Guys I am new here. Bare with me. Could you guys please tell me what you think of the rough draft here please. (copy pasting from word hopefully it turns out alright.) Here it goes:
“It is by observing the agility and flexibility of an animal’s neck that you can guess the animal’s whereabouts on the food chain” I had heard my school biology teacher, Mr. Ledley say.
But Tooti had learned over time that all intrusions, friendly or hostile were limited to her cage’s sole entrance, so her neck was quite safe from predators. We all referred to it as ‘her cage’, as if a bird would find solace in the ownership of a cage. Ever since the bars came to define the boundaries of her domain, she sat across from the entrance and waited for something to happen, anything, to break the somber routine of the days. Car alarms in the morning, the ding of the coffee maker and the hiss of the shower, a ring of the keys and the bang of the door. And along with every knock, whistle and tap was the passage of a milestone, on the road to eternal confinement, and it seemed like only death would do them apart.
There was one sound that was especially pleasing to Tooti’s sensitive ears, one sound that was more than the selfish hustle of the world beyond the bars. And that would be the creaking sound of grandma’s wheel chair. A mechanical malfunction, it was harmony to Tooti’s ears, background to her enthused whistles; and A Minor for and E Minor.
My Grandma didn’t just feed her on time; she gave her a treat, attention and love. The extent of hesitation on my part to bring Tootie home was of no significance, I believed the bird had to come. Grandma and mother understood that very well. But what they also knew, very well, was how much of an emotional endeavor it was for me. My mother looked concerned and touched by Tooti’s entrance into our lives. To me it was like a bad Déjà vu.
You see, when I was just a child and the master of the playground I came upon Fereshte, Angel. She lay helpless and wounded at the edge of my kingdom, underneath the wall, the wall to the real world outside, where I wasn’t a king and the young were prohibited from the ER, a world where grandpa was dying. There she was by the broken Hookah glass that seems to have been there forever. One of those objects that seem to exist only to be brought back to life years later, as if to stand in the court of imagination and bear witness to long past events. That it has done and it can now be set free from the bondage of my memory.
Back to Fereshte; I picked her up and decreed that in my kingdom this helpless guest shall receive mercy in abundance. I placed Fereshte in a nest I had personally made on the top floor of my grandfather’s vacant office. Grandpa was in the hospital, you see, suffering from an extreme case of the Sugars. He had fallen drastically ill, lost his sight and his legs to gangrene. And all but me were at his bedside. I was then limited to my kingdom, its fantasies and Fershte. Fereshte was sick too, but she didn’t seem to get picky with her care; I was good enough. With family always away at the hospital, or work, Fereshte inevitably became my sole companion, the keeper of my secrets and soon to be my eyes in the sky. But I would only promote her to that rank if she promised to recover faster,
“For our patience is growing vary” I declared. It was a deal.
A few sunrises later, I woke up lonely, again, and prepared to pay a visit to my ailing friend. But Fereshte, my Angel was gone. I looked everywhere, around the office, in the empty pool, by the recently freed glass Hookah, and underneath the garden furniture. Nothing. I broke down and cried, squeezing myself into a tight cold corner of the pool for hours listening to the echo of my kingly alter ego’s sighs reverberating around the hollow of my castle’s trenches. A king in a grudging mourning; a child in remorse, until I felt mother’s warm grasp around my shrunk body, inching close to me,
“Don’t worry,” she whispered, “Grandpa is in a better place now.”
Now you might see clearer the significance of Tooti in our lives. Bringing Tooti home to grandma and mother was, on a subconscious level a gesture of confidence in her recovery at the risk of emotional trauma. At the risk of repeating history; this was a curse I would break, a memory that need not be called to the witness stand irrespective of what happened to Tooti.
Grandma sat by the bird like their faiths were interlocked. Just like everything else around the house, we kept the doors locked, the blinds down, curtains drawn; pretending like it was always like that and had nothing to do with our fear of Tooti’s fleeing. In the bird we all had an investment. She had to be kept secure.
Grandma’s love for cooking, singing and writing had inspired many women of her time to reach higher. The stroke which rendered her paralyzed took away all of that. She was no longer able to move her right hand and leg, speak, or eat unassisted. A woman who once championed independence was now at the mercy of ordinary mortals like mother and me.
