The balcony where parrots gathered

 The Balcony Where the Parrots Gathered After retirement, I developed a new habit. Every morning, while sipping coffee, I would look at the balcony of the apartment opposite mine on the second floor. You may wonder what is so special about a balcony. But every day, eight parrots would arrive there and perch in a neat row. The owner of that apartment would place powdered corn in plastic cups for them. Like disciplined students, they would eat without fighting among themselves. The sight of those parrots was delightful. Sometimes they would touch beaks affectionately and create quite a commotion. On some days only two parrots would come. For some reason, on days when they did not appear, I felt a sense of emptiness. Still, they visited about twenty days every month. The man who fed them looked around seventy years old. He carefully fed the parrots every day. No one else was ever seen in that apartment; only he appeared to live there. One day, the postman delivered a copy of Ramakrishna Prabha magazine to my house.
 I had never subscribed to it. Looking at the address, I saw it was meant for "K. Venkateswara Rao." My name was "M. Venkateswara Rao." The new postman had made a mistake. I decided to deliver the magazine myself and rang the bell of his apartment. The door opened. The man standing before me was none other than the person who fed the parrots every day.
"Your magazine," I said. "The postman must be new. He gave it to you by mistake. Well, it worked out for the best—we got acquainted."
"Please wait. I'll bring some tea."

 "Why trouble yourself? Has your wife gone to her hometown?" "If she were here, she certainly would have brought it. But she's there now." He pointed toward a garlanded photograph on the wall. It was his late wife's picture.
 Ten minutes later he returned with tea. It was excellent, flavored with cardamom and cinnamon. As we drank tea, I asked him about himself.
"I have two sons. One is in America, the other in Australia. The elder is a software engineer, the younger a doctor. My wife left me two years ago." He paused. "How unfortunate," I said.
"One should love life and respect death," he replied, quoting Sanjeev Dev. I was surprised by his outlook on life. I decided to call him KVR.

 "It would have been nice if one of your sons stayed with you."
"I said the same thing. I asked the younger one why he couldn't practice medicine here. He argued that I had supported his elder brother in going abroad, so why not him? Once birds grow wings, they fly away." "Both left. We have a video call once a week. I visit them abroad once a year." "How do you spend your time?" I asked. "I forgot to tell you. I spend it with the parrots. One day, a baby parrot fell into my balcony. Its leg was injured. I gave it first aid and fed it guava. After a few days its leg healed, and it flew away. It belonged to the sky. But surprisingly, that evening it returned and perched on my shoulder." He said this enthusiastically. "Every morning the parrots visit the balcony. I spend an hour with them." His house was filled with books. On the table lay Chalam Musings. The cupboards were packed with books. It was obvious that he had a deep love for Telugu literature. "Come by whenever you can. Take my mobile number." "Certainly," I replied and left. A month later I returned from Hyderabad after some work. As usual, I looked toward the balcony. There were no parrots. Nor was KVR visible. Perhaps he had gone to stay with one of his sons, I thought. A week passed. One day I went to visit him. A crowd had gathered outside his apartment. "What happened?" I asked. "He died about four days ago. We broke open the door when a foul smell started coming from inside," said a neighbor. I was stunned. When had he died? What had happened? KVR was still seated in his chair. A book had slipped from his hand and remained where it fell. A relative had laid the body in the hall and informed the priest. "Have his sons been informed?" someone asked. "Yes. They cannot come. Because of the war, flights have been cancelled." His relative spoke sadly. "They asked me to perform the funeral rites." "Hurry up and finish the ceremonies. When can people settled abroad ever come? Birth guarantees death." A neighbor quoted the Bhagavad Gita. His words irritated me. Everyone knows that verse. Why did he have to recite it so casually while looking impatiently at the body? At that very moment, a flock of parrots arrived. They gathered around KVR's body. In their own language, they seemed to be saying something. "Why have the parrots come? This is strange," people said. "He fed them every day in his balcony. They've come to see him one last time," I replied. They placed KVR's body in a funeral van. The parrots landed on top of the van. The vehicle moved toward the cremation ground. Finally, KVR's body was consumed by the funeral pyre. The parrots perched on a nearby tree, watching. After some time, they flew away. His son in America watched the funeral through a video call. I returned home, but memories of KVR would not leave me. Perhaps the funeral smoke had dispersed, but the memories had become denser. How had KVR died so suddenly? Apart from the minor ailments that come with age, he seemed healthy. Later, a diary of his was found in his house. I brought it home and began reading.

 March 4
Shekhar did not call today. When I called him, he disconnected. The younger one is busy with some surgery, they say. When I tried calling Shekhar again, he texted: "I'll call you later." He never did.

 March 10
 No one called today. I sat alone in the room, staring at a lizard on the wall. Our wedding photograph appears blurred now. She was fortunate to leave before me. A distant relative came in the evening with a wedding invitation. After she left this world, what happiness remains for me?
March 16
 Everyone joined a video call. They told me to take my medicines on time. They told me not to think too much. But I have only one thought. The center of all my thoughts is my wife. After March 30, the diary was blank. Perhaps KVR had died on March 30. The balcony remained unchanged. But the parrots never came again. And I stopped looking in that direction.
What the Author Reveals :
March 30
 Before his death, KVR was watching the 9 PM news. One particular news item disturbed him. "An Andhra youth was killed in a terrorist shooting in Florida." A photograph of the victim appeared on the screen. "My son... She... khar..." KVR suffered severe chest pain. The stroke that followed led to his death. But the person who had died was not his elder son Shekhar. It was his nephew Naveen. The two looked remarkably alike.

 The End.