(A Story)
(Rendered by the author from the original in
TELUGU)
At a very young age, when I was hardly a few days
old in this world and had not yet learnt the secret of giving flight to my
fresh-fledged wings, I came into the possession of Tara Sundari. Since then,
though my life has been that of a captive bird behind the cage bars, it has yet
been one of general pleasure and pleasantness–What with sweet fruits, dainty
delicacies and my mistress’s tender caresses....
Loveliness personified, beauty incarnate is Tara
Sundari! Her luxurious black hair clustered round her face like dark leaves
round a blossoming flower. The roses flowered perpetually in her cheeks. Smiles
trembled on her lips eternally. Her complexion was a romantic colour–milk and
roses mixed. Her gait was that of a swan, graceful, measured, royal. O, she was
a sunbeam of life,–a creature born out of poetry and brought up in the
atmosphere of a play. Cupid could have learnt how to bend his bow and shoot his
arrows from her perfectly arched eye-brows and her unfailingly lacerating
glances....
Tara was fortunate in securing as her husband one
in every way worthy of her. He was a model youth, a typical hero of a pattern
romance, yet……yet it was his good looks that deceived us all in the end! Who
could have dreamt–when Tara vowed to be his for life–that he would turn out to
be a curse and a damnation to her? Skim milk masqueraded as cream....!
When Tara went to her husband’s house, followed by
every conceivable item of aristocratic paraphernalia, I too went with her. She
couldn’t think of leaving me behind—me, who had been her boon companion for
years.
My residence was just opposite her apartment. High
up in the verandah hung my gilded cage and I could see my Tara always, except
when she was not in the room. Every night after dinner she used to come to my
cage before retiring and speak to me affectionately, pat me endearingly. As a
rule at night she used to wear a spotlessly white muslin saree, from, behind
which shimmered the beauty of her form and the radiance of her complexion like
moonlight reflected from behind a transparent gauze of clouds. Having removed
all her jewels and ornaments by that time, she used to be exquisitely bright in
her own natural loveliness. Her full-moon face–which was an abiding nest for
sweetness–shone with an inexplicable joy; and love trembled in laughter on her
rose-petal lips. O….she could have taught even the gods how to love!
A romantic tickle on my cheeks with her delicate
fingers was her usual way of bidding me good-night. And then–as the door of the
room was bolted–she was out of my sight–but not out of my hearing at times–and
certainly not out of my thoughts at any time!
As Dawn’s dewy hand swept with delicate white the
dull olive-tinted expanse of the sky, she used to step out of a half-opened
door–like a goddess from her pedestal. She was the first to greet me every
morning with a sweet smile. O, how I used to feel proud, happy, elated at the
privilege! And how I used to yearn for the precious gift of human speech to
articulate to her my deep sense of thankfulness and my happiness as her
favourite pet...!
It was known to everyone, She was in her seventh
month! She was shy to acknowledge the fact,–when anyone questioned her about
it, either for verification, for information or for fun, She used to blush, as
all good and true maidens do in the dawn of their motherhood! Romantic to her
finger-tips, modern in her views, up-to-date in her outlook, Tara yet had the
spirit of ancient Indian womanhood in her blood. From the time that her eyes
had learnt to search for a hero for her life’s drama, she regarded marriage as
the symbol and sacrament of love, and dreamed of motherhood as the crown and
consummation of womanhood. She longed to live the poetry she could not realise
in writing–longed to be Life’s masterpiece...!
As days advanced, she became weak and used to sway,
while walking, like the stem of a slender plant, and when sitting droop like a
water-lily weighed with its own heavy pollen. And even in this state she never
failed to feed me, to caress me, to bid me good-night and good-morrow. My joy
at my mistress’s radiant motherhood knew no bounds. I used to long for the
feathers of a peacock, in order to demonstrate through dance my delight at the
event. But my joy and hers, and every one else’s that knew her was not to be
for long. She became unwell unexpectedly and miscarriage trod on the toes of
illness. Those were anxious days and nights, doctors came and went with mute signs
and hushed whispers, and nurses attended on her by turns, moving about as
noiselessly as the dim-white streaks of dawn. From my cage, I could see every
little thing that happened to my angel. I was there in spirit near her all the
while and prayed to the merciful gods to spare her life at least, if not that
of the unborn one.
Tara was on the road to recovery. Her progress was
slow but steady. All her illness disappeared, but only after leaving its victim
pale and weak. She could never be her former self again, never could get back
her original health and hilarity. The painful experience toned down much of her
buoyancy and much of her beauty. Yet she felt happy because she had been given
another lease of life. Tara was Tara, as far as love of life was concerned.
That night, Tara felt restless in her bed. She
changed sides–as often as a politician changes sides–stared with wild eyes into
the enveloping darkness. She suddenly leapt to her feet and came straight to my
cage. There seemed to be a terrible fire in her head. Her body was quivering
like an aspen leaf and disappointment peeped from her tearful eyes. My heart
reached out to her in the hour of her tribulation and I showed my anguish by
nestling near her as much as possible.
He appeared in the doorway,–personification of
anger, image of irritation!
