My Daughter’s Parrot

    

                                                                            Fiction

It had been only a month since my daughter and I brought home a parrot. This morning, that parrot—our beloved Totto—died. My daughter, heartbroken, hadn’t eaten since dawn. She stared at his lifeless body in silence. When I reached out to pick him up, she quickly cradled him in her arms and refused to let me take him.

The day began as any other. I was getting ready for the office, and she was preparing for school. That’s when we noticed Totto wasn’t in the house. My daughter was the first to point it out. Together, we began searching. I feared the worst—that perhaps a cat had gotten to him.

She ran into the courtyard, and from there, I heard her voice ring out, trembling and urgent:
“Papa! Totto is on the wall!”

That’s what she called him—Totto.

I rushed out and saw him lying lifeless on the garden wall. A few other parrots had gathered around him, sitting in silence, as if mourning. My daughter, wide-eyed, asked:

“Papa, why are there so many parrots here? Are they all Totto’s relatives? But why is he lying like that? He always talks and dances. Why is he so quiet today? What happened to him, Papa?”

“Totto is dead, my love,” I said gently. “These parrots have come to say goodbye.”

She began to cry. No words could console her. She had grown deeply attached to him. In just a month, their bond had grown so strong that she wouldn’t eat a bite unless Totto was by her side. He would sit on her shoulder for hours, and she would whisper to him late into the night.

When we first brought him home, she had been afraid of him. But in a matter of days, they had become inseparable. And now, that little friend of hers was gone.

I climbed the wall and gently brought Totto down. As I did, the other parrots scattered into the sky. I laid him on the table inside, and the family gathered around. To the others, he was just a bird. But to my daughter, it felt as though someone from the family had died.

She said nothing, but the grief on her face was unmistakable.

“Totto is gone, sweetheart,” I whispered.

She looked up at me and asked,
“Papa, what do we do when someone dies?”

Tears trickled down her cheeks.

“If it’s a human, we bury them... or cremate them,” I replied softly.

“And when birds like Totto die?” she asked.

I had no answer.

She repeated her question. “Papa, Totto is dead. What will we do with him?”

Still, I remained silent.

After a moment, she wiped her tears, picked up Totto’s lifeless body, and walked out into the courtyard. I followed.

There, she dug a small hole and gently laid him to rest. Her tears fell with the earth she poured over him. Her sorrow became part of the soil.

We were still standing there, quietly gazing at the tiny grave, when a parrot suddenly flew down and perched on the wall. It looked around, curious.

Moments later, it flew closer.

The bird looked exactly like Totto. I was stunned. He began to chirp, calling out, “Mithoo! Mithoo!” and then danced—just like our Totto used to.

I turned to my daughter and said, “Look, Totto has come back!”

She stared at the new parrot in silence for a while, then broke into a smile.

“Papa, is this really our Totto? But... he died. He was buried. How did he come back?”

“This is Totto’s second birth,” I said.

The parrot flew onto her shoulder.

Giggling, she walked back inside, while I watched her with a smile—and left for work, my heart a little lighter.