The Paradise Flycatcher

by Deepak Dalal

  Mitalee blinked, restoring her eyes to their regular size.

  ‘Witch eyes,’ whispered Chintu, shaking his head. ‘So, you believe I have your beloved white-headed squirrel? Totally convinced and all. Well, then, go find it. There, the door of my house is open. Go inside—go in and search. Check every room. And here’s a promise from me: I swear that if you find it inside I will never shoot at birds or squirrels ever in my life! My buddies here are witnesses to this. They too will promise not to shoot at birds ever if you find the squirrel in there—isn’t that right, guys?’

  Arjun’s face turned solemn. ‘I swear on my mom and my dad and my baby brother that I will never shoot at any creature again if the bird girl’s precious squirrel is in Chintu’s house!’

  Maitreya remained silent.

  Mitalee opened her mouth to reply, but couldn’t. She was at a loss for words. This had never happened before. Chintu inviting her to his house? Was she hearing right? In all the years she had had him as a neighbour, she had never crossed his threshold.

  Chintu was grinning, enjoying her confusion. ‘Go on, bird girl. The house is yours to search. We’ll wait outside.’

  Mitalee’s mind raced. There was no way Snowdrop was inside. It was only because the squirrel wasn’t in there that he was inviting her into his house and pledging to give up his catapult too—both offers thoroughly out of character for a bully like Chintu.

  She spoke sharply. ‘Don’t take me for an idiot, Chintu. It’s obvious that the squirrel is not in your house. I’m not as dumb as your stupid friends here. Even these halfwits would see through your posing and understand that the squirrel isn’t hidden in there. But don’t for a moment think that this great show of yours has fooled me into believing you have nothing to do with the squirrel’s disappearance. I know it’s you who is behind this! I will find the white-headed squirrel—be sure I will. And if any harm befalls him, you had better watch out. You will regret it so much that you’ll wish you hadn’t even been born!’

  Chintu opened his mouth to retort, but Mitalee had already turned away. Striding to the wall, she pulled herself over and dropped into her garden. Moments later, there was a loud thud as she slammed her door shut behind her.

  Mysun Remembers

  Evenings at the Rose Garden were never like this. The gathering of birds at the fountain was always joyful—a time of high spirts, of play and jest. But that evening, as Mitalee watched from her room, their flocking was anything but happy.

  The birds were present—perched on the fountain—but there was no fluttering, no frolicking, no merrymaking. They sat quietly, heads down, not a cheep or squawk escaping their beaks. So still were they that Mitalee felt she was staring at a huddle of birds at a funeral. It was only when the sun sank and shadows swept the garden that Mitalee finally heard some chatter.

  A mournful sound, not very different from the whining of a dog, warbled from the fountain. Was it the magpie-robin? wondered Mitalee. The black-and-white bird was Snowdrop’s constant companion. Was he crying, grieving the loss of his friend?

  It was the robin. The sorrowful sound was indeed trilling from his beak. The robin dropped to the lower ledge of the fountain, where the other birds—the bulbul, the black drongo, the yellow iora and the little sunbird—were perched.

  Then the bulbul’s beak started to move. For Mitalee the sound was nothing more than chirping. But for the birds assembled there, every cheep, chirrup and twitter made perfect sense.

  ‘Stop crying, will you, Blackpie?’ squawked Kabul the bulbul. Her tone was strict, as if she were scolding a child. Her head was turned to the magpie-robin, the bird that had been weeping like a hatchling. ‘This isn’t the time for weakness. Your best friend, Shikar, would never behave like this! If it were the other way round and you were missing, he would be scurrying everywhere and searching for you instead of crying. So stop this moaning and help us.’

  ‘H-he was my b-best friend.’ Blackpie sniffled. ‘The only squirrel in the whole wide world who could speak our language. So precious, so loving. None of you understand!’

  Kabul exhaled loudly. To Mitalee, the sound was like a whistle.

  ‘Stop it, Blackpie!’ hooted the bulbul. ‘You are a proud robin, not a whining lapwing. And Shikar wasn’t your best friend—get that into your bird-brain. He is your best friend. He is alive and fine. Look, squirrels don’t have wings. He can’t fly far away like a bird and just disappear. He’s here, somewhere nearby. Get a hold of yourself. Snap your feathers together and help us find him.’

