Fowl moods

An old published piece of mine (coincidentally this day in July 1995, Indian Express), which I had promised to put on my blog when I blogged about my granny ...

Much ado over an egg
It all started when grandma caught hold of a hen sneaking into the storeroom and shoved her under a wicker basket. These hens relish the idea of being chased, all in the manner of avian courtship, before giving way to capture.
All was quiet on the kitchen front for another half and hour. Then emerged a human form from the kitchen, lifted the hen by its tail feathers and made a quick exit. Either the hen took a moment to register the fact that she had lost an egg, or she took a few minutes to come to terms with her surroundings as she stood still gazing upwards. Then she started wailing miserably, protesting against the inhumanity of humans.
A rooster wandering close to the house heard the alarm raised by a worthy member of the fair sex, and he crowed in unison to sympathise with the unlucky female. Confusion reigned supreme, with the hen raising a hue and cry inside the house and the rooster outside.
Finally, a face emerged near the kitchen door, cursing the fowls for making such a racket, but that did not quieten them down.
So, in a last-ditch attempt to appease the hen, a handful of rice grain was thrown at her feet. The hen greedily ate it and forgot all about the missing egg.
Or, maybe, she thought it was a good bargain to exchange an egg for a handful of grain. Whatever the reason, a contented hen walked out of the kitchen door to join the rooster at the barn.
The cocky pride of the rooster received a boost when the damsel in distress strutted over to him and profusely thanked him for his concern and sympathy. The Casanova braced up and conveyed his whole-hearted support to the feminist cause.
The hen, however, doubted his motive for he was a great one for chasing chicks. In fact, he was the bone of contention between the neighbours. Grandma accused the philanderer of ravishing her hens and depriving her of her modest share of eggs.
The hens who fell for his charm became lazy and moody, preferring to sit huddled together in a corner of grandma's spotlessly clean kitchen. They screeched like tree owls at all and sundry who dared to interrupt their meditation. And there they sat till Grandma wielded her mighty weapon, the broom, and shooed them out.
The price for violating their modesty came in the form of stones and sticks hurled at the rooster whenever he was caught pecking the wheat or rice grain provided to the hens.But that never deterred him from dating his female fans next door. The most sacred commandment to him was to love his neighbours as his own self.
The chicks adored him and grandma detested him. But it was a way of life - one woman's villain is another's hero.
An irritated grandma, therefore, reached an agreement with her neighbour that she would exact her pound of flesh on the rooster's D-Day. His peers had all gone "the way of all flesh" to the pressure cooker. The rooster had already survived two death penalties but he knew he was living under the shadow of a death sentence.
To live was divine but, alas, to kill was only human.