The horrific tale of the jet lagged parrot

The Horrific Tale of the Jet Lagged Parrot
We were one of those typical , so often caricatured apartment complexes – full of stolidly middle class families, energetically involved in each other’s lives, extremely right wing and righteous. Then how, how did we get drawn in to a web of attempted homicide, adultery and gang wars?

It all started with the parrot.

On the top floor of our building, strategically placed to catch the sunrise over Besant Nagar beach, there lived a kindly, mildly eccentric old widower, Mr. Alagappan. “How are you, Uncle?” I asked him one morning as we strolled around the 4-foot wide patch of withered grass we called our garden. “Lonely, my dear, lonely after my dear wife has left me. The house is so silent.” I wondered briefly if he was making a pass, but it was unlikely – he was ancient, toothless and completely benign. “Why don’t you get a pet? A parrot?” I suggested. “Good idea! I’ll think about it.” He said, smiling.

Mea culpa.


“Radhika, I followed your advice and bought a parrot. I’m forever in your debt, my dear. What an intelligent companion I have found! I discuss musical theory with him, and corporate law, and I swear he understands every word. Would you like to come up and meet him?” “Sure.” We walk up to his messy flat. “What have you called him?” “Chellam.” “Hey, Chellam chweety, chweety, say hello.” The parrot fixed me with a beady eye and looked terribly affronted. “Don’t talk to him in baby speak. It insults his intelligence.” Old Alagappan hissed from behind me. I tried again.



“Good afternoon, Chellam. Very pleased to meet you. And how are you today, sir?”


The parrot grinned. “Stop chattering, woman, and get me some food.” “You’re teaching him to be a chauvinist, Uncle.” I said, as I left their house. I felt a warm halo beginning at the top of my head. This was good for at least twenty credit points with the accounting angel who my mother assured me was sitting on a cloud and keeping track of everything we do.


It was probably a month or so later that Alagappan came over to our place to say good-bye. “I’m off to spend 2 months with my son in Houston.” “What about your parrot?” my mother asked. “I’m taking him along.”


It was in the middle of summer that Alagappan returned. He came loaded with gifts of chocolates, which my mother immediately confiscated. “You know they make you erupt in pimples, and Usha’s son is visiting India next week. I want you to look your best. We’ll have you dressed in that new violet silk.” … I fled to my room and found consolation in U2 singing ‘If you wear that velvet dress. Ah, what a voice! What a song!


Though my mother had an agenda for me, I had my own dreams, in pursuit of which I was taking a killer exam the following week. Fuelled with a cup of espresso and a cigarette sneaked in the bathroom, I was staring at pages of boring figures and bar graphs when an unearthly shriek rent the air. I rushed to my balcony, hand at my throat, certain I would see someone’s neck being slit. Other folk ran out too, all gazing wildly hither and thither, looking for what seemed to be some unimaginable violence. The shrieking continued, and it suddenly struck me that the sounds were nothing but Kurt Cobain’ s ‘ Lithium’ being belted out with unimaginable energy, volume and tunelessness by a .. by a... parrot?!


I returned to my room, bemused. This was the Vedanta loving, Bhaja govindam singing Chellam. Ah well, people did change, I reflected, and hoped that this 2 am enthusiasm to burst in to song did not become a routine.


Unfortunately, it did become a routine. It seemed that the parrot’s inspiration to sing struck only past midnight. “He hasn’t recovered from jet lag.” Alagappan explained. “He dozes the whole day.” “Doesn’t it trouble you?” “Oh, no.” he smiled cheerfully. “I sleep when he does, and wake when he starts singing.”

Night after night, we were awoken by that damned insomniac bird bawling out it’s melodies at unearthly hours. Its repertoire was vast. Some days, it chose to sing sentimental love ballads. Other days, it was more aggressive and screeched ‘Stairway To Heaven’ with nail on black board dissonance.

This went on for another week, and our tempers, already stretched thin by the unrelenting heat, were further roused by the lack of sleep, the assault on our ears and the utter - how shall I put it - musiclessness of Chellam’s renditions.
An emergency building society meet was called to discuss the issue. “Bad things are happening in the building.” said the society chairperson, Palaniappan. “Decent citizens, deprived of their rightful sleep, are becoming corrupted by that devil in parrot’s shape.” “Corrupted? What does he mean?” I whispered to Kavita, my best friend. “I believe Rajasekhar is spending the nights in Ranjani’s house.” She whispered back. “Oh, the louse! Where is his wife?” “Visiting her parents. And that’s not all, the colonel is up to some hanky panky with the English lecturer.” “Tell me more.” I whisper, thrilled at all these goings on in our hitherto boring complex.

“Calling the meeting to order.” Palaniappan snapped, glaring at us. “There have been serious complaints from various members. Mr. Jagannathan?” “My wife is seven months pregnant, and we went for an ultra sound scan yesterday. The sonologist said that the baby was making unseemly gestures at him. I blame it all on the devil’s music that we are forced to hear every night.” “True, true. And my son is having nightmares.” Raghav said. “Well, at least he is sleeping. My daughter has been sleepless for a week.” “That’s probably because she is plotting to ensnare my son.” “Now, now Mrs Shanti. That is probably unfair.” This from the very quiet Ramamurthy. “Don’t you say anything to me, I saw you pinching the flower vendor’s well, cheek, yesterday.” “WHAT??” screamed Mrs. Ramamurthy. The level of conversation rapidly deteriorated to levels rarely heard even in the less civilised kindergartens in the city.