  Kabul hopped to the upper ledge of the fountain. She glowered at Blackpie before turning to the other birds. ‘It’s pointless slouching about like a flock of sulking herons,’ she squawked. ‘Our beloved Shikar disappeared yesterday morning. I want to know who saw him last, and where. Come on! Each of you! Put your bird-brains to work. Waggle them like you would your wings. Where did you see him last? Blackpie, you first. You’re the one who’s closest to Shikar. Tell us.’

  Blackpie stared at his reflection in the fountain waters, thinking. Then he spoke. ‘It was late when I left the garden yesterday—well after sunrise. I flew with Bongo.’

  ‘That’s right,’ chirped Bongo, the drongo, nodding his dark head. ‘We flew together to the wires. We spent the day there, chatting with the other birds.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Kabul. ‘We’ve made a start. You said you left late, Blackpie. You must have been with Shikar. When and where did you last see him?’

  ‘Shikar and I played together,’ said Blackpie. ‘We harassed Wow-Wow the dog—got him so angry that he barked the house down and the humans locked him away. It was so much fun . . .’ The magpie-robin’s eyes sparkled as he remembered the scene. ‘Later, the doves Lovey and Dovey dropped by. They chatted with us. Shikar didn’t want to play any more after they flew away. He told me he wanted to meet his squirrel friends in the Leaf Garden. That’s when I flew away with Bongo. The last I saw of Shikar was him crossing over to the Leaf Garden.’

  Senora, the iora, fluttered her wings. ‘That reminds me,’ she said. ‘Whatever happened to Shikar’s squirrel friends? I heard that horrible squealing after the humans attacked us. It was one of them, wasn’t it?’

  Kabul nodded. ‘That was Supari. One of the humans struck her with a stone.’

  ‘That’s the girl squirrel, isn’t it?’ chirped the yellow bird. ‘The one that’s his girlfriend.’

  ‘Let’s not call her that. Shikar wouldn’t like it—he’s touchy about this. Anyway, yes, Supari was injured. Poor thing . . . But she’s okay. Her brother, Paan, helped her and they both made it safely to the trees. I’ve checked on them—they are with their mother now.’

  Kabul was a modest bird. She remained silent on her role in saving the squirrels, making no mention of the fearless attack she had launched on the humans.

  ‘Hey!’ squawked Senora. ‘If Shikar went to play with the squirrels, they must surely know what’s become of him. Why don’t we—’ But she broke off.

  ‘You got it,’ said Kabul. ‘The language problem. None of us can speak Squirreleese. Shikar can, of course, but not us. Whatever they know, they can’t tell us. But it’s obvious that they too have no idea. They wouldn’t have joined us this morning if they knew where Shikar was.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Senora. ‘The squirrels don’t know. I am no better than them, Kabul. There’s nothing to report at my end. I wished Shikar goodbye about the time he was with the doves and Blackpie. Then I spent the day on the far side of Lake Neelpaani, where the feeding for us ioras is good. I returned only at sunset, by which time we knew he was missing.’

  ‘How about you, Bongo?’ Kabul turned to the black drongo. ‘When did you last see Shikar?’

  ‘My account is the same as Blackpie’s. We wished Shikar goodbye together when we left for the wires. He was crossing to the Leaf Garden then.’

  ‘That leaves Mysun,’ said Kabul, turning to the sunbird. ‘What about you, Mysun? When did you see Shikar last?’
<
br />   ‘Eh?’ said Mysun. The sunbird hadn’t been paying attention. He had been gazing at a nearby rose bush, dreaming of the delicious nectar stored there. Mysun peered at the bulbul. ‘You talking to me?’

  Kabul spoke patiently. ‘Yes, Mysun, I am talking to you. When did you see Shikar last?’

  The sunbird stared at Kabul, a confused look on his face.

  ‘We’re talking about Shikar, Mysun. When did you last see him yesterday?’

  The sunbird clicked his long, curved beak. ‘Shikar . . . yesterday,’ he muttered. Then the feathers on his brow uncurled. ‘Why . . . didn’t we search for him this morning? I came along, remember?’

  Blackpie flapped a wing. ‘Hang on, Kabul,’ he said. ‘Let me handle this. Our sunbird friend hasn’t been paying attention.’ The magpie-robin hopped to where the sunbird was perched. ‘You were dreaming—right, Mysun? I’m sure it was flowers. Tell me, which flowers were you dreaming of?’

  The sunbird’s eyes lit up. ‘Roses,’ he twittered.

  ‘Roses,’ clucked Blackpie. ‘Wow. They are gorgeous, aren’t they? Tell me, are they blooming today?’