“Coming...”–moaned Tara, with a choking throat.
“I did not call you….”–sternly came the answer.
“Sorry…then”–went forth the quick apology.
“But–why are you awake still?”
“Did not get sleep……..”
“You didn’t try sleep–I know your tricks…”
“Eager to do detective work, I suppose!...You
think....I am afraid of you”–he laughed hysterically,–and, laughing, went out
of the house.
Tara stood rooted to the ground, a statue of
alabaster fixed against a background of black! Hot tears trickled down her pale
cheeks and anon sobs and sighs and uncontrollable wailing....
“Sister, sister, for my sake, for your health’s
sake, for God’s sake....” I screeched out in my own inchoate way. She became
restful after a supreme attempt. “That this is not proper, that he should not
slide down the path, even you didn’t warn him...”–her tremulous silver voice
seemed to appeal to me...
Verily, her hopes in my interference were not
unjustified. I recalled to my mind how in days gone by, in the era of the
epics, in the period of Puranas and Prabandhas–parrots played
their part as messengers of romance, as aribtrators of the love-tangles of
estranged lovers. And is not the chariot of Cupid drawn by parrots? Yes….I
remembered that, as a race, we had our honoured place in human loves, as
love-makers and peace-makers. But that was in the mythic past–in distant
forgotten days! We have fallen, I confess with shame, from that high and palmy
state. I felt wretched at my own inability to console my beloved rnistress,–to
be of any service to her in the terrible hour of her tragedy. I felt wretched,
but I could realise the truth that the eyes that once have learnt to wonder at
the artificial but alluring parade of paint and powder will never like to look
at domestic beauty,–that the bee that once sips the honey of glittering and
gaudy flowers will never think of
simple, lovely flowers! But….how I tell her this?
As Tara stood up, she dashed against my cage, and
in that rather violent impact the cage door got loose. It was a timely hint
from Providence which I was not slow to catch. Without a thought of her or her
condition–I fluttered out. She was too bowed down with sorrow, too absorbed in
thought, to notice my escape. I hopped on to the balcony.
Moonlight’s silver-white veil was over everything.
Responsive as a violin; the trees sent forth soft sounds at the touch of the
wizard wind. The infinite seemed to be embracing the finite in the fluttering
folds of space. But not for me–not certainly at that time–was the enjoyment of
the feast of Beauty. I spread out my pinions and flew with utmost speed. I
over- took him at last.
He was ascending the steps of his pleasure palace,
his earthly Paradise in which dwelt his enchanting Eve! Fearlessly and shamelessly,
and without even so much as looking back, he knocked. He called her by her name
but I couldn’t catch it properly. As the door opened, he entered and bolted it.
At first, I settled upon the lampless lamp-post
opposite the house. But as I was eager to get inside that house, and see and
hear things for myself, I taxed and taxed my poor untutored brain. Ere long a
god-sent opportunity presented itself, as the window of a room in the upper
story was flung open. I flew with noiseless wings, and ensconced myself
silently at the top corner of the window. From that vantage point the whole
interior was visible.
The silk mosquito curtain of the lavishly decorated
bed was half drawn. Folded up in the curving shape of a question mark, with
head sunk and almost hidden in the soft depths of the silken cushions, she lay.
He leant over her in the posture of prayer…syllabling softly–“Wake up, my queen
and flash upon me your starry smile.…”–as if he was invoking the blessings of a
goddess!
She turned on her side, as if in dream, and
continued her pretended sleep. Waiting for a minute to see if she would wake up
of her own accord, and feeling disappointed, he caught both her hands and made
her sit up. She could not keep her balance as one who felt dizzy, and would
have fallen back into her original posture if he had not lifted her up bodily.
Both tumbled on to the low Persian divan near by. She was almost at his mercy,
it seemed, lying limp and quiet in his lap like a pet cat. “What is
this….sleep?”–he tickled the rose of her lip with the tip of his finger.
She awoke like one just shaking off sleep, looked
at him blankly and in differently, then surveyed the apartment with the same
blank and indifferent look, raised her jeweled fingers to her painted lips,
yawned lazily, nestled her head in his lap and pretended sleep once more.
She was marvelously attractive–with her burgeoning
youth and made up beauty. Youth was tingling in every fiber of her body. The
sins of her flesh and the sensations of her youth had left no trace upon the
vigour of her body or the contours of her form. The roses still bloomed in her
dimpled cheeks and the curves in her coral lips could rewrite history still.
Yes, she was marvellously attractive! But then, are
not the hooded again cobra and the striped tigress fascinating?
Fondling her cheek with one hand, he attempted to
draw her head to his chest. Her exploding fury spoiled his fun: “How
rude....”–she shot forth with wanton force and struggled to be free. The
well-versed lover used all his arts to tickle her into liveliness and laughter.
She was resolute adamant! Even her erstwhile half-opened eyes were now shut in
sleep.
