Not that she and I exchanged screeches and screams to communicate. She had too vast a vocabulary which was beyond my capability. It was not for want of trying though and I could produce a decent high pitched "Cheechu, padi da" that often made my brother wonder how on earth Psitta could order him like this when her beak remained shut.
Another bird call I learnt was from Mrs & Mr. Peafowl. They were a puny, famished pair that we acquired somehow and my sister Vijaya adopted them. To fatten them up, she fed them boiled eggs and then tried to wean them when we had to give them away to a temple.... another story. What's important here is that in the short time they were with us, I learnt their call. It is remarkably similar to a cat's meow except that it is harsher, longer, begins with a somewhat nasal 'ng' instead of 'm' and ends on a higher note than the cat's meow. A challenge, all right, quite unlike the cuckoo's melodious cooing. I was the only one who rose to the challenge of the peacock and, after a long and rigorous full throated practice, included it in my repertoire. The curses I got from every single adult at home put off my siblings and they confined themselves to the cuckoo's call.

As difficult as it is to see the cuckoo in the tree, it is easy to coo. The problem arises with variations in the note. The first call is a smooth, level, "kuoo" with a slight dip between the 'u' and "oo." It was so irresistible that the moment we heard the first kuoo, we rushed out of the house, looked up at various trees to locate the bird and cooed in as many pitches as we were in number. We usually shocked the bird and it either flew off in a blur of black or waited for us to leave. If it was not frightened by us and our medley, it returned the call. We would then puff our chests with pride and let loose a volley. It would return a sharp kuoo in a higher scale which we matched. It would step up the pitch. We weren't going to cow down. The cooing match would rise in scale, become shorter and more frantic till some seven or eight calls later, the bird would decide that silence was the better part of valour. We would retire victorious, flushed with pride and breathlessness.

One day, a few years later, I heard a cuckoo call from the neem tree outside my window and wondered whether I'd lost my flair for birdsong. The only way to find out was to test the vocal chords, then and there. I returned a soft, tentative 'ku ..oo.' There was no returning call. My heart sank. Before it could hit the bottom, however, the bird called enquiringly "ku..oo?" Yes! I hadn't lost the touch. The confidence showed in my reply. The cuckoo riposted. I peered outside. He was bold in his summons but seemed a shy fellow otherwise, flitting from branch to branch and taking care to keep out of my sight. Our scales grew sharper, shriller, shorter. Normally the bird would have stopped after a few calls but this one was made of sterner stuff. He was not going to be the first one to concede defeat. Well, neither was I. I cooed back while my eyes bored through the branches for the stubborn bird. He seemed to have gone to the other side of the house. I followed his call and went through the rooms. He was somewhere close at hand. Cheechu's room was closed. The bird had called from outside his room. It was my turn to coo. I called and pushed open the door. There was Cheechu looking out of his window and returning my coo! We gaped at each other as realisation sank in. We had been the cuckoos!!

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