  The sunbird nodded excitedly. ‘Three of them. Their fragrance—oh, you should smell them! And their nectar . . . mmm . . . it’s beak-smacking good. So fresh, so pure, as if delivered from the skies—the kind that Greatbill would surely love.’

  ‘Greatbill, huh? Wow! That good!’ Blackpie whistled. ‘But what about yesterday? Were the roses blooming yesterday too?’

  Mysun shook his head. ‘No. Yesterday it was the hibiscus.’

  ‘Hibiscus? We don’t have any hibiscus flowers here in the Rose Garden.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mysun. ‘Not here, but over in the Leaf Garden.’

  ‘So I take it you were in the Leaf Garden yesterday.’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Mysun, his beak widening in a smile. ‘The whole day. The feeding was so good. But you know hibiscus nectar can’t compare with rose. Nothing can.’

  ‘That’s right, Mysun. Rose is the best. But let’s move on, hop away from nectar and flowers for a bit. Yesterday, while you were in the Leaf Garden, did you see Shikar there?’

  The sunbird tucked his wings tight, thinking. ‘Yes, now that you mention it, Shikar was there.’

  Blackpie glanced at Kabul. The bulbul nodded. The other birds leaned forward.

  ‘What was Shikar doing?’ asked Blackpie.

  Mysun looked puzzled. ‘What was he doing? How should I know? He was there, that’s all I know.’

  ‘Do you remember what time you saw him?’ asked the magpie-robin.

  ‘The sun was high, I remember. That’s when the flowers open fully. Shikar was there then . . . and yes, now I remember what he was doing. He was with this bird. You know the white bird, the one with the long tail feathers . . . the flycatcher?’

  ‘Flycatcher with a long tail? Could it be a paradise flycatcher you’re talking about?’

  Mysun hopped up and down on the fountain ledge. ‘Yes, that’s the bird. I remember! It was a paradise flycatcher.’

  ‘And then?’ asked Blackpie. ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Next? Why, I went back to feeding on the hibiscus, of course.’

  ‘What about Shikar?’ asked Blackpie.

  ‘How should I know?’ said Mysun. ‘He was minding his business, chatting with the paradise flycatcher, and I minded mine, lunching on hibiscus.’

  Blackpie made to speak, but Kabul cut in. ‘Did you see Shikar again after that, Mysun?’

  The sunbird shook his head. ‘Nope. Last I saw of him was with the paradise flycatcher. It was a very beautiful bird, I have to tell you. Almost as lovely as a flower.’

  ‘Wow!’ exclaimed Kabul. ‘Coming from you, Mysun, comparison to a flower is high praise. That bird must truly have been beautiful. Thanks, Mysun. You’ve been super today! Your information on Shikar is great, better than all that the others have shared.’

  Mysun puffed out his chest. He preened, fluffing his feathers. ‘I’m intelligent. I know that.’

  Blackpie made a sniggering sound. Kabul spun around, staring sternly at the robin.

  ‘And, yes, I remember one more thing,’ chirped Mysun. ‘The paradise flycatcher was going on about hornbills, saying that they are his friends. He spoke a lot about hornbills. See, I’m intelligent because I remembered that too. I remembered because my beak is like a hornbill’s—all curved and sharp!’

  ‘Really?’ said Blackpie. The magpie-robin stared at Mysun’s slender, curved bill. ‘Hmm . . . yes, your beak is shaped like a hornbill’s. And it’s as big and strong as a hornbill’s too, right?’

  Mysun gazed at Blackpie, confused.

  Kabul squawked sharply, ‘That’s enough, Blackpie. Off with you now! You can return to your roost. You too, Mysun. The sun has set and the night is upon us. Flap your wings . . . Leave us now. Bongo, you and Senora stay back.’

  From her window, Mitalee saw the sunbird and the magpie-robin fly away.

  ‘I have some work for you tomorrow, Bongo,’ said Kabul after the birds had gone.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Kabul,’ said the drongo. ‘So obvious. As clear to me as the sun in a blue sky. You want me to inquire about the paradise flycatcher at the wires, right?’

  ‘That’s right,’ nodded the bulbul. ‘And Senora, you will accompany Bongo. But don’t just ask about the flycatcher. Find out where he is and track him down. The bird is our only lead. It’s not much of a lead, a feathery one at best, but it’s all we have to go on. Maybe the paradise bird has valuable information on Shikar—’ Kabul clamped her beak shut, stifling a yawn. ‘And I’ll be doing some searching too. Blackpie will be helping me. We’ll check all the gardens and scan the area around the lake. But it’s late now. Time to sleep. Safe night, both of you. May Greatbill watch over you. We’ll meet tomorrow.’

