubted whether he could have survived his gunshot wound without expert medical attention.

But nobody recognized Bhika at Banares when, unseen, he entered the Ganges in the dead of the night with a stone tied to him, the same stone with which he had taken some of those tender innocent lives. The ice-cold waters of the river seemed very soothing from the burning fires of compunction devouring him from the inside. ‘Jai Devi, Jai Gange Ma,’ was his last words as he submerged himself never again to resurface. Later his decomposing corpse became a meal for those Ganges Gharials.

(This story is dedicated to all those lost innocent souls that are victim to the abhorrent, culpable, and fiendish practice of female-infanticide.)

King of the Windowsill

(Ah… Those Matunga-Mumbai days)

I still remember those days as if they were yesterday. Those lazy summer afternoons of 1983, just after my sister’s wedding, when I used to stand in the verandah of my Matunga Mumbai flat and ogle at the voluptuous Ketki as she leant on the verandah railings of her flat across the street. The swaying branches of the huge Jamboo tree in my building compound interrupted my view from time to time and I used to silently mutter under my breath whenever she got temporarily invisible. Now and then I waved my hands to get her attention, but she hardly even looked my way. Maybe she was inured to the attentions of crazy infatuated adolescent males like me. I was around sixteen years of age at that time and Ketki would have been in her early twenties. It was strange that I suddenly found her attractive that year even though I had seen her right through my boyhood days. Strange indeed are the ways hormones worked in puberty. I could hear my late paternal grandma from inside the house calling out to me. Anthamma (the other mother) as I used to lovingly call her, was in her seventies at that time. ‘Konthe, Konthe (Little child little child), ulla vada… coffee thanukarathu… (Come in my child, the coffee is getting cold)… Enna Pannarano (What is he doing?).’

‘Come in now…can’t you hear us….looks like you are going deaf as you are becoming older,’ my mom Meena also joined in.

But, I was oblivious to their calls. It was still mid afternoon and it would at least be another couple of hours before I would move from my post. Around 4 PM it would be time to play underarm rubber ball cricket with my mates from my locality. Until then it would be Ketki that devoured my attention. Even when she went into her flat from her verandah, I used to patiently wait for her to get back. This unrequited noon crush went on for a long time before my attentions were diverted by a most unlikely source.

He was the king of the third floor kitchen windowsill of the very old and dilapidated opposite-building, Hazare Bhuvan, the entire third floor of which housed a girl’s hostel. He first caught my attention with his deep resonating moans that emanated from his huge bulged up neck sac. ‘Hmmmmm…hmmmmm….Hmmmmmm…,’ he sounded very close even though he was about 30 feet far away on the building wall. A bull of a male pigeon in his full prime, Pahi (as I named him a day) was black in colour with spots of gray. The reason I called him Pahi was pretty queer. At that time I was attending Veda-classes at the nearby Shiva temple. This was the tradition among young Brahmin brahmacharis who had started donning the sacred thread. My Guru, the late Vishwanata Ganapaadigal (Ganapaadigal is a title for a master of Vedas) had taught me a complex gana-mantra on Vishnu, which went: Taa Vishno Pahi Pahi Yagnam Pahi Yagnapatim Pahi Maam Yagna Niyam. (Vishnu the savior and hence pahi means to save. O great Lord Vishnu, the saviour of Yagnas and the Yagnapati, I offer my prostrations). I was practicing this recital earnestly. In a strange way, I beheld my new pigeon friend with a certain degree of awe as he now sported a Vedic name. It was Pahi that graduated me into bird watching of the feathered kind from the bird watching that I was then indulging in. For the next nine months or so I watched him with absolute interest and I was rewarded with rich and interesting insights into pigeon life. And in many ways it was an eye opener. At times I was so engrossed in my observations that some of my Hazare Bhuvan neighbours thought that I was busy ogling at the hostel girls, an activity that in indulged in from time to time. But I did not let these innuendos interrupt my pigeon watching.

The entire kitchen windowsill and ventilators of the hostel were Pahi’s domain. Also included was the attic ventilator the wire mesh of which had been chewed away by the rats. Pahi patrolled his territory with extreme vigour, constantly flying between the kitchen window frames and the attic ventilator. And he had compelling reasons when it came to the attic. Inside the gloom were his recently hatched fledglings and his mate whom I called Mrs. P. Mrs. P was the typical gray coloured pigeon with black stripes and much smaller in size than her mate. Pahi spent most of the day in taking turns with his mate in guarding his hatchlings and protecting his territory from rival males. Trespassing males were evicted immediately on sight with no mercy. All females other than his mate that landed in his area were treated to the typical male display dance: guttar-goo-goo sounds with his neck sac pumped up to the maximum coupled with jumping and dancing in circles. If this failed, he would evict them by trying to mount them. At other times he was busy courting Mrs. P. Sometimes he even ventured into the kitchen in search of some tidbits whenever the hostel cook, Maharaj, had gone to some other room. He would eventually fly out in haste when the cook returned. In spite of this nuisance, Maharaj ignored Pahi completely. Pahi had also flown into my unit a couple of times and had been chased by my disgruntled mother for, on both occasions, the bird had defecated on her pet veena (musical instrument). Sometimes he would fly down to the ground with his partner looking for small pebble, straws, and twigs. The pebbles he swallowed aided in the digestion of the hard grains that comprised most of his food. He needed the straws and twigs for his shabby nest. After sun down each day, Pahi roosted on the hostel kitchen ventilator, leaving his mate and his young ones in the safety of the attic.

