Once upon a time…
There was a sparrow who lived happily with his wife in a nest in the branches of an ancient banyan tree.
Mr Sparrow went out in search of rations and returned with a grain of rice. Mrs Sparrow brought in a grain of daal. Together they cooked khichri and, at sunset, sat down to dinner. Mr Sparrow took a beak-full of khichri and offered it to Mrs Sparrow. Coyly, she accepted it and, in her turn, offered another beak-full to her husband. Mr Sparrow was not one to lose such an opportunity, and kissed her smack on the beak.
Mr Sparrow twittered: ‘Choon … Choon … Choon … Choon … Choon!’ That is, ‘Darling, aren’t you beautiful?’
Mrs Sparrow, blushing scarlet, twittered back: ‘Choon … Choon … Choon!’ That is, ‘You naughty boy!’
And so they finished their dinner and went to sleep in their cosy and springy double-nest.
Next morning, when Mrs Sparrow opened her eyes, the sun was already peeping over the eastern hills. But she sensed a peculiar silence and desolation all over the jungle – as if the very trees were gripped by fear. Somewhat alarmed, she woke up her husband. ‘Can’t you let a hard-working bird have a little nap?’ he muttered sleepily as he forced his eyes open and shook his feathers to rouse himself. But he, too, was stuck by the mysterious silence in the jungle. ‘What’s the matter? Have all the birds in the jungle been struck dumb?’
‘Shshshsh!’ A neighbour sparrow whispered hoarsely from his nest. ‘Speak softly. The Bird Catcher is here!’
It was the fear of the Bird Catcher that had petrified the entire population of the treetops. Every bird was trembling in his feathers.
‘What’s this Bird Catcher like? Must be a monster?’ asked Mrs Sparrow of the neighbour’s wife, who replied in a frightened tone: ‘No one has seen him; but, of course, he must be horrible.’
‘Hoo! Hoo!’ An owl, who was a newcomer to these parts, hooted from a dark hole in the tree: ‘This is all your morbid imagination. He is no Bird Catcher but a Great Emperor, Son of the Sun God, Protector of the Birds, Defender of Faith! He has got such wonderful new golden cages made for us that your eyes will blink in awe and wonder when you see them.’
‘Cages!’ It was like an alarm bell going off in Mr Sparrow’s little brain. ‘So now we, the free birds, will have to live in cages like slave human beings?’
The owl retorted: ‘You seem to be some godless, un-Aryan rebel! The cages are not for our imprisonment, but for our protection. Just imagine: glittering golden cages instead of these dirty nests made of straw and leaves! There, you and your little ones will be safe from the ravages of kites and vultures, falcons and eagles. Even the strongest beaked of them will not be able to break through the bars of your cages. If you care for Dharma and want to live the life of peace and cultural splendour, leave your dirty nests and come into these wonderful golden cages.’
Hardly had he hooted these last words when, as if by magic, little golden cages appeared dangling from the branches of every tree. These cages had golden cupolas like temples, and their walls were covered with gold leaf like the palaces of maharajas.
‘Glory be to the Golden Cages,’ the birds twittered, chirped and hooted, the owl leading the chorus: ‘Jai sunehre pinjron ki.’ The whole jungle resounded with these slogans and, one by one, all the birds hopped into the cages.
Mr Sparrow looked at Mrs Sparrow and she looked back at him. In the eyes of both of them was the same silent question.
Mr Sparrow said: ‘Choon … Choon … Choon … Choon…’ That is, ‘What can we do when all the others have decided to live in the cages?’ Mrs Sparrow replied: ‘Choon … Choon … Choon … Choon…’ That is, ‘You are right.’ And they, too, hopped into a golden cage.
But soon they found that all that glitters is not gold. The cage was made of strong iron bars. It had only had been painted over with the golden paint of Dharma. In a few days, the gold-plating wore off and the ugly, black iron bars were revealed in all their grimness. But having deserted their cosy nest, they had nowhere else to go, and had perforce to stay on in the iron cages.
Mr Sparrow went out in search of rations and returned with a grain of rice. Mrs Sparrow brought in a grain of daal. Together they cooked khichri. But this time they were not allowed to eat all of it. A part of it went to a cage of real gold, in which the image of the Creator of All the Birds was kept locked up, like the birds themselves! And the rest of it was ordered to be sent to the palace of the Bird Catcher. Mr Sparrow and his wife got only what had remained stuck at the bottom of the pot. Still, they offered their gratitude to the Creator of All the Birds and prayed for the long life and prosperity of the Bird Catcher. They went to sleep on the hard, bare, cold floor of the cage, dreaming all night of the cosy, soft, springy double-nest they had so foolishly abandoned.
