Fond recollections

Pet birds and their habits:

by K. G. H. Munidasa

Keeping caged-birds was a tradition in our family, passed on from one generation to the other, so to say. I remember my grandfather keeping, one time or another, many caged mynahs, a grackle or two and a large parakeet.

A particular Common Mynah my father once kept was very notorious with the visitors to our home. It lived a free life, and once set free in the morning it would not go back to the cage until dusk or even later. Seated in a prominent perch, like the roof top or an overhanging branch of a tree, it would spend its time preening or singing.

The moment it spotted someone coming up the footpath it would first send out a vocal warning to the stranger and then fly over to attack visito’sr feet. It pecked or clawed away shrieking furiously, until someone from the house rushed up and drove the mynah away and protected the visitor, but not before his feet started to bleed in several places.

There was the story of a mynah that my grandpa once kept as a pet, which followed its master wherever he went. One afternoon the mynah went with grandpa to the chena, where a crop of manioc was being harvested. A stream of men and women climbed up the hill to purchase their requirements.

One of them who called over to buy his quota was a man from a so-called lower caste, who hailed from a village some miles away. He collected his manioc and left with a courteous bow of his head to grandpa, carrying his half-full bag woven out of coconut leaves, on his shoulder.

After the work was over my grandpa looked for his pet mynah and found it missing. He called out several times to it and there was no answering note from the bird. Normally, upon hearing his voice the mynah would come rushing to him in all haste.

He waited for the bird until nightfall and traced his steps back home. That evening, reclining in his bed, he thought back trying to figure out what could have happened to the bird or could anyone have stolen it.

There was no possibility of a predatory bird taking the mynah, because it was quite used to such dangers, being as agile and cunning as any wild bird would. One day a shikra chased it for nearly 500 yards on the wing, but by zigzagging its way through the trees, all the time muttering every scolding note at his command at the pursuing hawk, it was able to escape to the safety of the house.

The only possibility, my grandpa surmised, was that someone or another who visited the chena to purchase manioc could have surreptitiously taken the mynah away. Anyone would have loved to own a talkative bird of its calibre.

By daybreak the following morning my grandpa was on his way to the low-caste man’s village. Confronting the man, with his eyes on fire, grandpa grabbed him by the collar and demanded, “give me the mynah back or else, I shall wring your neck!” Trembling all over, the man stammered that he had not taken any bird.

Meantime, the mynah which had been held captive under a large gemming basket in the verandah of the house, with a few of the flight feathers of its wings clipped to prevent it from escaping, at once called out Thathei mun mehe innawa (Father, I am here!) My grandpa at once kicked the basket aside, picked up his prize bird and left for home, with tears in his eyes.

What had happened was that the mynah had inadvertently crept inside the man’s basket of manioc, whereupon he tied the mouth of the bag with a string and carried the bird away along with it.

A young Three-toed Kingfisher, which was rescued by me from the grips of crows, was fed solely on stream-fish. I kept it in a cage of wire netting, where a year ago a pair of leverets lived. Being wary by nature, the kingfisher would never allow me to feed it by hand.

So, as an alternative, I picked the fish off the pot and dropped them on the floor of the cage. The kingfisher swooped down, picked up the struggling fish one by one and swallowed them after battering them against the perch. This time-consuming task went on for a whole week, and no one at home was willing to give me a helping hand.

Sometimes, for an entire morning the kingfisher was left forlorn and hungry, while a dozen or so fingerlings swam about in the pot a mere four feet below. Returning home from school everyday I would promptly attend to feeding the kingfisher, even before I partook of my own meals.

One afternoon I peeped into the pot of fish and found that their number was much reduced. Could anyone else have fed the bird in my absence? There was only the mother left at home while I was away at school, but I did not make any inquiries from her.

I ate my belated lunch in silence. From where I was seated I could see a part of the cage and the kingfisher sitting in its normal posture. All of a sudden the bird started to bob its head up and down. The next moment it swooped down and returned to the perch with a struggling fish in its beak. I could not believe my eyes, and called out the mother from the kitchen to break the good news to her.

The day I captured the kingfisher many at home proposed that we better send it off to the zoological gardens. But my father turned down the idea, and no one said anything about it then or later. Father knew well that I was capable of caring for any young bird or for that matter, any young animal.

Once it was a sick young crow out of the nest that I brought home to keep, and on another occasion a baby koel after it was thrown out of the nest by its foster parents, and being mobbed by other crows.

My kingfisher did not come to any harm, and my responsibility was to see that the pot was never empty of fish. However, one evening, several weeks later, when I returned home after school I found the door of the cage ajar and the bird missing. I never tried to find out who had done it or why, nor did the mother make any comments on the disappearance of the kingfisher, either.

I was certain that my kingfisher could fend for itself, and that it would come to no harm in its jungle domain. Some days later, as I walked along the foot path to the bathing-pool in the stream, I came upon a long three-toed Kingfisher which allowed me unusually closer approach to it. I had almost touched its head with my finger tips when he flew to another perch, and bobbed its head in obvious camaraderie.

It is the fact that a caged grackle or a parakeet will fly away seeking freedom in the wilds at the first opportunity they got to escape from captivity, unmindful of the great affection bestowed on them or the tasty food given by their keeper, never caring to return to their erstwhile friends again.

It is the popular belief that such escapees are generally rejected and despised by the wild relatives and never admitted them to their flocks. But the story of a blossom-headed parakeet, once related to me by my younger brother contradicted this belief, altogether.

Though this particular parakeet was kept in a cage it was regularly set free inside the house to move about, with no hindrance from anyone. It ignored the calls of the wild flocks, which often settled in trees in the garden and invited it to join them, rather than obliging with an answering call. One day, however the poor fellow could no longer suppress its temptation and left the house to join the wild flock.

The story does not end there; off and on the pet parakeet visited the garden along with its wild brotherhood, but while the rest of the flock screamed and squeaked in their own voice, it called out the names and words he had picked up during its years in captivity.