In many ways Pahi was a remarkable pigeon. He was big by pigeon standards and I sometimes used to jokingly call him Gundu-Pahi (Gundu means fat in Tamil). He had the loudest moans of all the pigeons in the area. But what made him stand out from the rest of his kind was his boldness and courage. He never flinched whenever there were any loud cracker bursts in the locality. The other pigeons immediately took to the skies frightened by any loud sound, but Pahi stood his ground most of the time. Pahi rarely took cover whenever predatory kites (hawks) hovered in the skies above the building and scanned the ground with their rapier sharp eyes for prey. And pigeons were high on their menu list. Most of the other pigeons took to flight whenever a kite showed up in the area with their typical shrill calls but not Pahi. He rarely took a backward step even to the local thugs, the common crows, when they came bullying in his domain. Once, when one of the neighbouring kids hit Pahi with a pebble shot from a catapult, as he was perched near the attic ventilator, the pigeon did not even flinch.

Pahi flew with a very noisy and a heavy wing beat compared to most others of his kind. He was a slow flyer, especially when flying upwards. I attributed this to his size. He was a devoted father to his hatchlings and spent a lot of time in gathering food for them. Every morning, he would be off to the local Kabutar-Khana, a place where all the pigeons from the immediate area flocked to eat the grains showered on them by the local people. This was located in the middle of the local vegetable market (Matunga Bazaar). There was a metal grilled fence surrounding the Kabutar-Khana. A huge tree stood in the centre of the khana and its branches were thick with pigeons and thickly crusted with their droppings. I had seen Pahi there on many occasions and was impressed by the way he held his own ground even in that feathery pandemonium. He returned home laden with grain, which he promptly regurgitated to his hatchlings and wife.

When it came to courting females, Pahi was in his elements. Of course, almost all of this romance was directed at Mrs. P. But on more than one occasion, I had seen Pahi court, impress, and successfully mount new females visiting his domain. Once I saw Mrs. P chase away an amorous trespassing female as she was about to be mounted by Pahi. Of course, all her rage was directed on her rival and not her mate. Almost immediately after chasing away her rival Mrs. P started to flirt with her mate and finally ended up being mounted. Mating is a ritualized affair among pigeons. At first they circle each other, pecking on their own back feathers and ruffling them up so that they stick out. This is then followed by what I call an intense beaking. The male clasps his partner’s beak by his own and the birds move their heads up and down in synchrony. This is repeated two or three times and the female crouches down splaying her wings. The male then mounts her and constantly beats his wings for balance as he struggles to grip himself on the female’s back. Once this is achieved, a brief mating takes place. After this, the male dismounts and the two again circle each other. On some rare occasions, I have seen the female mount the male at this point of time. I have also noted that this happens more when the female is of a very aggressive nature. I have also noted that beaking takes place for a much longer time amongst young pigeon couples. Older couples go over this phase quickly. On an average mating takes place many times on any given day regardless of the time of the year. But, in winter the frequency increases. I believe that this repeated mating could be a very important aspect of bonding between the male and the female. Many a time, rival males or females interrupt the courtship. When this happens, the ritual is broken off. Mating may or may not commence after the interruption.

Like most territorial males, Pahi spent a huge chunk of his time in chasing away trespassing pigeons from his domain. Pahi’s domain was an enviable one by pigeon standards: It had good shelter from the elements and had lots of room and hence was eyed greedily by other males. But on most occasions, Pahi managed to effortlessly chase them out without a fight. Fights resulted when the trespassing males were reluctant to leave as they thought that they had a chance to win and male pigeon fights are really very intense. But Pahi could see off all his opponents just by sheer physical display of his size. Consequently, rival males gave him a wide berth. But this dominance was soon to end with the advent of the monsoon: the season in which shelter is very high on the pigeon agenda.