Days passed. The leaves on the trees turned yellow and brittle, fell to the ground in crunchy heaps and were scattered all over the jungle by the wind. Mr and Mrs Sparrow were acutely cage conscious during the first few weeks of their new un-free life but, by and by, they got used to it. Now they could not enjoy the thrill of flying high in the free air. Every day the greater portion of their khichri went as offering to the image of the Creator of All Birds and they knew it was not the image but the white-feathered, long-beaked hypocritical Bagla Bhagat priests who ate their khichri or to the palace of the Bird Catcher who fed his army of eagles, falcons and kites with it. Gradually, their wing muscles hardened and their feathers lost the power to fly. But they consoled themselves with the thought that flying feathers were unnecessary for the safe and secure life in a cage. True, the iron cage became unbearably hot in summer, and the freezing cold wind came rushing through its bars in winter, and during the monsoon, its roof leaked and there was no protection against the squalls of rain coming from the sides. Often they pined for the simple but comfortable nest. But then they would catch a glimpse of the temple-like cupola on which there was still a faint touch of gold, they would look with awe at the big golden cage of the image of the Creator of All Birds, and they would think of the kind-hearted and just Bird Catcher who lived in a marble palace, its walls inlaid with diamonds and rubies. Forgetting their own hunger and slavery, their hearts swelled with pride at the great and golden culture and Dharma which distinguished their jungle from all the jungles, and their particular Bird Catcher from all the bird catchers of the world.
The Age of the Golden Cages lasted a long time. The rains came and went, and Mr Sparrow and his wife found that their cage was becoming rusty. Even the cupola of the golden cage of the Creator did not glitter with its past glory. Then whispers flew thick and fast all over the jungle that a new Bird Catcher had taken over the jungle and ordered that the cages be changed. The same old glib-tongued owl flew in with an air of new-found importance and addressed the birds in a strange new tongue which he seemed to have learnt only recently.
‘Baradaran-e-Watan!’ he hooted in oratorical tones. ‘Brothers of the Birdland! Rejoice that the old, cruel, tyrannical Bird Catcher is gone. The sun of the Son of the Sun God has set. Behold now the glory of the Crescent which casts its silvery, heavenly light over our jungle. The Sultan who is the shadow of Allah has ordered that the old, rotten, rusty cages be thrown away. You will now get new cages made of shiny pure silver.’
And soon the old cages were replaced by new ones – silver cages which had mosque-like domes instead of the temple-like cupolas. The silvery bars had been cunningly wrought in the shape of beautiful arches.
‘Chandi ke pinjre zindabad,’ the owl led the chorus as the birds echoed his cry. The jungle resounded with the new slogan. ‘Chandi ke pinjre zindabad! Long Live the Silver Cages!’
Most of the birds forsook the old cages and happily hopped into the glittering new ones. The cage of the image of the Creator was replaced by a big and beautiful one which was empty, but they said it was the cage of the All-Merciful One. To Mr Sparrow and his wife, it still looked empty.
The Age of the Silver Cages continued for many days. During this period a number of grand and beautiful cages were built. The most famous of these was like a moonlit dream, made of ivory and inlaid with the most precious pearls and gems. Laid to rest in this cage was the dead body of the world’s most beautiful dove who, while she lived, had been the favourite of the Bird Catcher. So beautiful was it that the birds from many distant birdlands came to view this crowning glory of all the cages.
Mr Sparrow and his wife were still caged. The silvery veneer of faith having worn off, they had found that it was the same old iron cage. The only difference was that the bars had been painted silver instead of gold, and the cupola had been changed to a dome. More than half of the khichri still went to the palace of the Bird Catcher. But on moonlit nights, when the caged birds caught the breath-taking glimpse of the dead dove’s ivory cage, they forgot their hunger – and their caged existence.
In the course of time all the silver cages also lost much of their former glitter. The rumour again went round that a new Bird Catcher had taken over the jungle. Once again, the same old owl came to announce that the new Bird Catcher had ordered brand-new cages for them from across the seven seas. Addressing them in a foreign language, he hooted: ‘People of Birdland! You will no doubt rejoice to hear that the reign of the corrupt old Bird Catcher is over. The Great Emperor of a land across the seven seas has kindly consented to take you all under his protection. From today, in this jungle, the lion and the lamb, the eagle and the sparrow, will eat from the same plate – I mean, live in the same cages! So, I say, forget these old-fashioned cages. Your emperor has sent you beautiful, airy, hygienic, modern and scientific aluminium cages.’
Then he hooted at his loudest: ‘Three cheers for the aluminium cages. Hip! Hip! Hurray!’
