I had named it ‘Good Morning’. A Gurkha family living in the servant quarters of my neighbour’s house had reared it. Meticulously punctual in waking me up at the first sign of twilight, it crowed deafeningly to throw me out of bed.
The early morning alarm was at times very irritating, particularly after the late week-end evenings. At times I cursed the nuisance, and at times I thought its nature’s nudge to work out and shed a few pounds. As the summer passed and autumn set in, the groaning air conditioners went off and windows opened to fresh breeze, the crowing alarm became still louder and shrill. It threatened to force a lifestyle change. Giving up two hours of normal sleep every morning, I was all set to follow an early morning walk routine.
As I was still procrastinating, I researched about the catalyst. I was shocked at the occidental perversity of using the word ‘cock’ unabashedly as a sexual slang, almost wiping out the identity of the poor bird. Out of sheer decency and to escape embarrassment, a cock is now increasingly referred to as a ‘cockerel’ or a ‘rooster’. Some refer to it as a ‘male chicken’.
Nature has timed cock’s crowing to the first rays of the sun at dawn. At times, it is befooled by bright moon-lit night too. Researchers distinguish different tones and pitches communicating its different moods.
It took me another few weeks of research to realise that cock is quite a global cultural entity. It is a part of multi-lingual literary writings, folk lore, historical conversations, popular sayings, proverbs, idioms, entertainment sports and so on. It’s even a symbol of national pride for some, as in the case of France, where it has been declared the National Bird.
One of these early mornings, still snoozing while struggling against the cock’s crow, I had a flashback of my first physical experience of becoming a ‘murga’ (cock) in my school, which a common sight during the olden era of corporal punishments inflicted by teachers. I also remembered a science project in the school lab where I learnt to design a weather-cock.
‘Good Morning’ gradually became a part of my life. I accepted it. Far from inducing cribbing, it turned pleasant and welcome. Perhaps it had a divine message of tuning my disoriented lifestyle with nature’s rhythm, and to shun the drudgery of a mechanical life. It made me wake up to a rare symphony of the chirping birds and watch the sky changing innumerable hues.
On the evening of the seventh of the nine sacred ‘navratras’, while trying to detect a fault in television cable line coming from my neighbour’s courtyard, my domestic help ventured into the neighbour’s courtyard and walked through his servant quarters. After repairing the cable joint, the fellow returned and announced that he saw the neighbourhood Gurkha devour the cock that crowed in the morning!
I suffered a stunning shock and sunk into my couch. My wife and the domestic help were concerned. I have overbearing disposition, and my initial helpless cribbing about the morning disturbance must have given them sadistic pleasure of at least someone teaching me a lesson. I had not confessed to them that I had of late developed affinity with the voice of nature. If I had known of what would suddenly happen, I would have paid the Gurkha the price of ten such cocks to save the ‘Good Morning’.
It requires even more than a butcher’s insensitivity to cut one’s own pet into pieces and gulp it down. A pet clamps a deep imprint on human mind of its colour, gait, traits, dietary habits, and varied physical and mental responses. One realises how the pet values the family it rears, and is highly protective of its progeny. A pet’s life has an affectionate co-existence with that of one’s own. A pet starts enjoying a sense of protection and fearlessness in human company. It becomes an extended family. Devouring one’s pet is inhuman betrayal.
‘Good Morning’ has left me at a cross-road of emotions. I often handled dead bodies of blast or bullet victims in militancy ridden Punjab without any hesitation because I never visualised myself devouring their flesh. I can not muster courage to stand the sight of a bird or an animal killed before my eyes and served to me on a platter.
When I enjoy tasty non-vegetarian dishes, I dishonestly shut my mind off the ghastly images of the birds, animals and fish dying with excruciating pain. I succumb to the momentary sensual pleasure of the taste and variety of non-vegetarian food. I also shun vegetarianism for the social vanity of warding off a tradition-ridden conservative image in the City Beautiful’s elitist milieu.
‘Good Morning’ has left me quite sad and facing delicate emotive conflicts. The cock may not be there, but I can hear it crow on.