The challenger was a young grey male with black stripes whom I named Rahu and he possessed lots of vigour and speed. Indeed, it was his speed and athleticism that gave the edge in his titanic clash with the domain master. The clash lasted almost a full day and the fighting was an intense flurry of feathers and beaks. Most of the fighting took place on the windowsill and each tried to push the other out of the area. Initially it appeared as if Pahi would hold his ground. But Rahu slowly gained the upper hand as the day wore on. By dusk, Pahi was dethroned and was perching forlornly on a drainpipe that ran out of the hostel bathroom. He had no longer the luxury of the shelter provided by the window and was now exposed to the lashing wind and rain. More importantly, he had injured his left wing and it hung out of its normal position and was to remain that way as long as he lived. To add insult to injury, Mrs. P started yielding to the courting of the new domain master and allowed him to mount her. Pahi had now effectively lost everything he had and I really felt sorry for him as he was getting drenched in the torrential rain. I had observed other fights and almost all of the times the domain master that got ejected never regained his past glory. Pahi’s fate was now sealed and he had to move on to other areas to find shelter.

But I had underestimated the wily veteran. He had just lost the battle and not the war. Within a few days of his recovery from the fight, Pahi went about the business of reclaiming his lost domain. And for this he used guerrilla tactics in the dead of the night and I thought that was very unusual for pigeons. Pahi’s method was very simple. One night, I observed him fly up to his opponent in the cover of darkness and blindside him with his bulk. But Rahu was equal to the occasion and succeeded in thwarting off Pahi and sending him back to the drainpipe. But Pahi was relentless and returned again and again till he himself tired out. The next day, the old master was again seen on the drainpipe recovering from the excesses of the previous night. But again he was back the following night like a never-ending nightmare for his young opponent. This went on for at least the next thirty nights or so. By the end of that period, Pahi had regained his domain and was proudly perched on the windowsill with Mrs.P on his side. He was once again the king of the windowsill and he now reminded me of the proud former boxer Mohammad Ali. (In the later stages of his stellar career the champion boxer had dispatched off swifter and stronger young opponents with wily grit and steely resolve in spite of taking brutal punishment and pounding from them.) I was really impressed with the persistence and courage of this amazing pigeon. As for Rahu, he was now perched on the drainpipe and looked lost. But he never again challenged Pahi. Indeed, in a few days time he had flown away in search of fresher pastures and was never to return.

But it seemed to me in the coming days that this battle-scarred warrior had never recovered fully from his fight with Rahu. His movements were more sluggish than before and his flight speed had palpably diminished. He had developed a considerable limp on his left leg. Rival males were now sensing weakness and consequently, Pahi was challenged to more fights and his body took a heavy battering. In spite of this, Pahi held sway over his domain all the way through to the next summer and successfully weaned his fledglings to independence before he met his end. This happened during one morning when I observed him pecking on pebbles on the ground along with Mrs. P. Unbeknownst to the two birds, the local stray tomcat Minu was stalking them from the cover of the nearby bushes and had crept within striking range. I could not see the tomcat from my varendah. Only when he jumped out from his hiding with a snarl, did I comprehend the gravity of the situation. It all took place in a flash. Mrs. P had somehow sensed the danger first and succeeded in getting airborne an instant before her heavy partner. Pahi also took off but Minu jumped high and gashed Pahi on his neck with his sharp claws in midair and managed to ripp off a few of his feathers. Pahi stumbled in his flight but somehow managed to get himself to the parapet of the first floor. I could see that the bird was severely wounded and had a big red gash on his neck. But I was powerless to come to his aid. Pahi remained there for a long time before he slowly managed to hip-hop over the drainpipes back to his windowsill on the third floor. There he was perched motionless for the rest of the day and I hoped that he would recover from this rest. But the following morning, as I watched him, Pahi suddenly dropped like a heavy stone from his windowsill perch and crashed dead on the ground. I immediately ran down and picked up his lifeless body. I could see that his left leg was heavily infected from an old wound and that would have been the cause of his limp. I buried my feathery hero under the mango tree in the backyard of my building. Indeed, Pahi was an ultimate warrior and he had lived and died a king. My eyes were a bit wet as I bid farewell to my fighter.

Epilogue

My bird watching days came to an end after Pahi’s demise. I was saddened that I could no longer spot my friend on his familiar perch. Even Mrs.P was never to be seen again in the area. Presumably she had flown away or had been chased out by rivals. But nature abhors a vacuum and very soon a handsome white male whom I named Hamsa and his white spotted gray mate, Mrs.H, occupied the windowsill. As for my other bird watching: Ketki ran away with a very rich Gujarathi man and this anjaan deewana was heart broken for a day. Coming back to Pahi, my short stint at pigeon watching had really left me with some deep impressions. Besides the fact that I gained a good knowledge on the behaviour of these birds, I also took home a shining example of grit and determination from the manner in which Pahi regained his lost domain from his opponent. Certain events leave an indelible impression in an individual’s life and Pahi’s fighting qualities and courage was one such for me. Even today, here in Sydney, whenever I see any pigeon, my mind automatically switches to my pigeon hero. If I were to ever go back to my old Matunga house, my eyes will still seek him on the windowsill even though he is no longer there. For me, Pahi will forever be the King of the Windowsill: Taa Vishno Pahi Pahi Yagnam Pahi Yagnapatim Pahi Maam Yagna Niyam.

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