The new cages were really marvellous things of beauty. Made of aluminium, so well-polished that a bird could see his face in it, each of them contained novelties and luxuries which simply stunned the simple-minded citizens of Birdland: electric light, curtains, carpets, refrigerators for storing eggs and incubators for hatching them, electric laundry machines for washing feathers and electric irons for pressing them, lipsticks for the beaks of the female birds and hair lotion for the males, and mechanical song-boxes which reproduced the sweetest chirpings and twitterings of the most musical bird voices.
The birds were not only impressed but bowled over by these wonders.
Mr Sparrow said: ‘Choon … Choon … Choon … Choon,’ that is, ‘Now, indeed life will be worth living.’
His wife enthusiastically responded, ‘Choon … Choon … Choon … choon,’ that is, ‘You said it, darling!’
But as the birds rushed out of their old cages to enter these new ones, they found that the show cages were reserved only for the privileged birds like eagles, falcons, kites and owls. For the mass of birds there were small, ugly-looking cages of unpolished aluminium. Kerosene lanterns flickered instead of electric lights. Still, they had a few novelties to admire and play with – and the hope that, one day, the Bird Catcher Beyond the Seven Seas might promote them to the ranks of the privileged and favoured few.
Mr Sparrow went out to look for a grain of rice, and Mrs Sparrow went out to look for a grain of daal. But there was not a single grain of rice or daal to be found. All the rice and all the daal had been sent away to the land beyond the seven seas. And so there was no khichri cooked in the Sparrows’ kitchen that day, or the next day, or the day after that! Somehow, they managed to live on ‘substitute foods’. Then the Bird Catcher issued a proclamation in his foreign tongue to the effect that, as the birds were dying of overeating, they must all eat less.
Mr Sparrow said: ‘Choon … Choon … Choon … Choon?’ that is, ‘How can anyone tell such a big lie? But what are we to do?’
‘I will tell you,’ their neighbour twittered from his cage. ‘We will force the Bird Catcher to give up our rice and daal. We can even force him to leave us to ourselves to lead a life of our choice.’
Mr Sparrow could not believe his ears. ‘How do we do that, brother?’
The neighbour replied: ‘Haven’t you heard the news, brother? The birds of the whole jungle have united under the banner of the Birdland Conference. From today, we begin our struggle for freedom. All of us together shall twitter, chirp, coo, hoot and shout so much that the Bird Catcher will be forced to give in to our demands.’
‘Birdland Conference ki Jai! Birdland Conference Zindabad!’
The jungle resounded with the new slogans of the birds. Then Mr Sparrow asked: ‘But what exactly are our demands?’
‘The leaders have given thought to these things for us,’ the neighbour assured him. ‘From today, our main slogan will be ‘Quit Our Jungle!’
From that day began the ‘Quit Our Jungle’ movement. The united ‘Choon … Choon … Choon … Choon’ of millions of birds, the cawing of the crows, the cooing of the doves, the twittering of the sparrows and even the hooting of some owls who, though formerly loyal to the Bird Catcher, had now joined the ‘Quit Our Jungle’ movement, became a mighty roar of protest. A few of the more daring birds even managed to break the cages and, with their beaks and claws, fell upon the eagles and falcons who kept watch over the jungle on behalf of the Bird Catcher. Then a strange and wonderful thing happened: some of the Bird Catcher’s trusted birds forsook his service and started shouting ‘Quit Our Jungle’ along with the rest of the birds. At last the Bird Catcher had no alternative but to sign a pact with the leaders of the Birdland Conference. He ordered the doors of the cages to be thrown open and for his guards to withdraw, and declared that he was quitting the jungle.
A wave of joy spread over the whole jungle. Shouts of ‘Azaad Jungle Zindabad’ rent the sky. The birds came out of the cages and made tentative attempts to fly, but having lost both the practice and the power to use their wings, they could only hop about, and some of the more adventurous ones who ventured to rise in the air soon came down to earth. Still, there was jubilation all over Birdland at the prospect of the coming freedom.
A new difficulty was however created by the Parrots who, by virtue of their green feathers, regarded themselves distinct from, and superior to, other birds. They had been receiving favoured treatment from the Bird Catcher for some time. Now, they raised a new slogan ‘Divide Birdland’ and demanded one-fourth of the jungle for themselves to establish their own independent ‘Parrotistan’. The Pigeons opposed this demand for the partition of Birdland, and the result was a long and bloody battle between the Pigeons and the Parrots in which sharp beaks and pointed claws were indiscriminately used, and blood flowed freely on both sides. Both parties had to turn to the Bird Catcher who was preparing to ‘quit’ and ask him to mediate which he graciously did by granting their ‘Parroristan’ to the Parrots and persuading the Pigeons to agree to it.
