I, Sparrow

Once upon a time, it was crowded here on this fence

We have a lot in common, you and I. The Bombay summer is upon us and time seems to slow down during these months. The list of things that annoy us seems to grow tenfold, and our mutual nemesis - the crow, is louder and even more boisterous than usual in this season. The sun features high on our list, for just as your olive skin reddens and burns under his searing breath, my chestnut wings suffer greatly - smouldering under his yoke, making every flight an enormous effort. My miniature beak is awfully dry, but I have just enough energy to speak to you.

I am a sparrow, and because you human beings are less rational beasts than I, you're scolding yourselves, "Sparrows don't talk," you're saying. "Stop being ridiculous!" Nevertheless, I'm confident you will read on, because I know, that Allah has made you human beings, just like us sparrows, highly curious creatures. Truth is, sparrows do talk, but only to those who know how to listen.

With your permission, I'd like to recount the things I've seen in Bombay this summer. Do let me? Why thank you, it does pleases me to see you smile. A sparrow seldom smiles in the summer; it takes up too much of our dwindling energy. We do, however, take immeasurable delight in seeing your dazzling white teeth, so do humour me as I chirp along.

As day breaks, I fly out over the Arabian Sea, hoping to soak my wings in the cool morning breeze. Sometimes I perch myself upon the metal rods atop ferries and catamarans, as they carry hoards of revellers and tourists towards the ancient Elephanta Caves and the Mandwa Jetty, near the coastal town of Alibaug. I cannot fly behind these boats like the mighty seagulls do; my wings aren't strong enough for that. Neither can I dive sharply to fetch the bread crumbs thrown at them by tourists; I am merely a passenger, like the tourists who shriek gleefully with every catch. I used to wonder at these revellers with their humongous sunglasses and colourful clothes, until I followed them one day to see what they did once they disembarked our boat. I saw wretched males intoxicating themselves heedlessly and females, dressed like the common prostitutes of the night, accompanying them in sinful ignominy and I thanked Allah for making me a tiny sparrow and not one of them.

Once the sun has reached its peak, all of Bombay rushes for shelter. People gather under bus stops, under flyovers, under trees and under the large cinema hoardings, securing temporary respite from their tormentor. Even the cricketers reluctantly pull out their stumps from the Earth and settle down to loudly scrutinize the day's play under canvas tents at the city's maidaans, their white uniforms now a muddy shade of brown. I enjoy these noisy conversations because while each expert is busy putting forward his analysis with great confidence without bothering to hear out anybody else, they all fail to notice my presence, rubbing my weary wings against a slab of ice kept on a table in one corner.  Absolute bliss.

Although I may seem lonesome and quiet, I have made a fair few friends during my summers spent in Bombay. An albino fisherman who sells mangoes instead of fish during these humid days allows me to rest in his basket, which he carries over his silvery head. He covers every backstreet of Colaba calling out to his faithful female patrons who in turn, flock to their doors and windows, their haggling helmets firmly fastened. A sugarcane-juice vendor who refreshes thousands of worshippers each day outside the Jama Masjid calls me his 'little friend' and laughs at me as I poke my beak at the piles of bagasse which he collects in large blue bins. I am proud to be an acquaintance of Mountbatten, a monstrous racehorse and champion of the McDowell's Indian Derby. Although he pretends not to, he secretly enjoys it when I race with him from above, soaring across the Mahalaxmi Racecourse feeling like an eagle. I busy myself in these friends thus, and unlike the families I observe from windows, I take no holidays, host no relatives and barely ever lose my temper.

Those amongst you whom Allah has blessed with a sharp and intuitive mind must surely be wondering why a sparrow like myself has no friends of the same species: sparrows. Well, the other sparrows have hidden themselves from your basely human eyes but I bravely decided to........uff, what is the use in lying? Most of my kind are dead; some killed because they inhaled the poisonous clouds that your cars and buses leave behind, others could not resist the call of Satan's Hair, what I believe you human beings have christened railway lines? The few that survived have either left Bombay for the safer sands of Mauritius, or have disappeared into some obscure neighbourhood that I have neither the will nor the energy in my wings to find.  It's no matter, I never asked you to pity me, why have you hidden your teeth again? Such shimmering white teeth you have, like the moonlight. After a few more sunsets, my seventh monsoon will be upon me and as a wise old Bombay sparrow once said: when your seventh monsoon nears, one must expect Allah to send His Angel of Death to your abode, for we sparrows have never lived beyond seven monsoons.

Please, I pray you wipe those tears from your eyes, sweet listener. Smile at once. The monsoon is my favourite time of the year - those elusive insects who sleep under the ground all summer shall crawl above it once again, and I shall feast on them for one last time. The Arab tourists will descend upon Bombay at long last, bringing with them the scent of that heavenly attar perfume that I so adore. Oh what a fine ending that would be, nestled comfortably on a branch with a whiff of attar as I praise Him for one final time. What? Oh yes, you're right. I know I said we don't smile in the Bombay summer but there you go - I guess I had the energy to smile after all.