In the name of a hybrid avian Gangaram was a perfect combination of a West African rose-ringed parakeet and a scarlet macaw somewhere from East Brazil or may be some Trinidadian islands. If I try to attempt to pen down his beauty I may probably run out of this infinite page. From his ivory toned strong beak to the end of his tail feathers his body was no less than 24 inches long. His creamy white almost featherless face had a unique combination of patchwork of black & lush green stripes and he also sported a black and red neck ring due to his West African genes of either one of his parents in him. His velvet smooth head was a scarlet that I have not seen anywhere else. I remember vividly that Gangaram’s neck ring had an exact number of nine black and nine red polka dots like clusters of tiny feathers set alternatively which were flawlessly identical and perfect in each and every way. I used to lovingly refer to his neck-ring as a necklace. Many a times when Gangaram would settle down quietly on either one of my knees I would playfully count and touch with the tip of my right hand index finger those polka dots of his necklace over and over again until he would get sick of counting back with me and fly away to his wrought iron cage. From his chest to abdomen a gradual and ever deepening beautiful golden yellow colour was matchless. His tangerine orange and inky blue big back was reassurance of his denoting Caribbean ancestral. However, at the same time his wide jaw was confronting evidence that his ancestors were bonafide habitants of rocky regions of Brazil. His under and upper tail covert feathers were a thick blend of deep purple, charcoal and velvet black. I can’t even closely express the stunning beauty of the plumage of his flight feathers; they were an astonishingly symmetrical arrangement of the rest of the colours on his body. Even though all these colours were really distinct but many at times at twilight I noticed that they were more subtle and polymorphic than the shell of a tortoise or a dark-morph black and steel gray jaguar on a thick dark night, like the ones I have seen on TV in National Geography shows.

His eyes were relatively large for his narrow face but they were perfect glossy white, which are typical of a parakeet. Even though his macaw characteristic were quite prominent and almost over powering those eyes spoke loud and clear that he was a class apart scion of West Africa.

To my young eyes Gangaram’s full bloom spectrum of colours was no different than the prism that my father had lovingly bought for me at a railway trade show held in Vadodara (then Baroda) in the Western state of Gujarat, India; when I was in grade two. I used to place it on the kitchen counter exactly where the sun would hit it the best just before setting down for the day. All of a sudden the translucent prism would get vivaciously alive and a beautiful spectrum of colours would start to dance on the pale and gray-cemented stripes on the kitchen floor. Somewhere in the prism, where I could not touch, it had a holographic logo that read “Bhartiya Rail” on the left and “Indian Railways” on the right side and right beneath these inscriptions was an image of a majestically raging steam engine. I would sometimes run my fingers from one dimension of the prism to the other, and to the other in desperate pursuit to somehow touch the iconic symbol of the nation’s one of many prides…Indian Railways! I always wondered as a young child how these tiny little waves of vibgyor were packed up in a triangle of that prism and how blissfully and generously the prism allowed them to be free under the warmth of sunrays to be themselves. I used to literally bounce in and out of those colourful waves until the sun would gradually disappear from that little patch of our kitchen window in order to make room for the moon.

My uncle and his family lived next door. He was a well-known dentist. He worked for the Dental College of Amritsar. He was so well known and respected that his friends, colleagues, his students and patients addressed him as Guruji. He was an undisputed master of dentistry, well versed and a mighty man with a marshmallow heart that he could not kill a housefly, hence the name Guruji. If genes are the only blueprint to consociate with family then our families were not related at all. However, I grew up learning that ancestors from both families came absolutely empty handed from Lahore, Pakistan at the time of Indo-Pak partition. They started their lives together in small rental portions of a big Haveli (a mansion constructed during the Mughal Empire). Circumstances put these two families together and together they struggled and emerged not only strong and resilient but winners. Their bond grew thicker and purer than blood. That Haveli was the birthplace of both my brothers and three sons of my uncle. I am as close to these three cousins of mine as I am to my brothers. However, by the time my mother got pregnant with me both the families had moved out from the Haveli in the walled city and built adjacent houses to each other’s in a new development of city of Amritsar. “You are not the product of the old Haveli, hence very dark and overweight at the time of birth”, such were the comments made by all these five brother of mine but I was least bothered because I knew that in the end of the day I was but a rotten spoilt brat at the hands of these five brothers and adults from both families. Few years after my birth came Gangaram! Gangaram the exotic parrot was a token of a loving gesture to our extended family next door from Dr. Parekh who happened to be my uncle’s friend.

