Death of a Pigeon

Delhi had some of its coldest nights recently.  Night temperatures were below 2 degrees.  I waited till noon last Saturday for my walk.  It was still cold.

A pigeon leaning on a wall and a curious person near it attracted my attention.  The bird was shivering, and its head buried under its feathers.  The man figured it out that the pigeon needed some warmth.  He collected some papers, sticks and so on, and set a fire, took the bird near it, and he too sat on his haunches.  A few more joined him to keep warm.  The bird on its part stretched its wings and legs and its eyes shone.  All, including me were feeling good.

Then the bird dropped, stretched its legs and died.

The man took some water, sprinkled on the dead bird, said a religious slogan for the soul, then took it and disposed it in a garbage tricycle.  I think it was the first time in my life I watched death.  Many have told me that the soul departs through the eyes.  May be some truth in it.  I felt sorry for the bird, but was happy that I witnessed a humane act of a peasant.  He is a shoe polisher on the street.  He is the kind of people I despise, because they piss and spit on the street.  Yet, within him, there was Godliness.  For a minute I thought that I will give him a few rupees, but did not.  I did not have the right to stain his unsolicited compassionate act.

I continued my walk with my head down.