It was perfectly dark except for a tiny ray of light forcing its way in through the gap between my mother's body and her wing. It was sufficient to spot a yellow-haired sprout, having a stunning resemblance to that of myself. I bent over, peering into the light to catch sight of a large tree, housing a red flower on one of its shorter branches, other tiny shoots, and four pieces of broken eggshells. While I tried to pry for more details, Ma swiftly tucked my head back into the warmth of her wing.
My parents took turns to protect and incubate us on a daily basis. Ma would hide us under each wing and sing soft coos during the night, while Da kept us safe all along while the sun shined bright. He narrated instances from his long flights to the hills and rivers far away from our nest. The most exciting part of the day came when Ma and Da fed us, allowing us to dig deep into their big mouth using our crooked bills. Taking turns, at times nudging each other, pushing Ma or Da to the edge of the nest, we prodded into their mouth simultaneously.
We had a recurring visitor, stalking us by slyly hiding behind the curtains, across the glass door. Ma was absolutely terrified of him. He appeared taller than the tree with red flowers. Thick black hair covering his cheeks and chin, his nose was almost as long as Da's beak. Every time he walked towards the nest; Ma darted off to the sunshade, periodically peeking at the nest to see if the visitor retreated. He would sit by the nest, with a curvy rectangular object, constantly shifting glances between the object and us. Running his fingers over the object caused a sound to emerge, similar to that of Ma's sneeze. Later, Da would tell us that the object was called a cell-phone. Wrapping his shoot for the day, he would gently run his fingers from the top of my head, through the trough behind my neck, further up and down to our tail.
He introduced us to new objects during his visits. Forcing my parents to shift to the sunshade, he made weird noises to attract our attention; clicking his fingers, whistling at us, hollering unknown words, singing high-pitched tunes, and mildly poking us with newspaper rolls.
One morning, taking a seat beside the nest, he placed his palm on my back, wrapping his fingers around my body and hoisted me in the process. His amateur technique made me realize that he was handling a bird for the first time. Transferring me in mid-air, he gently placed me on one of his thick paper rolls. As I looked down to catch a glimpse of the distance between my sibling and I from the ground, the boy blew a stream of cold air onto my face, upsetting the gravity-combed yellow hair on the top of my head. Staring into my eyes, he waited for me to make my next move. Repeating the process with my sibling, he dropped us back into our shallow nest. He placed his paper roll over my head, forcing me to shut my eyes and said "Your name is Coco" and replicated the same actions with my brother and said, "and you will be Fifi". His actions reminded me of one of Da's stories, from his days of living at the church. It was similar to the religious rituals performed on infants followed by their christening, as Da described. Although the informal ceremony performed by the boy was absurd, we admired our fancy names.
He protected us from unfamiliar pigeons, trying to invade into our nest, fed Ma and Da by dropping food grains on the sunshade, and built a tiny wall from wooden sheets to provide a shelter against the fitful rain. Despite his galling behaviour, we developed a gradual liking towards the old boy. We played a game every evening, which had him bring his fingers close to our faces and withdrew it before we could peck at it. This show would go on for quite a while until the boy got tired or the golden sun disappeared. Soon, head bobs were replaced with wing flaps. Fifi's strength lay in his intermittent fierce pecks while incessant nibbly pecks were my kind.
Squabs, as we are lovingly called, mature at a rapid pace. Ten days since our birth, we had bulked up to half the size of Ma. The grey regions outnumbered the yellow ones on our bodies. This also swathed the reddish-purple iridescence on Fifi's neck, which happened to be the only evident distinguishable feature between the two of us. Sturdy feet and robust breast muscles adorned our bodies. Newly developing wing feathers gave a sumptuous and velvety look on our bodies, as we identified ourselves on the photographs shot by the old boy.
That night, resting our heads on each other's backs, staring into the thunderous rain, with the boy for company, Da recited one of his famous stories; the tale of meeting Ma. Huddled together under his right-wing, protecting us from the raindrop splashes and hovering mosquitoes, he took us along on his journey from tower to tower, tree to tree, trying to woo Ma with his charming complexion and unwavering "Coo Love", as he fondly referred to yet another fancy term. We fell asleep before he could complete his story before the rain stopped pouring.
The next morning, two globular bumps distended on top of Fifi's head. Brushing aside the bumps to be mosquito bites, Da left the nest to find food. The subsequent evening, the old boy came over to inspect the bulge. Viewing it from different angles, as we stared into his face, ready to bob our heads, he gently tapped on my brother's head. With time, the bump count increased and the extant ones grew in size. Cramming his beak, the top of his head, and the region surrounding his eyes, it led to the disruption of Fifi's vision and further causing breathing irregularities. Ma and Da remained silent spectators to Fifi's deteriorating condition while the old boy, smoothing his drooping feathers, applied ointments to no avail.
Our nest became more vulnerable to foreign attacks since the time Ma and Da started flooding the balcony with food. Scalping was a common phenomenon among pigeons. Ma and Da had to be extremely vigilant to protect our territory. One afternoon, Ma spotted an unknown pigeon couple on the sunshade. In the absence of Da, she moved onto the bottom rail, squeezing herself between two balustrades, trying to shoo the pair away. The clever couple hatched a plan; the male managed to sneak in while the female latched onto Ma's attention forcing her to shift closer to the female. Minutes into his arrival, we realized his intentions extended beyond just food. Finding his way in, he methodically tried to make contact, approaching the nest from every possible opening. Endless wing fluttering did not prove good enough to defend ourselves. Unable to comprehend the situation, the boy stood by the half-opened balcony door, glaring at the commotion.
