The Bird

Sunday morning was lovely–blue sky, birds chirping and breakfast on time–till our neighbour rang the bell. From the look on his face, I could make out that he did not think much of the morning.

I got to the point. “What happened?”

“Where’s your son?” he barked.

“Which one…?” I asked.

“Which one…?” he repeated bemused.

I have only one son. I thought a bit of humour would reduce the tension. It did not.

“The one taking photos of my daughter,” he snarled.

I was about to say “Which one…?” when my wife came to my side and intervened with “Ah!”

She called my son’s name.

My son came from his room upstairs, looking disgruntled, hardly apologetic and carrying his camera. I shook my head when I saw that.

“Why are you taking photos of his daughter?” my wife asked.

“Why would I take photos of his daughter?” my son asked.

“Don’t be cheeky, lad.” The neighbour and I sang that chorus.

“I was taking photos of a red-backed eagle,” my son said. He turned to his mother and complained, “You called when I had the perfect shot.”

“Let me see your photos,” the neighbour demanded.

We crowded around the digital camera. The photos were ambiguous. The leaves were in focus. The bird was a fuzzy patch of reddish brown and white. There was a hazy patch behind the bird, that too of reddish brown and white, which could be a lady.

“See, that’s my daughter,” the neighbour cried triumphantly.

“That’s not your daughter,” I said.

“My daughter is my daughter,” the neighbour stamped his foot.

“That is your wife,” I said calmly.

“My wife is not my daughter.” He was nearing a nervous breakdown.

“Your wife is wearing the nightdress with reddish brown back and white front, not your daughter,” I said.

“How do you know?” The neighbour, my wife and my son sang that chorus.