When I killed a Hoopoe
It was summer of 1965. I had nothing to do. I was roaming in the orchard
in front of our house. It was not a well maintained or well managed orchard but
it was good enough for an idle boy to keep himself engaged. There were a large number
of apple and cherry trees, a huge walnut tree and of course one plum tree. But
first I must tell you about where this orchard was.
If you have been to
Kashmir and if you have visited the Mughal Gardens, you may have seen some villages
located between Shalimar Garden and Harwan (Harwan, of course, is not a Mughal
Garden). Midway between these two famous landmarks, there is village named
Chandpura; you would not have heard of it. My grandfather had purchased a piece
of land, with a good number fruit bearing trees, in that village. The orchard
was almost next to a stream of ice cold water coming from Harwan. He had built
a two storeyed house in that orchard.
Grandfather rarely stayed in that house. But it was a beautiful place to live in. In
1965 my father decided to shift there for a few months. There was no
electricity till we ‘managed’ a connection. For water we relied on a spring which was just
outside the boundary wall of our orchard. Spring water was crystal clear and
ice cold. There was fish too; but traditionally in Kashmir no one catches fish
from a spring; they only use spring water for drinking and cooking.
Life was slow and lazy; the minutes and hours were unusually long
in that peaceful and serene place. I always had plenty of time to while away. So
it was on that one summer day in 1965. I was whiling away my time in the
orchard doing nothing. I kept drifting and roaming among the trees and stones;
I climbed a tree; I crossed and re-crossed the boundary wall. There was a
pencil-thin stream of fresh water flowing through the orchard; I waded through
it for some time; I criss-crossed it a few times. And yet, not even an hour had
passed.
It was then that I saw this hoopoe which I eventually killed.
It was full of energy; it was cheerful and lively; it was a beautiful bundle of
unrestrained movements; it was mesmerizing.
A wild thought came to my idle mind, ‘what if I hit it with a
stone?’
And even before any answer could come from anywhere, I picked
up a stone and threw it at the bird. What followed thereafter is itched on my
memory and for ever.
The moment the stone left my hand, the bird flew; not because
it had sensed the imminent death; but because of the destiny which was about to
intertwine two of us. The stone hit the bird when it had just taken off. It
fell on the ground like a dead stone. For a few seconds I was stunned. I could
not believe what I had seen. Even in my wildest imagination I had not expected
to hit the bird. I stood rooted to the ground, not knowing what I should or
could do.
Then with trepidation I approached the bird lying on the
ground. Anxiety and fear were over powering. I felt as if I was approaching an
injured wild animal. But it was only a little bird and it lay helpless and
dying. I was scared to touch it. I was scared to even look at it.
Then very carefully I picked the injured bird and brought it
to the water. I dipped its beak in water. But the bird did not react. Perhaps
it needed something more than a sip of cold water to revive and overcome the
injuries. Guilt and frustration were raging in my disquieted mind.
I left the bird near the stream hoping that somehow it would
survive the injuries that I had inflicted on it. But it died; perhaps it died a
painful death.
Even fifty years later I still suffer the remorse and guilt
of foolishly killing an innocent bird. It met premature and unnatural death
just because I had nothing worthwhile to do to while away my idle time.
