ডাকবাংলা

I rejoice that there are owls,” wrote Thoreau from his hut in the wilderness. He loved to hear their nocturnal hooting, which he likened to “gurgling melodiousness”. Living in the woods, Thoreau had several owls for company. I had only one. 

Many years ago, over forty years ago, when I was fed up of living in New Delhi, I rented a cottage on the outskirts of Mussoorie, and moved in with my typewriter, a suitcase full of books, and another suitcase full of socks, shirts, pyjamas etc., in other words all my worldly possessions. 

On the evening of my arrival, as I was about to enter the cottage, I noticed a large owl perched on the edge of the sloping roof, examining me rather critically. 

“Oh, an owl!” exclaimed the friend who had accompanied me. “That’s bad luck. And to make matters worse, this is Friday the 13^th!”

But it wasn’t bad luck. The nine years I spent in that cottage saw me do some of my best work. The hills, the forest, the animals, the stream below gave me plenty to write about. The stories kept coming and they were published far and wide. My personal life had its highs and lows but that would have been the case had I been living in Zanzibar or the Falklands. We take our nature with us wherever we go.

The owl had been in residence long before my advent, and he continued to live in the attic throughout my stay. He had his own entrance, a small opening between the rafters and the roof. As he kept down the population of mice, rats, bats and other unwelcome guests, I was happy to allow him the freedom of the attic. 

Often, when I came home from my excursions into the town, I would find the owl perched on the roof, his usual look-out point, and there were times when I thought he winked at me, as though ready to share a private joke. He looked quite magisterial, almost like a judge about to deliver his summing up, and I took to addressing him as “Your Honour”.

If I saw him in the morning, it would be “Good morning, Your Honour”; or in the evening, “Good hunting, sir”. Or sometimes, just for fun, I’d say “Good heavens” or “Good gracious”. He didn’t seem to mind. He would just nod slowly and thoughtfully. And that wink! Was it deliberate, I wondered, or was it just a reflex action?

He was a loner like me. There was no Mrs. Owl, as far as I could tell; and there was no Mrs. Bond. Sometimes a friend would come to stay for a few days, especially during the summer season, but for most of the year I was on my own. On cold, lonely winter nights the gentle hooting of the owl was a comforting sound. I had a good companion. He did not interfere in my life in any way, but he was there…. Tu-whit, tu-whoo, as Shakespeare said somewhere. 

As time went by, the bachelor writer did acquire a small family – a family of simple folk from the hills. Little Rakesh and his brother and sister made the house ring with their laughter, or they would be romping all over the hillside, climbing the walnut and plum trees. They made a fair amount of noise, but it did not bother the judge who reigned supreme in the attic. 

Then one day, the road-builders came along, with instructions to clear the forest and do away with anything that came in their way. It was to be an important road, leading to heaven or thereabouts. Trees disappeared, explosions rocked the hillside, boulders came crashing down on the roof. 

It was all too much for the judge. He spread his wings and took off for the next mountain. There is always another mountain. 

It was too much for me too. One morning, I found a bulldozer in the garden. And the walnut tree, which had been so generous with its fruit, lay flat on the ground. The cottage stood naked and exposed on the ravaged hillside. 

We packed in a hurry and fled to new quarters in Landour, higher up in the mountain. We have been here ever since and can’t go much higher. 

You can’t escape roads, and there’s a busy one just below my window. But recently it has been quieter than usual because of the virus pandemic. There are fewer cars on the road, fewer people in the town, and Mussoorie may have to wait until the Spring before the tourists, like the wild geese, return to their favourite haunts.

But there are more birds to be seen and heard. They appear to relish the silence and the solitude. They come to my window at first light, and I recognise them from their individual calls.

And just this morning, as I looked out of my window, I saw a large owl perched on the lamp-post below the house. Could it possibly have been my old friend, the judge? Had he come to look me up, to see if I had another attic where he could settle down in his old age?

He was conscious of me staring at him. He stared back. 

“Good morning, Your Honour!” I called out.

There was a pause of a few seconds. Then he nodded gravely. Spread his wings and glided away, across the valley and into the advancing mist.

“Fare thee well!” I called out. “Fare well, old friend.”

The world was crumbling, but we’d had a good life, owl and I. He’s had his share of mice and I’d had my kofta curry and rice.

Many Friday the 13ths have come and gone, and maybe we’ll enjoy a few more before the curtain comes down.

Cheers!

Illustration by Suvamoy Mitra

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