  The black drongo melted into the night. The bulbul too vanished into the gloom.

  But Mitalee, who was still watching from her window, tracked the iora, tracing the flash of the bird’s yellow wings to the jacaranda tree, where she roosted every night.

  Sahyadri School

  ‘A squirrel,’ muttered Mr Paranjpe, squinting at Mitalee’s notebook.

  A sketch of a squirrel smiled up at him from the open book. Although it was a fine portrait—the squirrel’s eyes and furry face outlined with loving detail—Mr Paranjpe was in no mood to appreciate Mitalee’s sketching skills. Slowly, and with great deliberation, he transferred his gaze from the notebook to Mitalee, staring at her through his thick owlish spectacles. ‘So this is what you have been doing in class. Here I am, pouring all my energies into teaching you geography, yet you ignore me. My efforts mean nothing to you—you prefer to sketch instead. I find this disrespectful. Deeply disrespectful.’

  Mr Paranjpe directed his gaze at Mitalee’s notebook again and licked his index finger. Then, using the wet finger, he flicked through the pages of the book. The same squirrel stared up at him from each page. Sighing, Mr Paranjpe turned to the students of his class. ‘Here,’ he said, waving Mitalee’s notebook. ‘See what your classmate has been doing. Drawing squirrels while I teach geography!’

  The class waited. The students sat still, not moving. Mr Paranjpe’s melon-shaped face was turning red—always a bad sign. He was a proud and pompous man. It was his firm belief that he was a person of great wisdom and that his instruction was of the highest quality. In his opinion, there could be no greater sin than daydreaming or distracting oneself in his class. Sketching squirrels while he was teaching was bound to draw his wrath. The situation did not bode well for Mitalee.

  ‘I am a hard-working teacher,’ said Mr Paranjpe. ‘Far more dutiful than the other teachers of this school. I take great trouble preparing for class. The very least I can expect from my students is that they respect my efforts and pay attention. But not this girl. My toil, my exertions, they mean nothing to her.’ Mr Paranjpe snorted loudly. ‘Sketching! Unacceptable! I shall punish her. But I am a just human be
ing. All of you know that. There is no one in this school who is as fair and high-minded as me. Maybe this girl was paying attention—it’s possible. I will give her a chance to defend herself.’

  Mr Paranjpe turned to Mitalee, smirking as he twirled his moustache. Mitalee was reminded of a cat. A smug cat that had cornered a bird and was toying with its whiskers before pouncing.

  ‘Young lady, we have been talking about rivers. Important rivers that flow through the different continents of the world. I shall ask you a few questions—simple ones—simple, that is, for anyone who has been paying attention. I will select three continents. For each, I want you to name a river, just one river that flows there. Let’s start with Africa. Name a river that flows in Africa.’

  A hush fell upon the classroom. No one spoke. No one moved. Outside, a koel sang its lilting tune. Mitalee stood with her head down, staring at the ground. Mr Paranjpe twirled his moustache furiously, a catlike smile hovering on his lips.

  ‘SIR!’ A hand shot up from amidst the rows of desks. It was Maitreya, the boy who had injured the squirrel in Chintu’s Leaf Garden. ‘Sir, for Africa, the Nile is the most important river. It is the longest river in the world. Also, the Nile is one of the few rivers that flow from the south to the north, and for most of its journey, it travels through the desert of Egypt, allowing people to live in a land where there is hardly any water.’

  The smile vanished from Mr Paranjpe’s lips. His large eyes shrank behind his spectacles. ‘Stupid boy,’ he frothed, his tone clearly conveying that he was unimpressed with Maitreya’s scholarly knowledge. ‘Can you not understand English? Is your name Mitalee? Did I ask you to answer the question?’

  ‘No, sir,’ replied the boy.

  Mr Paranjpe banged his hand on his table so loudly that Mitalee jumped. Beads of spittle erupted from his mouth as he shouted, ‘Then remain SILENT! Zip your mouth! Keep it shut or it is you I will punish and not the girl.’ Mr Paranjpe stood breathing heavily for a while, his owlish spectacles sweeping the class. The children sensibly kept their heads down, not daring to look at him. Expelling his breath in a loud snort, he turned back to Mitalee. ‘Name a river in South America.’