IN fact it was the main (if not the only) reason I dropped in into his place. His, here is Des, a Mangalorean Catholic who became a good friend of mine. Our common interest was bridge – rudiments of which table game I had picked up very young. I was fairly good at the stuff, even ending up champion in the college interclass contract bridge tourney.

Occasionally, some bored coffee estate owners, many of who are Mangalore residents, rang me up to complete a foursome at a table, usually in some rambling rich ancient colonial type bungalows they occupied. Most, apart from sunning and sipping, had nothing better to while away time – they were in their elements only in their coffee patches, discussing animatedly about bean price and blossom showers.

Des, soon lost interest in the cerebral card game, however, by now we found other common interests. But how much can one converse theology? Soon, I found myself getting bored talking about advent of Christianity in India and such like topics. What kept me coming back was, in the sprawling glimmering red oxide polished floor verandah of his mansion, a fairly large sized bird cage which housed a parakeet.

Bounty’s been here for eight years now, comments Des pouring himself another peg

Bounty, looked quite alert and healthy. A rose ringed parakeet with bright green plumage and a long pointed tail. Bounty, as if on cue on hearing his name, would cock his head as only parrots can, and look quizzed, scratching his beak base with his right claw.

He loved cashew nuts, the scamp: and rich Mangalore people have enough stock of raw cashew in their larders. He would almost grab a nut and feverishly chomp it, sometimes using one foot to help him rotate the nut as he chewed voraciously.

At dusk, Des or his mum would cover his cage with a large tablecloth, shutting off light, and distraction. This helps the bird sleep. And he’d doze, propped up on his small swing, head tucked into his breast. At crack of dawn, the cloth would be yanked off and Bounty would be back squawking to high heavens.

He knew a few words too, and could surprise the unwary by mimicking the bark of their pet dog, Pirate. He took immense pleasure in goading Pirate into a growling frenzy mouthing a few low growls and yips: Now pirate, was quite perplexed, always assuming that some other cur was around and go round circles ferreting the non –existent intruder. Bounty could also call out names, and he could yell Des, Dessseee, thank you – among a few other in his lexicon when it fancied him.

I sat glued for hours watching the bird. His antics, expressions, movements, all so measured and cultivated. I felt revolted that he was imprisoned. One evening I noted that he’d plucked a few plumulae out, exposing a small area of bare skin. He sat immobile, with a bland face, even rejecting a nut or two offered as sop. Stress. Avian stress. Long confinement, boredom, insipid diet – any number of reasons, but some birds do psyche out, ending up plucking every feather as a manifestation of their tormented mental state. Bounty looked at me with his beady eyes, now like glass orbs sans any sparkle.

Hey Des, do you clip Bounty’s wings?

No, we’ve never touched him in eight years. 

Many bird-owners, periodically clip the wing tips to prevent the bird from trying to fly or hurt itself in the attempt within their confined cages. As we chatted, and the evening coalesced into night, Des’s sister drew the curtains over his cage earlier than usual: Bounty needs sleep, she says, he’s looks dull and ill. Des is in the kitchen fixing himself a long one. The verandah was empty and silent. I shoved aside a corner of the cloth covering, and Bounty was sitting there all awake yanking out a tail feather with all his avian might. I reach for the tiny cage door and unlatch its hook, quickly putting the cover back.

Maybe I was imagining, or hearing things, but I distinctly heard the parakeet whisper kank-kyu (that’s the way Bounty pronounced thank you). Des rings me up at seven in the morning the next day. Heard this doc! Bounty’s gone – that bounder Pirate must have manipulated the cage and got the fellow.

I later confirmed from other sources that the maid, Flora, had yanked the cover off and much to her shock saw Bounty make a quick dash out, into freedom. But she stayed mum, and let Desmond and his tree of Saldanhas presume Pirate was the culprit. It saved her, her job. I dropped in half an hour to see the empty cage – and a thick chain, mooring Pirate to the verandah corner. Again, I could be wrong, but I though Pirate gave me a knowing wink. It meant ‘good job buddy’.

Call me crazy, but I am sure animals have a way of communicating. To each other, and with us. Only we are not listening. Strangely, whenever a flock of parakeets fkies overhead, I can hear them screaming and chasing each other in the wide free blue sky - and I hear their joyous calls sound like a chorus of kank-kyus