Shooting down cruelty

I remember that incident like it was yesterday, though it happened over seven decades ago. Masti Venkatesha Iyengar, the renowned recipient of Jnanpith award for his enriching contribution to Kannada literature under the pen name Srinivasa, a very close friend of my father, was a frequent visitor to our house.

Being ardent lovers of literature, they shared a common interest, further strengthening their emotional bond. I recollect the joy with which they carried on their animated discussions replete with profound analyses of great works of literary luminaries, though I was too young to comprehend even a bit of it.

During Masti’s one such visit to our house, father had not yet returned from his customary morning walk. He decided to wait for father and asked me to get a blank sheet of paper and a writing pad.

Preferring to sit on a bench in our garden under the bougainvillea bower, he at once started penning his thoughts, which I am now sure must have become one of the myriad pages of his enormous literary works.

While he was engrossed thus, I was busy looking for a hapless bird to get at with my catapult. Soon, an unfortunate myna became a victim and the little bird dropped dead right in front of Masti, instantly distracting him! He stared at the dead bird as he uttered, his feeble voice drenched in acute pain, “Ah! Srinivasa, what am I seeing!”

He turned towards me in disbelief. His sharp eyes behind his glasses, which had showered so much of avuncular benevolence whenever we met, now bore a look of sadness and disgust.

“Tell me, you brave warrior, why did you kill this innocent, defenceless bird?” he asked.
I did not know what to answer since I had no purpose for the act I had so thoughtlessly carried out as a boy of eight.

“Are you going to eat it?” he asked, looking into my eyes.

“Ugh, never!” I gasped.

“Did it harm you in any manner?”

“No, how could it!” I stammered.

“Do you hate birds?” he was unrelenting.

“No, I love them!” I blurted instinctively. “Then why did you kill it? Do you harm those you love?” he pursued.

That did it. Engulfed in guilt and remorse, I was hiding my surging tears when father returned from his walk. As they were entering the house, Masti turned back and gave me a sharp look, the significance of which I could not comprehend then.

Several decades later, I visited him at his residence to express my grateful thanks for the book that he had written, giving a sketch in Kannada, on the life of my father.

After his customary kind enquiries, he suddenly asked me with a twinkle in his eyes: “When did you return from Shivamogga? Your brother told me that you went on a hunting safari by jeep around Sirigere forests. Hope you enjoyed shooting a good number of deer and other hapless ones!”

I instantly knew what made him ask this, and admired his remarkable memory. I explained to him that I did go on a safari with my good friend, who happens to be the DFO (Divisional Forest Officer) of the region, to shoot the beauty of the wildlife, but with camera, not with gun!

“I expected it,” he said, with his characteristic charming smile. “I knew my words that day had touched your heart when I saw your reaction.”