He broke into the void all of a sudden that my mother’s untimely death had left behind for my father Singh Sahib.

One of the many cemented dividing posts between the two homes where Gangaram’s cage was placed became a tranquil and ceremonial extension of both families and Gangaram’s wrought iron cage became a magnetic field towards which children and adults alike from the neighbourhood were drawn as if under a spell to appreciate this wonder of nature. The whisper of the tides and the swaying of forest trees were foreign to Gangaram but he had found himself a loving home in and around the wrought iron cage, on a manmade cement post, where sun caressed his back and moon beams kissed him to sleep.

I grew up cartwheeling not only within the boundaries of my family home but those of my uncle’s home and I discovered the fulfillment of joy, safety and comfort and learnt many a lessons of traditions and values in a very non-verbal but promised way. I can say for fact that our extended family next door was a beautiful branch of our family tree. We would be so incomplete without them.

My father was generally addressed as Singh Sahib by his friends, neighbours and his co-workers. Originally Arabic and Pashto, “Sahib” in it self is a loanword that picked up like wild fire in India during British rule. Simple masses of my back home country used to address the legitimate authorities of that time as Sahib (master). Over the years it however transformed into an excepted, clichéd and much humble Indian suffix for a mister. It has replaced sense of authority in a rather Gandhian and humane style. My father, Singh Sahib worked for the Indian Railways, Northern Zone in the Department of Telegraph (now closed for over 20 years). He streamlined his schedule by making deliberate decisions about tasks and activities around the house that were crucially important to him and identified skillfully his most important priorities. Singh Sahib the single parent had no choice but to give himself permission to make choices wisely to accommodate both his family and profession life evenly. Gangaram was quite familiar with the rut of Singh Sahib’s life due to his natural wisdom. My father often times talked about railway schedules, changes new regulations, and so forth. Gangaram listened and listened carefully to each and every detail. Hence, he was as acquainted and well informed with the railway schedules as my father Singh Sahib. Railway station was not so far from our house. One could easily listen to the trains speeding up or slowing down. He would often make fearless and wise remarks like, “oh dear I hear Superfast hurriedly approaching platform number one, and you are still rolling flat bread for your hungry children, you are going to be late for work today, pace up Singh Sahib before you get in trouble”.

It was absolutely normal for all of us around to hear such quips from Gangaram. He always talked sense, sometimes far better than his human counterparts. So much so that I remember him once mischievously disclosing Mr. Sharma’s cards loud and clear to everyone during a poker game on Diwali night. Other than Mr. Sharma everyone found it hilarious.

Singh Sahib loved the game of chess. He owned proudly a Sycamore and mahogany robust chess set that once belonged to my grandfather. I used to run my fingertips on the board occasionally, files were finished matt, almost coarse whereas the ranks were rather glossy, I remember just that much about the board. Singh Sahib my father not only travelled in books but in the game of chess, both were surreal for him. A game of chess was as powerful and persuasive for him as a good book. Singh Sahib believed in the parallel universe of each bishop, rook, knight, king and queen and pawn. A parallel universe where physical laws and cunning strategies existed side by side just like in human world. Sometimes I used to find his long rounds of chess very boring not to mention time consuming and complain that the game was full of deceit, I did not know any better. Singh Sahib would often view it differently and clarify, “focus on the principle of value by remaining in the range of rules, and do not be blind to folly and cunning…just like in real life”. Often times it did not make sense to me at all as I was very young but now it does…that the game of chess in no different than the game of life. Surreal and intense! Singh Sahib used to take his time with the upkeep and quality sustention of his valued possession. On bright sunny days he would sit down in the front yard of our small-sized family home and painstakingly buff each and every piece of chess with a semi synthetic jay cloth and later spray a wood-skin varnish. He used to be very patient and artistic with leveling an even layer of varnish on each piece without ever leaving behind any cracks or flakes and then later he would cover the set with a clear mesh-screen dome to allow the sun to soak in, in order to enhance, uphold and showcase the beauty of his chess set. Singh Sahib took the exceptionally deep glossiness of the set as an almost moral task to be taken care of regularly.

