I detest this fellow. The reedy long-limbed rooster that Bhaskar has tied to a peg in his yard. Bhaskar is my neighbor, and his recent acquisition has upset everyone here – me, the baby, the dogs. The infernally uptight cockerel punctuates the whole day, every two minutes or less, with an ear piercing hi-pitched shrill cock-a-doodle-doo. Who said jaunty domestic fowls herald the day in and wake up the farmyard? This madcap doesn’t wake up folks, he cannot do that, he never lets them sleep in the first place. He crows when he is excited and when he is stiff bored, he draws in a fresh deep lungfull of air and crows louder and with more gusto. . He never seems to tire. He cranes his feathery neck to the sky, cocks his head to one side, and with what appears to be a wink in my direction, lets loose another volley of doodle doos that rattles my very innards.

Poor Maitreyi, the baby: she wakes up with a start every blessed minute, shaken from slumber, by the close proximity and volume of the deafening shrieks. Ravi, from the rural mien, tells me the cockerel is a fine specimen of the India-hi-bred, Giriraja. The bantam sports a long scimitar sweeping tail, and bears a regal aura, this G. His jowl and crest, they are fiery coral red and shake like aspen leaves whenever he delivers another salvo. G loves his own voice, that’s for sure. Day or night, he is up and doodle-doing - and should  he spot a snake, he is in his elements, raising Cain, yelling murder – his banshee wail reaching a crescendo that can be heard all over the district. 
‘Thank the Lord’, hisses the snake as it winds off unconcerned, ‘thank the Lord for small mercies’.

Serpents cannot hear.

Once or twice, when Bhaskar is around, he unstrings the cord that moors him, and the fellow fluffs his feathers, flaps and quakes, before strutting all over, and for driving home he is of regal descent, he even dares to saunter along the compound wall that separates Bhaskar’s brick house from mine: Measured strides, twitching his mane and tail, irritating my dogs no end: to cap off his dare devil trapeze act, he perches on my gate, drawing attention by continuously crowing his unwelcome presence. My dogs are waiting – one false move, and the chicken is a goner. He knows it, but he loves brinkmanship. He swaggers about, prening himself non-chalantly a mere inch beyond the curved canines and their reach. Rain or shine, dark or light – Giri is in his elements. When, on rare seconds of interlude he gathers his breath for another blow, he mutters another odd kuk kuk kuk cuck which makes me even more mad.

This morning, an eerie silence wakes me. The familiar kuk kuk kuk, cock-a-doodle do kuk kuk kuk is missing.

Hey Lakshmi what happened to Giri the raja, fellow's got a sore throat eh? Ha, ha, I chuckle.

No, Bhaskaranna family is having him for lunch today.

The statement, stark and straight, sends a tremor up my spine.

As I passed by Bhaskara’s house at noon, he stands at his door, “Sorry you are a veggie daktarey or I’d have sent you some delicious curry ”

I didn’t reply, but moved on. On my pathway's edge, beside the open garbage bin, fluttering in the breeze lie a few discarded stray lifeless feathers. Inside of me, I felt a pang. For all the hell Giri raised – I suddenly miss his familiar koo and kuks. My dogs too, are listless, ears standing, wondering how or why Giri hasn’t yet made his presence felt and heard.

Strange isn’t it, sounds, smells and scenes get permanently etched inside one's eye and heart – to play and replay. Giri’s strut and siren are two new items that will now on reverberate and echo forever in my inner ear, sending stabs of guilt; for, many times when he was around, I had wished him dead. In fact wished him caught and quartered by Claws and Jaws. 
R I P, you verily were the raja among roosters.