Bulbul in Vulture’s nest
Everything emerges unruffled when a new idea gets audience. When the Bulbul of my vale was invited to make its nest on grafted branch of pomegranate tree, its song lured many new listeners. But matured and connoisseurs raised their voice which unfortunately was ignored owing to the reason that in Vulture’s nest the bulbul may turn to Dove. Much needed bird in the conflict sky which often remains overcast with rain clouds, making ill and monstrous mocking faces. Dove for that matter of fact is but a poor symbol of peace which in the conflict sky never brings sunshine, but only lures wishful artists to add value and audience to their work of art. It was thought that this new development would prove fruitful for the rest of the bird population, which till date has hardly fashioned any such song to carry ‘Healing Touch’ slogan to its logical end. On contrary, the voice of bulbul never reached to us as the Vulture’s violent voice has vibrated all other branches meant to shelter rest of the birds.
A wave of unrest, a concealed voice of bruised birds gave birth to conflicts and the sky of this conflicted vale once again oozed the rain of blood. No way was the bulbul given a desired place in a nest made out of thorny twigs, rotten leaves, left out bones and feathers of the minor birds. The bed only suited Vulture and the bulbul lost its footing and started to live under the diktat of scavenger. The song of bulbul all of a sudden lost its pitch which before coalition was melodious and dulcet, but with the passage of time, the bulbul learnt that silence is the only way to survive and this criminal silence resulted in general irritation. Not only had the seeds of pomegranate lost strength, but also tart like induced ingredient found its way in the heart of pomegranate, making it hard to taste, difficult to digest and impossible to trace. The impact of the change is encouraging hard core extremists who are trying to divide much fragmented land. Religion and region is being discussed by crows that have under the garb of political veil out in the open, challenging the very verve of secularism.
Under a constant compulsion, the bulbul in the meantime has not only acclimatized Vulture’s voice, but has also put a disguised attire of foreign feathers to cheat rest of the bird population. And in this new attire our own bulbul appears more monstrous than the wild Vulture that only knows how to pierce through feeble bones of minor birds, but our bulbul has learnt new trends to beat its own race for enjoying warmth under the feathers of cozy Vulture. God knows how many feathers our bulbul has to shed, how many languages it has to learn, how much dominations it has to apply, how many branches it has to occupy and how much its voice may be welded with hidden missions to curb our growth. While all this is on screen many gentle birds from the flock occasionally sing but that too in the prescribed tune manufactured in the dens. Many crows are trying to gain flight in the blue to justify their movement, but under the wings of Vulture, these raucous crows surrender their newly developed wings and they perch on their usual branches in the backyards of some graveyard where millions of birds are buried without headstones, without ceremony and rite necessary before dumping them in the belly of friendless graves. And the owls of my vale register their silent agony, making the night more dark and dull. The bulbul has never dared to leave its cozy nest in the moonless night to visit the owls that maintain records in their own ways.
Swallow, the flying machine seems deprived from nests as every window has but a steel frame to prevent the entry because every living room is noisy now a days and silence which is prerequisite for swallows has been violated. The pomegranate tree is the worst hit as no bird dares to perch where the bulbul used to rule, no bird thinks of singing a song of woe as singing is banned and perching is tagged as infiltration. Our own bulbul has lost its own branch; it has under some unknown reason taken shelter in the nest of deadly Vulture that has never suggested the little bird to visit the garden where rights are ruined, where religion and region has become a measuring rod to deal with. Before our bulbul shall realize how its branches are grafted, its roots uprooted and its fruit modified, God knows how many Vultures may be in place to change the picturesque of this forlorn vale where every bird is bruised, where every flight is challenged, controlled and concealed.