And thus the jungle was partitioned into Birdland and Parrotistan. The Age of Freedom had come. But, except for a few leader birds who could fly about with ease, the vast majority were still unable to use their wings and to take advantage of their new-found freedom. So the leader birds said: ‘You are not yet used to the atmosphere of freedom. Better stay a while longer in your cages. Now these are not the old cages of slavery. They are the cages of freedom.’ And to prove it they put up a little three-coloured flag on top of every cage!
Mr Sparrow went out to look for a grain of rice but there was none to be found in the whole jungle. Nor could Mrs Sparrow find a grain of daal. So although the leader birds said that they were now free, they did not have any khichri to eat. They learnt that some kites and vultures had cornered all the rice and daal and hidden it in their Black Cages. The birds were starving and a few were heard to remark that the Age of Freedom was no better than the Age of Slavery.
A few owls, however, were trying to win the favour of the leader birds by repeating with their eyes closed, over and over again: ‘What if we are hungry! We are free! We are free!’
Mr Sparrow bitterly exclaimed: ‘Choon … Choon?’ He wanted to say: ‘Is this freedom?’ But he was interrupted by his wife who chirped: ‘Shshshsh! Don’t say such things or you will be taken away to the Big Cage under the Defence of the Jungle Law.’ The fact was that some pigeons, who were now carrying on the traditional work of the Bird Catchers of old, had declared that all chirping, twittering and cooing was illegal and so the birds must keep their beaks shut.
For a long time the jungle was hushed into silence – though the fire of discontent was smouldering in the heart of every hungry bird. Then one day a rebellious sparrow could restrain himself no longer and cried aloud: ‘Birds of the Birdland, Unite! You have nothing to lose but your cages.’
Then a million bird voices raised the slogan: Inquilab Zindabad! Long Live Revolution!’
The cages were shattered by persistent beak-strokes and, like a tumultuous flood, the swarm of birds fell on the vultures, kits and owls who claimed to be the successors to the Bird Catcher and had usurped all the rice and daal. Birdemocracy was established at last in the jungle.
The birds lost no time in rebuilding their nests. Sparrows now went out and brought rice – not one grain but several grains. Mrs Sparrow went out and brought daal – not one grain but several grains. But they did not cook khichri in their separate kitchen. All the sparrows pooled their rice and their daal and cooked an enormous quantity of khichri for all of them. After a long, long time they could eat their fill and go to sleep in their respective cosy double-nests.
But close to this particular jungle were other jungles where Birdemocray had not been established and birds were still kept in cages by cruel Bird Catchers. These Bird Catchers hated Birdemocracy more than anything else in the world and they tried all kinds of tricks to wreck it. They invaded Birdland with their hordes of flacons, eagles, kites and vultures. They sent rats and mongooses and snakes through secret underground ways to disrupt Birdemocracy from within by creating confusion and disorder there. And the hired owls of the Bird Catchers kept on hooting: ‘Down with Birdemocracy! Down with Birdemocracy.’
Leader birds of the Birdemocracy were dismayed by these attacks. To counteract the propaganda of the Bird Catchers’ owls they passed laws to prohibit all illegal chirping and twittering, and prevented their birds from flying into other jungles. Then they employed eagles of their own to keep watch on the birds and on what they were saying and doing. Some of these very eagles were later discovered to be in the pay of the Bird Catchers and were duly punished, but, meanwhile, they had killed many innocent birds and no one had been able to stop them because chirping and twittering were not allowed by law.
One day Mr Sparrow said to his wife: ‘Choon … Choon,’ that is, ‘There is too much red lipstick on your beak.’ But Mrs Sparrow warned him, ‘Hush, be careful while you speak against anything that is red which is the special colour of the Birdemocracy.’ Sparrow understood and kept quiet.
To make the Birdemocracy safe from the Bird Catchers’ attacks, the leader birds ordered a huge wall to be erected all round their jungle. And when the enemy’s eagles began soaring overhead, they put up a roof, too, over the circular wall.
And thus the jungle of Birdemocracy became a vast cage on which fluttered a huge red flag.
Mr Sparrow chirped: ‘Choon … Choon … Choon … Choon.’ That is, ‘This cage is no doubt, bigger and better and more comfortable than all the other cages. We get plenty of khichri, too. But will the birds, even in Birdemocracy, always have to live in a cage, small or big?’
And Mrs Sparrow twittered, ‘Choon … Choon … Choon.’ That is, ‘Khichri is important. We can’t live without khichri to eat. But the birds must be allowed to twitter, too!’
The story is over. I read it out to a friend of mine who happens to be a somewhat cynical philosopher. ‘What nonsense is this?’ he asked me after hearing it. I explained that I wanted to read it out at a meeting held to demand freedom of speech and press.
‘Freedom!’ he interrupted me. ‘What kind of a bird is that?’