When I first brought Tooti home, grandma was disingenuously interested at best. I told her that the bird was for her and I wanted her to name it.
“Tooti” she said underneath her broken breath. Tooti is the word for Parrot in Farsi.
“Tooti?! Mom, look here, grandma said a word, Tooti. So what do you want to call Tooti Grandma?”
“Tooti” She said with a dismissive tone. I didn’t understand whether she called her Tooti because it was a word she happened to be able to say, or she just didn’t care, a hangover from the stroke. So Tooti became the third word grandma could say, besides calling for mother or me. At first I wasn’t sure if Grandma would ever take any interest in the bird at all. I had never known my grandma owning a pet. And over time their relationship grew strong, since never believing that mother and I or anybody for that matter can get things done right like she can, she took over the responsibility of caring for Tooti. But I always wondered if that was an excuse, if on the inside of her impenetrable mind, where much was now being kept within, she found much in common with Tooti; fed, pitied, misunderstood, out of touch with her own faith, rendered predictable, scheduled, maintained and confined.
I used to get Grandma frozen yogurts and mints for treats, but along with grandma’s disabilities her treats changed. Simple activities, commonalities of daily life had become luxuries directly proportional to blood pressure, fluid levels, oxygen content, and mood swings. An efficient mind prisoner to a deficient physique. Of those she enjoyed reading most. And I intended to make that a possibility even though to me getting books for grandma as a treat felt strange. Bringing gifts to Santa clause and watching him jump for joy like a little kid by a Christmas tree.
So I made my way to Los Angeles and back, a four-hour drive, since that’s the closest city and maybe the only one in California with a decent selection of minority literature and magazines. Mother wasn’t going to be home that particular day and I was to watch over Grandma. I was late, but nothing out of the ordinary. She would be sitting on her wheelchair feeding Tooti and watching the news.
Since Grandma’s stroke I felt an immense need to pay closer attention to her every move, every gesture, to capture her very essence. And as I would get closer to the house I would anxiously anticipate her presence, as if it were to vanish. Her warm gentle smile, the homely, reassuring aura of disinfectant when I threw my arms around her, the hiss and puff of the oxygen pump, hastily drawn lipstick by my mother’s unsteady hands, and the over stretched over exaggerated reiterations of vowels as her best attempt at greeting me. All love.
But once I pulled into the driveway and got out of the car, I quickly realized that something was different that day. The house seemed eerily quiet. Tooti wasn’t singing, her innate reaction to the dissonant sound of the engine. It is amazing how our minds can attribute multiple feelings and memories to a particular smell or sound. Very quickly the disinfectant smelled more like grandpa’s old office, the sky looked darker, my blood got warm and as I hastened on the concrete ground underneath towards the entrance. I could have sworn I heard the crackle of my grandpa’s wooden floor.
I began to breath hard and mumbled repetitiously something like ‘Grandma is fine’. A sense of being betrayed by faith hit me hard. I unlocked the door like a prison guard trying to catch up to a fleeing inmate. I would blame myself for anything that happened to Grandma. That treacherous Tooti was a bad idea to begin with.
Court in session; all are called upon; Fershte, the pool, Grandpa’s office, the wall, the betrayed child, loneliness and repeat offender: the broken Hookah glass. Time was left to be the judge.
As I walked in, the scene before me was chaotic; I saw circles on the carpet where she had tried to move the wheel chair with one arm. The chair sat there abandoned at the end of a drag mark on the carpet. I followed it to her room and there she was, on the floor, lying belly down by the open window, left hand stretched out towards it. She was panting, exhausted from the struggle between her and the lock on the window. And on the window railing were a couple of feathers, the last remains of Tooti.
Ever since that incident Grandma recovered fast and regained the ability to write again. To her that was freedom, and the blank page her window. As for me, time has passed, the healing done and the prisoner set free. After all he was the one needy of release, not witnesses, he the kid with a crown who just wouldn’t let go.
-copyright December 2009 by Ozhan Tabibi
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Originally Posted by Jermac