A patented wooden Dutch Coopman analog timer had an intense job to challenge and coax and track both the players during a game. Late Mr. Desraj gifted this timer to Singh Sahib. Mr. Desraj was Singh Sahib’s colleague and a great friend, who I remember was very happy the day he received a sanction of leave of absence along with a no objection certificate from Indian Railways to travel far and wide. He promised to bring back a doll for me from his European tour, a doll that was battery operated and interactive enough to give me plenty of company and derived me attention from the children in the neighbourhood. I really looked forward to his return from Europe and started the countdown to receive a fair faced doll with peculiar freckles and luscious red hair the day he took the train from railway station Amritsar to catch his international flight from New Delhi. Upon his return Mr. Desraj not only presented me with a doll as promised but surprised Singh Sahib with a Dutch Coopman analog timer for he knew better than anyone else how passionate Singh Sahib was about chess. During his short visit to our house with the gifts right after his return Mr. Desraj admired in great lengths the law and order, cleanliness, sense of punctuality and etiquette of the Europe and also shared that he was generously offered a lot of free transit passes across the continent of Europe as a token of appreciation and acknowledgment due to the virtue of him being an employee of the world renowned giant network of Indian Railways. I listened selectively to Mr. Desraj’s conversation with Singh Sahib while being in an awe of my new found object of admiration, a fair and freckled faced red hair doll.

Instinctual energy of Gangaram to palpitate in the very intensity of the game used to be almost always evident. He was never a just a spectator. “Caissa (Goddess of chess) is impressed with you, what a move Singh Sahib, what a move”!

“Bravo Mr. Nath, seems like you have done your homework today”.

“Be calculative you two, be calculative”, “darn, this one is a dead draw”!

“Wake up, wake up, both of you are under a spell of Kotov”, “checkmate”…

This is just some of the terminology I recall that Gangaram had learned from Mr. Nath and Singh Sahib while watching their frequent games of chess, sitting tightly close to the battlefield, either on the arm rest of Singh Sahib’s chair or that of Mr. Nath’s or simply sitting in the tiny swing in his manmade cage, however intently focused on the board of sixty-four. Gangaram would naturally participate in the post mortal analysis after most of these games along with Mr. Nath and Singh Sahib.

However, there were incidents of unannounced moodiness when I have witnessed Gangaram literally fly through a game at the peak of its intensity and ruin the reveal of nerve racking climax into a frivolous and unexpected act of boorishness. Often times he would waddle off swiftly towards his wrought iron cage clutching either a king, a queen or just any piece from the army between his jaws unceremoniously during an austere rather contemplative game. He would quickly close the little shutter of his cage and scream in delight, “game over Singh Sahib, game over”. Both my father and Mr. Nath would shake their heads in disbelief, run after Gangaram to get the stolen piece back. However, both of them would forget the incident shortly after and distract themselves for the rest of the evening together with world politics, sports, weather, music and events of life. Singh Sahib loved me to pieces as I was the only daughter he had and youngest one of all three children, just by default I used to get away with a lot but never in my wildest dreams I would dare to ruin his game of chess for him. It was only Gangaram who was always imminently granted a pardon for being so flagrant and aggressive.

Regardless of the fact that my uncle and his family took really good care of Gangaram’s dietary requirements, my father Singh Sahib took up the task rather personally. Keeping Gangaram in mind as a family member he used to very lovingly select green chilies, raw mangoes, and guava while grocery shopping. Gangaram loved snacking on pearled millet. Singh Sahib had patronized a dry grocer whose store was almost in the outskirts of our mid-sized town. Singh Sahib never settled for less and almost always went to that store to buy millet for Gangaram for he believed that the bird relished it the most as long as it is from the same grocer. Due to the love and care provided by both the families Gangaram’s feeding bowls never ran out of food or snacks. In Gangaram’s big wrought iron cage there were four small sized brass bowls and they always had more than adequate amount of sunflower seeds, peanuts, corn, water and sometimes milk thistle. It was but natural for small sized birds to congregate around his cage and expect food. Gangaram was a kind-hearted bird and he almost always shared his variety of food with other birds. A whirlwind of chirpy notes would kick start as Gangaram would start to share the treats with his regular visitors by sliding out swiftly and devotedly through the vertical bars of his iron cage…one grain, one bead of corn, one tiny morsel of flat bread, or a fresh reddish green hot chili pepper gripped strongly in his ivory beak…just one thing at a time. Gangaram’s act of generosity was brilliantly coordinated with the same sense of urgency to catch the food right from his beak by the hungry little birds.

