Free as a bird

Preface
Ghetufool has given me permission to publish his short story here. His pen-name indicates modesty but not in the way you may think: “ghetu phool” is the Bengali for calotropis gigantea, a wayside wildflower. We have collaborated for a year or so (he writes, I edit). You may have seen a brief quote from this story in my previous piece Cherry Tree.

Here is the entire story
He watched the little house-sparrow as it continued crashing against the glass, hopelessly exhausting its energy.
The little life could see the whole world outside. It could see its clan but could not reach them. An invisible monster always put its hand in the way, just for fun.
In panic, the bird was fluttering its wings against the glass, to get past that cruel hand. With no success so far.
He had joined this organisation about a year ago. It was a double promotion with a 100 per cent salary hike: a flattering offer, but he was confident in his ability. How could he have refused?
His last job had been a pain. He never learned to get on with his boss, who reminded him of a pig farmer and abused him continually—routinely belittled him in front of others, using powerful lungs so that people several floors down could hear. Going down in the lift was embarrassing after those episodes.
This new office was a complete contrast. Bosses left him alone. Whatever needed to be said came via emails. Nothing but occasional murmurs disturbed the concentrated hush. What could be more civilised?
In every way it was a double promotion. His job title, salary, responsibilities, prestige were double what he was used to. Abuse was a thing of the past. The work hours were civilised too. You were never forced to work till all hours. You were free to leave when the clock struck five. Provided of course that you met the deadline.
He never actually left at five. Midnight was more likely. You had to take deadlines seriously, to make sure there would be a job to come back to the next day. There were no actual threats, but he didn’t want to risk losing all this.
The bird was losing its strength, fluttering its wings less now, in a kind of resignation. It was waiting for the inevitable, whatever that might be; which it—inevitably—could not imagine.
It rested on the chair. The door was shut, the window seemed the only escape route. An invisible pane prevented it from passing through. How could it have got into the office? Oh, it must have slipped in through that gap. It must have forgotten that.
Just to make sure, he plugged the gap with papers. He could not have explained why. The bird fluttered again: his getting up from his chair to walk across the room seemed to provoke it into frenzied action. Perhaps it thought he was about to claim its life.
He sank back into his chair and lit a cigarette. Soon the room would be filled with smoke and the bird would panic more: unless it were drugged by the nicotine into quiescence. It would be fascinating to wait and watch.
His boss had sent the whole office an email singing his praise, letting everyone know he’d been singled out for congratulation. It was phrased in perfect polished English, with every word and punctuation mark carefully weighed and executed: a crisp business email copied to the entire office. Co-workers came to congratulate him for working day and night to land this major project for the company.
Then he had to deliver an impromptu speech. He started with thanking his team: they roared back their appreciation. He heaped praise on the company and its work culture, promising more such projects to come. The ovation seemed endless. The whole world was excited. So why did he feel uneasy?
On his way to the cafeteria, fragments of conversation had floated his way. His colleagues stopped when they saw him coming, greeted him with that professional smile that comes so easy to tie-wearing executives, smooth like their emails. But he had heard them cursing him in filthy language, and he wondered why.
He didn’t expect things to move so fast. His entire team got a fat bonus. And the target for next time was raised almost double. An email lightly indicated that next month’s bonus would also be double if this new deadline were met. The ‘if’ was there just for the sake of proper English grammar; just to clear away the green underline of Microsoft’s grammar-checker.
He lost no time in handing out responsibilities. There was no time to lose. Past achievement counted for nothing. There was no time to relax. If this project were not met … the company would sink. That’s more or less what he told them, in an email of course. The tone was always the same. Each new deadline had to be met, as a condition of the company staying in business. They’d achieve it with heroic effort, only to be rewarded with a bigger project and prophecies of doom from his top bosses if it wasn’t completed on target. The only time the company wasn’t in crisis was in the middle of a project.
Next day two resignation letters were handed in. Two more the following day: all junior level executives with 1-4 years of experience. They hopped jobs at will and you could do nothing to stop them. As a precaution, he doubled the salary of his remaining staff, earning their cheers. Many came to his cubicle and thanked him personally.
The following day there were two more resignations: with now only five days left till the deadline.
He hadn’t slept properly for months. That must explain his tiredness. He eyed the bird and puffed his cigarette. It had given up its struggle and just looked intently through the window, where a flock of sparrows twittered in the darkened sky. This district was virtually treeless, as if nature were a just a memory. But there was still romance. It was the sparrows’ mating season.
Do birds feel regret, sadness?
He sank low in his rocking chair, a fine piece that he’d bought on a business trip to the US. He glanced at his wristwatch – a fine Swiss one. His first watch had been locally made, a present from his father during his class ten board exams. He used to wear it all night, and rub it clean with a soft cloth. The glass had stayed unscratched. It was such a prized possession that his sister had never dared touch it. It was cheaply made by a state-owned company, but hadn’t let him down in fifteen years. Where was it now? On the move to his new flat, he’d given it to one of the packers, who had received it eagerly, with profuse thanks. Thus he had lightly abandoned his last link to the old frugal life. The watch he wore now came from his European bosses as reward for landing a big project. It cost about five thousand dollars: heavy, not comfortable to wear. Yet still he handled it carefully, like a piece of jewellery, not just something to tell the time. Oh shit! 10.30pm. It was getting late. He must have been sitting idle watching the bird for three hours. God! Three hours wasted: the deadline approaching like an express train, with him mesmerized on the tracks.
“Hey birdie, would you talk to me?”
“Free me.”
“Who am I to free you?”
“I cannot lift the window glass, do it for me and I shall be free.”
“What if I want to keep you here forever, in this room? I would look after you, feed you, give you anything you want. Let me know you accept. Isn’t this better than freedom? It will save you wasting your day on scavenging: a few crumbs here, a couple of seeds there, an insect so hard to catch.”
“But why do you want to keep me in bondage?”
“Yes. That is the question. You have understood. Why?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Free me.”
“No. You have entered my den. I don’t let anyone go. You can live with me or perish.”
He started laughing. The invisible monster, that glass that frustrated the bird so, seemed to act on his own body, shaking him with violence. He could no longer speak normal words. The laughter constricted his voice, started to choke him. He fixed his eye on the bird. It had been still for some time, eyeing him back. Now, as his laughter ceased ominously, it started fluttering again, crashing against the invisible glass.