On 17 October 2020, I went to my terrace in the morning as usual. I had no idea of what awaited me.
As soon as I opened the door, my gaze fell on a pigeon whose head was pointing upwards and its body touching the wall. I wondered why it wasn’t flying away. When I went closer, I was horrified to find a part of a kite string sticking out of its neck. There was a little patch of dried blood below it. Here is the pic. The hapless bird had obviously met with an accident from a kite string hanging about on the roof. Its throat was slit and it was dead. Nothing could be done. I told my husband Sukhangshu about it and asked him to make sure that the garbage picker takes it away. It was a working day and I had to go to office. In the afternoon, Sukhangshu, a professional actor, called to say that he was going to a recording studio. He would return at night. “What about the pigeon?” I asked. “Neither the garbage picker nor the MCD van came. It is still inside the bin, covered in a polythene bag.” Burying the bird somewhere was out of question, since we live on the second floor. We now had a dead body in our house, I thought wryly. My troubled conscience kept on tormenting me all through the day. I just couldn’t focus on my work in the office. Next morning, a Sunday, my weekly off, I found the garbage bin turned upside down. The pigeon had disappeared. Its blue-grey wings and feathers were strewn in one corner of my balcony. A stray cat was descending the staircase with silent steps…
Here is a tragic love story. Interpret it as you will. No words, only pictures here.
In this corona phase, movie makers will, perhaps, revert to the olden days when censors were too conservative. So things had to be only suggestive without revealing much. As in this pic here. Or like a bra, I dare say.
photo-blog with non-fiction content