Sometimes he used to spill his bowl full of water or milk thistle to allow little birds to relish the sweet drink quickly before it get all absorbed by the concrete post. These colourful big and small birds used to literally pounce on the tiny veins like rivulets suddenly created by the flood of a nurturing drink. A strangely soothing crescendo used to engulf the cemented post. Even today, I am convinced when I recollect that it seemed like their innocent soaring sounds were a wonderful contrast to the platitude of complexities of human life.

As I young girl often before bed time I would lie down with a comic strip or a storybook with my tummy down and Gangaram would quietly hop on my back. He would then park his strong-clawed feet firmly mostly by my right shoulder to peek into my book as if he understands it all and start to listen to my ritual of reading along. Normally, he would listen very carefully but sometimes at certain junctures or words he would crack up hysterically; I remember one such word was cocoon where he could not stop laughing and kept on echoing, “cocoon, cocoon”, so much so that he made me wonder about his limited freedom in the wrought iron cage. Often times I would wonder what life would be for him had he been flying just above the lush green blades of grass playfully in some tropical paradise…sitting on some guava tree, or smelling and tasting one fruit to the other and to the other…what it would be like for him to be watching the spectacular sun set sitting lazily from the very ledge of a rim of a skyscraper in a busy downtown. Once I secretly opened his cage in the middle of the night while he was sleeping blissfully, his face tucked in nicely under his fluffy feathered neck. I wanted him to fly away and never look back. I wished for him to live in a deep big hollow of an ancient mango tree. I prayed for him to mate a gorgeous palm cockatoo and make beautiful babies. “Gangaram, Gangaram”, I whispered but he did not come out of his cage rather started to squawk and woke everyone up. My father got mad at me for being up so late and disturbing everyone’s sleep and he also explained that Gangaram has not managed to soar his wings under the free sky in several years so by trying to set him free we might actually put him in trouble.

Gangaram’s repeated songs and tweets sounded like beautiful affirmations of nature. A nature that was far away from his iron cage, but it always seemed like nature sang along his frequent twitters. I believed as a young child that Gangaram’s tweets; songs and laughter were all secretly encoded. Codes that only the other birds, nature and my father Singh Sahib was able to decipher.

After a quick thunder during monsoons I noticed Gangaram to sing relentlessly along with the serenity of drizzling rain.

“Why does he sing after a thunder and lightening daddy”? I once asked Singh Sahib.

“Because he is most reflective and thankful to the elements of totality that humans beings take for granted. He is wise and full of gratitude”, and my father would go one and on…

My nostrils may never forget the smell of peanuts that Singh Sahib used to roast on open fire for Gangaram.

“Baby girl Anoop, one day you will learn the worth of my scoldings”…”Mata Saraswati (Goddess/Muse of knowledge and Self Enlightenment) is not going to be impressed with you if you keep on over thinking something as simple as prime numbers”, daddy replayed such verdicts each time, each day I sat down with him for Math hour. This hour used to drag longer than the rest of my twenty-three hours of the day. I did not like math. It was complicated. I found patterns, sequence, systems and logic in just about everything…in Gangaram’s dramatic arrangement of the wings, on the petals of lotus flowers upon which Mata Saraswati rested her dainty feet, there was a harmonized authenticity behind the miscellany of her peacock (Goddess’s vehicle) that transported her to far and wide, I understood the iconography of the goddess’s white Kancheepuram silk sarees that they say were weaved with a tissue from delicate lotus flowers, by the descendants of sage Markanda exclusively for Mata Saraswati but I did not understand the number science, numbers and I did not gel, ever. While teaching me one such evening in the front yard of the family home daddy asked me, “If four times four is sixteen then what is four times four thousand”? Daddy had already explained this system many times that evening and demanded an answer but his nine year old looked back at him absolutely blank. Before he could have given me his piece of mind Gangaram took over the show, who was until then quite passive,” sixteen thousand you dummy”, disclosed Gangaram. All three of us chuckled and the math class was dismissed for that day.

Gangaram has learned all these skills of human communication by listening to people of both families over the years, mostly he “rogered” my father’s every word very fondly. Gangaram by no means was a master of his conscience. He basically repeated the decisions of others, he was a cage bird with limited freedom and plenty of approval and sense of confirmation of judgments passed by others. Not only did he have an uncanny to mimic his clear notes resounded many a times in the placid silence of the leafless winter days, and echoed long into the silver-blue serenity of moonlit summer nights.