He rose and walked up and down, head forward, hands
locked behind....brows knit up. He stopped, snatched the betel-leaves in the
silver plate, tore them to bits and flung them at her one by one and then in a
shower. He then began winding the gramophone but gave up the idea suddenly, as
his eye caught sight of the rose-water spray on the ebony stand. With a
brain-wave he jumped at it. It was a lovely thing wrought of wine-yellow gold,
studded with carbuncles of fiery scarlet and flame-red cinnamon-stones. Its
delicate neck–curved like the crescent moon–gleamed with the rainbow of the
milky opal. A passionate young Cupid with wings on the alert, made up its
fragrant mouth. It was a rare work of exquisite art, birth-day gift to her ten
years back from her then paramour! He scanned it with widening eyes and
recalled how she had not told him from whom it was, in spite of his repeated
entreaties. In a mood of frenzy he had once decided to pre-sent her something
more costly, something more exquisite, and make her forget her old lover’s old
souvenir. But he had not kept his word.
He lifted it up, neared the divan with silent steps
and sprinkled the scented water on the sleeping beauty....sprinkled till the
contents were empty! The fragrant shower drenched her fully. But she was still
silent, still sleeping!
He was vexed, tired. “I am going,” he announced
abruptly, walked up to the door, rattled it slightly to indicate his departure.
But she did not even stir. He returned, bent over her and asked in a
whisper–“Shall I go?” She made a soft movement, but no reply.
“So you were awake all the while! I mean....you
have awakened just now”–he bubbled over in ecstacy, moved closer, and attempted
to place his hand on her shoulder.
“Enough of your love-sport…..” she hissed
threateningly.
He pleaded with her, begged her to be kind, But she
was as wilful and wanton as Satya when she spurned Krishna. A feeling of
injured pride making him tremble from head to foot–he boasted: “See,
jewels,–heaps of them, that will bend you under their weight will be yours!
I’ll go and bring them now, just now.”
“Sure?”–she questioned, approvingly, soft smiles of
satisfaction filling her dimples.
He dashed out of her presence. She swelled with
pride.
I left my perch in the corner, to which I was
rooted for long, with tears bedimming my eyes, and winged my way home to my
untenanted and un for cage. All was silent. Tara was in her bed. Fretting my
meagre brains, I sat on the top rod of my metallic shutter brooding on what I
had seen, and guessing that worse was to follow.
Then………
With hurrying steps he came, throwing open the door
with a bang weird face sent a shiver down my spine-Huddling I held my breath!
Straight he went into the room. And soon there came
out the incoherent noises of things being scattered and thrown pell-mell. He
then went up to Tara, gave her a violent shaking by way of awakening her and asked
for the keys.
“I don’t know where they are....”–she answered
indifferently in her sleep.
Without hesitation, he rolled her to a side,
upturned her pillow and walked away with the bunch of keys lying there.
The iron safe in the corner was being opened! Tara
heard the sound, sat up and gazed with tearful eyes. Like melted dew from the
cup of a lotus flower, tears flowed down her cheeks, silent and hot.
He made his way back from the iron safe, with the
precious jewel-box in his hand. As he came near the door, he met the unexpected
sight of Tara observing him but he did not shrink. On the contrary, with a
sense of bravado he asked mockingly–“You are awake. Are you?”
Tara didn’t utter a syllable. She just stood up,
approached him with downcast eyes and stood almost touching him, with her
pathetic gaze fixed on his feet. “I’m going....”–he said callously.
She tried to take his hand in hers and say
something.
But she couldn’t, as the heartless man hit her
right on the heavy jewel-box in his hand.
Like a tender plant cut at the roots, Tara
collapsed at his feet–at her own husband’s feet–without a word....a groan....!
I writhed and yelled in pain! Hearing my screams he
fixed his fierce stare on me and sent the bunch of keys flying at me. Before I
could realise what was happening, my left leg and wing broke land bled. I fell
to the ground from my high pedestal with a thud! Nearing, he scanned me for a
minute with contempt and hate, as if he was sure that I was a part of Tara, and
kicked me with all his might. I reached the corner of the room, my loosened
feathers flying in the air. By the time I could gather my wits and look round,
he had vanished!
Not having enough energy to move, I lay in a corner
looking at Tara from a distance. She was still, frightfully still. I waited for
a time to see if she would move. But no. ...
After a little time. ...my anxiety urging me
on....I dragged myself again to where she was and fanned her gently with my
broken wing, and then touched her with my beak. But……..
Tara was no more! My beloved mistress, my guardian
angel, will never more speak to me in this world. When she,--to whom her
husband was her only life,--finds him hating her. ...why need she live any
longer, and for whom. ...?
And me? .,. ..Giving up my inherent longing for
liberty-was it not for my dear lady s sake that I reconciled myself to the Iron
bars of my cage, in regarding it philosophically as a hermitage? And she having
gone what need have I of cage or freedom, sweet fruits or caressing words, or
life itself? But when is the release from my earthly mould to be? The sly cat
from whose nefarious schemes and outstretched claws I effected my escape many a
time, may she be merciful enough to gather me to my ever-dear Tara’s bosom!
That’s my only thought at present!
He,–but no! who cares to think of a sinner’s
future! He does not exist for us any more, nor we for him. Enough for the day
are the evils thereof. The mistakes of the past are more fascinating than the
truths of the future!