Fifi stepped up to protect us from any further attack. Storming out of the nest, painting erratic loops and curves with his muck-filled feet, periodically flapping and pecking the air around, he obliged the male to recede. Despite the defiance, the stout bird slinked past Fifi's defense, pecking him at the bumps, causing blood to ooze out from the top of his head.
Rushing out onto the ghastly scene, with a bat in hand, the old boy caused the male to panic and make a dash, out from the balcony. Gaping at the bloodied head of Fifi, the boy stormed into the house, instantly returning with pieces of cotton and a bottle of medicine. Crouching by the pot, setting himself to work at once, he got the bleeding to stop and complemented it with back massages, calming Fifi's nerves down.
Although normalcy resumed, Fifi's health deteriorated further. The pox, as Da called it, spread further into his body, spreading onto the regions under his wings, onto his nape and flanks, and rapidly multiplied in number, rendering him weaker with abnormal breathing and diminished appetite.
The next morning, I woke up to witness a still Fifi, head down, angled towards the nest, wings unwrapped, supporting his body from stumbling over and legs at a distance resting by the wall. I lay terrified in the hollow of the nest, gawking at his body, cooing as loudly as I could to grab his attention. The old boy's father stretched to catch a glance and returned with a man wearing a black hat, who gently picked Fifi, placing him inside a brown box and carried him away. The boy came to have a look at Fifi before he was picked up and shut his eyes in prayer, pulling his hands onto his face and never came back until the end of the day. Ma visited in the afternoon; however, listening to the news, she flew away. Loneliness crept in, over the course of the day. Unable to fathom the stirring emotions, I tucked a feather from Fifi's wing under my wing and fell into a slumber.
Ma and Da's infrequent visits left me sequestered in the balcony, except for a few foreign pigeon stopovers. The news of Fifi's death spread across the pigeons in the nearby locality like a bat out of hell. The cause of his death alarmed the members, rather than the death itself. This provoked the members to veto this balcony as a good place to nest. This guaranteed a decrease in the number of intruders, albeit it left me arrested behind the railings of the balcony.
Every morning heaving myself up over the ledge, I waited for Ma or Da unwearyingly. With Fifi gone, the visits from the old boy diminished from ten to fifteen animated peeps from behind the balcony door, to a maximum of two per day. Fifi's disease was hibernating in my body and with his death, its severity managed to steadily show its effects. It paced along the same route in me, as it did with, in him; bumps implanting themselves on the regions around my eyes, beak, neck, and the crown, yet the perilous effects on my breathing were limited.
Da came by to wish me on my first month birthday. With the left eyelid housing a large blob and the stem of another bump planted below my right eye, I succeeded in putting up a smile at the blurry image of Da, formed at the back of my head. Gifting me with a batch of corn seeds, he said "You will be flying soon, my dear. I have asked around about the pox and they say it is a common occurrence among the squabs and the swelling will come down in a couple of weeks".
The news concerning my infection and his promise to tutor me to fly set my day off to a pleasant start. It took a primrose path as I startled a pigeon couple, hiding behind a cardboard box, as they made an attempt to raid into my territory. The old boy realizing the passage of a full month since we tore out of the eggshell, came by to spend time, coercing me into being the model for his photoshoot. Transporting me to different locations across the length of the balcony, he ducked and stooped to arrive at the perfect shot. After the rigorous shoot, he rewarded me with neck and back massages. Ma visited in the evening. Sitting on the ledge, grabbing a view of the concrete jungle stacked in front of the picturesque mountains, we gossiped about the latest tidings.
That night sullied the memories from the remarkable day. The blobs enlarged, blinding my sight completely. Seated on the ledge on a moonless night, in the absence of light and a vision to sight it, incapable of estimating the distance between the edge and my feet, I called out for help. The atemporal night finally wound up, as repeated coos caught the attention of the old boy. Down on his knees, stretching his hand, clumsily lifting me off the ledge, he laid me back to rest.
In a couple of days, I had become popular among the different birds dwelling in the locality and the forest close at hand, as the sightless squab. Foreign pigeon attacks increased after the word spread. They flew in with the motive of biting my head off, rather than encroaching into my nest. The old boy, wary of the situation, hid me behind a box to prevent further attacks. As the nubilous day descended into the night, I sat on the ledge hungry, waiting for Ma or Da's first visit in the past two days.
The overcast sky lazily gobbled the moon, forcing the land into darkness. I dozed for a while, only to be woken up by a rumble of loud thunder. This caused me to drift off the edge, losing balance in the process. Mid-air, nose-diving into the ground, three floors below, I flapped my wings at a rapid rate, struggling to retain a stable position. The fluttering created marginal lift, slowing my descent yet wasn't good enough to prevent me from crash landing on the ground. Dropping sideward, hurting my right feet and wing, I lay there, weak and impotent, powerless to lift myself off the ground and walk. Staring into the shadows, it ended up being the final image etched into my memory.
