Monday, November 20, 2006

The Little One


This poem came as a sudden outburst of emotion and concern for a poor grass parakeet at the St. Mary’s Forane Church in Moozhikulam. One amongst the umpteen birds in the small cage at the church front yard, she was subject to a careless master, a filthy ménage and inadequate survival facilities. To top it all, she was caged and forbidden to fly high in the velvet sky, just like free birds of love ought to. Seeing the beautiful bluish-white bird die a slow and painful death whilst the Sunday Mass was progressing was as painful for me as it was for the ‘Little One’. May her soul rest in peace.


~~~

You can hardly move or breathe here,
Your sweet voice is barely clear.
This isn’t where you belong,
This isn’t your song.
What good is your wing,
If it cannot carry you to your calling?

I know you are not to blame,
It’s the parish priest…I don’t remember his name.
He took a fancy for your beauty,
Taking care of you should’ve been his duty,
But he was engaged with other things to do –
A little nap, a mug of beer, a game of chess or two!

Of course, he’s not at fault every time,
Having kidney stones, for instance, isn’t a crime.
Four days ago, he was taken to the city in grave pain,
They’d operate him there and he’d be on his feet again.
He probably could’ve instructed somebody to look after you for some days,
Well, his instructions would’ve gone unheeded anyways…!

How can you blame him? He’s given you a new habitation,
Complete with filth, claustrophobia and slow destruction!
How can you complain about your twenty-four companion kin?
“The more the merrier” – that’s what the priest believes in.
You spoil yourself by hating the rotten seeds you get for breakfast, lunch and dinner,
Hunting for red berries and fresh streams in the wild would’ve made you thinner.

Church birds that you are, you need to practice penance.
So, stop complaining and stop being such a menace!
It’s not like a few days of fasting would kill you,
The patients at the Chikitsalayam do a lot of fasting too!
What works for men should work for birds better,
Fasting says you’d be hearty. You’d be healthy. You’d be a trendsetter.

Honestly, I am kidding myself…more or less.
Since I am in a church, let me confess -
I say all this just to console you, Little One.
Though I lie, it’s for a good cause. No harm done.
But you’re not ready to listen to anything!
It’s like to myself I am talking!

“Where’s my master? I’m quite famished!”, you demand…
I try my best to assure you that things aren’t out of hand.
You ignore me. “At least a little water?”, you plead,
I say, “I’ll help you. Don’t worry. A friend in need…”
My words are incomplete. I see your stony eyes…
You say, “I’m running out of time. Let’s call our goodbyes…”

“It was nice to have known you. A kind heart you were trying to be…
By giving false consolation to the simple me.
The truth is that my wings, my colors and my voice,
That could’ve brought the world many dewy-eyed joys,
Were all wasted! Oh! It’s such a shame!
But ere I die, I’ll inspire you so that they’d remember my name.”

“O son of man, make my death useful. Let my departed soul fly
With my fellow friends. Release them, before any of them doth cry!
Our wings are meant to make us soar into the blue skies,
Wings of you and wings of me! Come on! Be free. Free of evil and lies!
Only then would I live on in free flight. I would never die.
Your generosity will live on…and so will I!”

“O little one! Here’s your water…here…”…Alas! It’s too late…
In a world of antipathy, the bird of love succumbs to a fatal fate -
Fate meted out by man. It wasn’t meant to be this way,
Birds of love aren’t to die…they’re to fly away…
“It’s too late…or is it?”, I contemplate. Whilst from the steeple peals the bell,
I release the other birds to where they belong. Flying to Heaven from hell!

The Little One is carried tenderly towards the river,
A humble grave dug in the ground. That’s the least I can give her.
Though she did deserve a lot more on this Earth,
Inconsiderate man robbed her of freedom and mirth.
Multitudes pray in the church, not me…oh Little One,
Please know that you inspire me. You are my prayer, you are my sermon.
~~~

4 comments:

Flyaway Mind said...

nice poem.. its ironical that the little birdy has to die of all the places, in a place of worship....

Kranti said...

Yes...was quite ironical and painful. Thanks...

Anonymous said...

nice poem.. but why look at it as painful? when little birdy gets to Watch people pray..sing with them the glory of lord..it could be dat its sent to be an inspiration to ppl like u so u could become a great poet some day!?After all who are we to question his way?

Kranti said...

Hi Ashwini,

This isn't "His" way...this is man's way...imposed on our winged friends.