A small bird landed on our kitchen window sill. It was drenched from the down-pour, and was shivering. On closer inspection we found it was a hatchling – its wings were not fully developed, and it seemed weak. It kept pecking at the glass door of the window, peering inside with a piteous look – and begging to be taken inside.
The mother in Vandana took over, and soon the small bird was ensconced on our balcony and fed.
We tried to identify what kind of a bird it could be – could it be the young one of a pigeon? Or a young hawk possibly? Or a sea gull? We did not know. And we were still puzzled as to how it landed on our 9th floor window sill when it clearly had not yet developed the wings to fly.
As it happens the bird was christened Tillu, and given a small card-board box in which to sleep. A small hole was made in the cardboard box so that Tillu could poke its head out, and peck at the food.
After a couple of days we let Tillu out of the box. We hoped that as it had become stronger it would fly away. But its wings were still poorly undeveloped, and the bird seemed unwilling to fly away.
A week passed and it still showed no interest in flying away – though now it looked quite hale and hearty, looked plump with all the food, and had started creating a nuisance on our balcony.
We had no intention of keeping a pet – but this bird seemed to have latched on to us – and stubbornly refused to go.
We briefly contemplated chucking Tillu over the balcony – so that it would be forced – like Jonathan Livingstone Seagull – to spread its wings, and fly. But given its stubbon attitude, we did not want to risk it.
Finally I and my son took Tillu in a cardboard box to the nearby corniche overlooking the Sharjah bay. There is a mini-forest in the corniche with neat manicured lawns and trees – and we released the bird there. As soon as it was released from its box, it ambled out and started scratching the lawn and looking for worms.
It seemed totally domesticated, and when we tried to frighten it to take to flight, it merely looked at us with disdain and went back to its pecking in a leisurely and unruffled manner.
We left it there. The last sight we had when we left the corniche was that of Tillu intently pecking away at the lawn.
We had a couple of hypothesis on the bird. We believe this bird was actually a chicken – or a young turkey, which was supposed to have ended in a cooking pot of our up-stairs neighbours. It must have made a dramatic escape from the upstairs balcony, jumped off it, and landed on to our window sill. The fact that it is a chicken or perhaps a young turkey perhaps explains its totally domesticated behavior and its inability to fly.
This is a hypothesis. Our vanity would want us to believe that it is the young one of a magnificent bird like a hawk, geese or a sea gull. We would like to believe that it was part of a magnificient flock of geese that was migrating from the North Pole.
A couple of days later I revisited the corniche to check whether the bird was still around. It was of course not around – it had completely vanished from the scene. There were a few pigeons and sparrows that flew away as soon as I approached them – but no sign of Tillu.
I hoped it had flown away and joined its mates somewhere. I did not want to think of any other possibility.
The mother in Vandana took over, and soon the small bird was ensconced on our balcony and fed.
We tried to identify what kind of a bird it could be – could it be the young one of a pigeon? Or a young hawk possibly? Or a sea gull? We did not know. And we were still puzzled as to how it landed on our 9th floor window sill when it clearly had not yet developed the wings to fly.
As it happens the bird was christened Tillu, and given a small card-board box in which to sleep. A small hole was made in the cardboard box so that Tillu could poke its head out, and peck at the food.
After a couple of days we let Tillu out of the box. We hoped that as it had become stronger it would fly away. But its wings were still poorly undeveloped, and the bird seemed unwilling to fly away.
A week passed and it still showed no interest in flying away – though now it looked quite hale and hearty, looked plump with all the food, and had started creating a nuisance on our balcony.
We had no intention of keeping a pet – but this bird seemed to have latched on to us – and stubbornly refused to go.
We briefly contemplated chucking Tillu over the balcony – so that it would be forced – like Jonathan Livingstone Seagull – to spread its wings, and fly. But given its stubbon attitude, we did not want to risk it.
Finally I and my son took Tillu in a cardboard box to the nearby corniche overlooking the Sharjah bay. There is a mini-forest in the corniche with neat manicured lawns and trees – and we released the bird there. As soon as it was released from its box, it ambled out and started scratching the lawn and looking for worms.
It seemed totally domesticated, and when we tried to frighten it to take to flight, it merely looked at us with disdain and went back to its pecking in a leisurely and unruffled manner.
We left it there. The last sight we had when we left the corniche was that of Tillu intently pecking away at the lawn.
We had a couple of hypothesis on the bird. We believe this bird was actually a chicken – or a young turkey, which was supposed to have ended in a cooking pot of our up-stairs neighbours. It must have made a dramatic escape from the upstairs balcony, jumped off it, and landed on to our window sill. The fact that it is a chicken or perhaps a young turkey perhaps explains its totally domesticated behavior and its inability to fly.
This is a hypothesis. Our vanity would want us to believe that it is the young one of a magnificent bird like a hawk, geese or a sea gull. We would like to believe that it was part of a magnificient flock of geese that was migrating from the North Pole.
A couple of days later I revisited the corniche to check whether the bird was still around. It was of course not around – it had completely vanished from the scene. There were a few pigeons and sparrows that flew away as soon as I approached them – but no sign of Tillu.
I hoped it had flown away and joined its mates somewhere. I did not want to think of any other possibility.