Palaniappan banged his fist on the table. “This meeting is adjourned with a resolution to do something about the parrot.”

Things got worse rapidly. My brief periods of sleep were ruined by unbelievably graphic dreams of taking the parrot’s spindly throat in my hand and slowly squeezing, until it became silent. Now - I had - indeed, I have nothing against our feathered friends per se, and I happen to be a rock fan myself. Why, I possess the complete collection of Def Leppard , cover versions included. But to have a jet-lagged parrot carol its interpretation of ‘Animal’ at 2am was enough to make the gentlest soul protest.

I was on my way to college one morning when I spotted Captain Mahesh creep furtively along the sixth floor corridor. This captain is a retired army doctor, the epitome of dignity and chivalry and I knew something was very wrong when I saw him sidle along like an embarrassed crab. “Captain” I called “What’s up?” He whirled around and glared at me with the malevolence born of sleep deprivation. I recoiled when I saw the wicked orange handled knife he tried to hide from me. “May I enquire what you are planning?” He looked around with a hunted expression. “I’m off to finish off that ***## bird. I haven’t slept for 13 days. I fear I am losing my mind.” “Captain, I am sure you don’t mean that. There must be a law about pet homicide and I sure don’t want you arrested. Why, you are the only gentleman in this building. We can’t afford to lose you! You go on home, I’ll take care of this, I promise.” I attempted a flirtatious look, and batted my eyelashes at him. He seemed impressed. “Ok, I’ll return home, but only because you are telling me to , my dear child. I would not do this for anyone else.” We spent a few more minutes giving each other meaningful glances and returned to our respective lairs.


Time passed and things got worse with Chellam mauling a new song every night. But, one day, matters came to a head when the parrot sang ‘Fields Of Gold’. ‘Fields of gold’ that my very first boyfriend crooned to me over subsidized cafeteria coffee. ‘Fields of gold’, which ensured I remained celibate for a long, long time because I ‘was saving myself for Sting.’ Was nothing sacred?
I resolved to take action against the parrot, and fast.

What to do, what to do? I wondered. We were desperate for a solution, but short of physically throwing Mr Alagappan and his parrot off the terrace, I couldn’t really think of anything else. Unless…oh yes. Anbarasi mami! Why hadn’t I thought about her before?

The only time I had approached this lady was in my 12th grade, when I had been attacked by a virulent form of infatuation for my lanky, richly pimpled, maths professor. A friend recommended Anbarasi, and I shelled out a year’s savings to this obese, oily woman, who operated from a small cart next to the last bonda stall on the marina. She gave me an opaque white solution, which she asked me to feed to my beloved. It would ensure his undying adoration for me, she claimed. I’m sure it would have worked, but he succumbed to a bad attack of dysentery after drinking the potion diluted in Limca . And no, I don’t think my love potion can be blamed. Anyway, it was worth a try.

I took the cash I had been saving for a Roland keyboard and made my way to the marina. There was Anbarasi, fatter, and if possible, oilier than ever. I explained the situation to her. “Five thousand rupees.” she said. With a wince, I handed the cash over. She gave me a glistening green liquid. “It is called satvam. It will ensure your parrot starts behaving himself.” Now, it only remained to convince Alagappan to feed this to his parrot.


I entered his flat, and was rewarded by the sight of the parrot, dozing, a miniature fan blowing a cool breeze on it’s sleeping form and ruffling it’s feathers. “Sit down, Radhika, sit down.” I wedged my abundance in to the tiny chair normally occupied by the Alagappan posterior. I could feel the circulation to my lower limbs being cut off, but bigger issues than personal comfort were at stake here.

“Uncle, I so miss the Chellam of old. He was such a cultured little bird, singing devotional songs. What corrupted him?” “I don’t think he is corrupted. One has to move with the times.” said Alagappan. He then attempted the twist, singing ‘We are the Champions’ in double time. I gazed up at him, spellbound by the most revolting spectacle I had seen in my whole life. Fortunately, Alagappan caught sight of himself in the mirror. “My god, do I look like that??”

“Unfortunately, yes. And Chellam’s singing is the verbal equivalent of what you just saw.” “But what do I do? How do I make him revert to the old, god fearing soul?” “I can help. Just make him drink this.” I gave him the satvam. “It won’t harm him, will it? Promise me nothing will happen to my Chellam.” He murmured brokenly. “Come on, uncle. Don’t you trust me?”


He prodded the parrot awake, and when it was gazing around sleepily, getting it’s bearings, he forced satvam down its throat.

I am happy to say that this story had a happy conclusion. The parrot restricted itself to singing bhajans in the afternoon, Rajasekhar returned to his wife and the captain gave up ideas of homicide.

I bought my keyboards, and am now practicing every single waking moment.
I am considered a heroine by every one in our building.
Why, just 5 minutes ago, Rajasekhar from downstairs came to me with a glass of some magical concoction which he assures me will make my fingers even more nimble on the keyboards. There it lies on my table, shining in the evening light, with just one message in its magenta depths – “Drink me, Drink me ….”