The soulful substance of Gangaram’s melodious whistles was more real than realities. Those notes were his untouchable thoughts that prevailed perfect justice to Singh Sahib humming in the kitchen while he cooked lovingly for his three motherless children. The azure sky and the entire neighbourhood was witness to both Gangaram’s and Singh Sahib’s sense of timing when both of them cracked jokes one after the other, sometimes all lazy winter afternoons long. Together they were adventurous comrades when it came to dispense reasons for laughter. Most somber and reflective moments would turn eventful amidst the riots of stupefied and almost narcotic humour. Singh Sahib was such a natural with Indian classical ragas that he used to sing along Vividh Bharti radio station sometimes early morning while preparing a cup of tea, Gangaram the early riser, would join in by either swaying himself gently from left to right or vice versa, sometimes he would start singing the same notes along, the other times he would just encourage Singh Sahib, “bravo, bravo Singh Sahib, encore”!

“Wake up, wake up Singh Sahib, Superfast is waiting for you”. He would unstoppably flap his wings and beat his chest gently against the bars of his wrought iron cage to get my father’s attention, who by then mostly used to be up and about anyways.

“This girl is going to miss school for sure today, Singh Sahib that child of yours”, Gangaram would switch over to me suddenly and opine in a worldly wise manner just like my father would at times.

It was amazing how these two souls were able to rejoice the glory of a talented and programmed friendship in the wake of love and compassion. Their friendship was a continuous miracle that kept on unfolding the layers of clever humour, understanding, depth and hope. A combination great enough to fill up everyone’s heart with pristine avowing thoughts and uplifted the spirits, thus flourished the human and pet relationship.

Then came the cold December night in 1986 when Singh Sahib was discharged home after many days in ICU as a result of a fatal accident. His passing on was imminent. Singh Sahib remained in bed inert, seemingly comfortable. It was almost paradoxical to the eyes of a grade nine student that I was, that my father Singh Sahib seemed to me like another pawn from a game of his chess that was slowly but certainly moving towards his destiny. Singh Sahib the master of chess seemed to be playing against himself. During his games I have heard him repeat many times, “when you figure out a move, try to focus on a better one”. However, he seemed to be in a limbo, waiting for something to happen. His breathing became shallower and shallower. Singh Sahib seemed more vulnerable and easily dispensed than a foot soldier in the opening strategy of a game of chess. His bishop, rook, knight, king and queen proved to be helpless.

Gangaram started to whistle all of a sudden oscillating his head rhythmically from left to right. There was something painfully salvageable in his loud whistles. His loud whistles might have seemed out of place to many present in that room that night but not to me.

I wanted my father to be free of that limbo. Gangaram was squawking like never before amidst his wails,” Singh Sahib, Singh Sahib”… Singh Sahib’s luminous brown eyes did not respond this time around and Gangaram’s long chants grew more plaintive in the otherwise still air. “Singh Sahib must yield to the tide”, I thought helplessly. There was no hesitance on his face.

However, Gangaram’s impulse to pompously coach my dead father was almost sacred. I did not find it annoying.

“Wake up Singh Sahib, wake up…get up lazy bones, Anoop’s going to be late for school today, I am sure your young brat would love to have a French toast again for breakfast ”… sedated by unfathomable melancholy, Gangaram went on and on with many such varieties of acts in order to coax my dead father back to life. Singh Sahib peacefully moved on.

My father, Singh Sahib’s dead body, frantically crying family members and the dead cold of the night seemed irrational and invasive to my young mind, the reality seemed like the fragments of a writer’s thought process left abundant, unfinished and unjustified.

May be I was trying to dig deeper into His supreme will that sways the tides of currents of human world. There was nothing to be found amidst that overflow of my tears. No rhyme and no reason…just a mystery of life and death. I gazed up in the starless night, may be I was hoping to have a glimpse of heaven that Singh Sahib has commenced his journey towards…heaven that was free of any time, place shape or colour.

Gangaram’s wails had died down by now. He moved back into his wrought iron cage feeling all defeated. I hoped that the intelligent bird had taken comfort in the realization of fact that my father Singh Sahib has left behind a piece of his heart for just for him, consequently I hoped that light of love spreads its wings through the bars of a wrought iron cage to feed into the energy of the world that they both created with love, understanding and companionship. The essence of love travels through portals of infinity witnessing its own dynamic aspect… Gangaram understands that better than a human being! Singh Sahib’s companionship with Gangaram lives on!!!