A Whim Away

 My sister and I were walking home from church one rainy Sunday morning when she casually dropped the idea of purchasing a duck. Naturally, I thought that ducks were good curries, and went along. Unfortunately, she meant a real live duck that one could not eat (at least I think I have to wait until it grows up) and coerced me into going to a nearby petstore and asking for the price of one duck.

(I am sorry about typos, just in case I spelled 'duck' wrong somewhere)

Anywho, we came to know that one could buy a duck for Rs. 200, and we went home, thinking about ways to convince our father to let us buy said duck.

It would be putting it lightly if I said that my sibling is a con master. To be honest, I never truly comprehended her convincing abilities until today.

Let me explain.

We walked back home from the petstore and I went to my room to change. When I came out, she pulled me by my hand and told me to hurry. I'll admit, I thought she was Varsha-napping me, but I went with her anyway. Only when we reached the road did she reveal that she had convinced father, OUR father (the man who hates thinking about the fact that animals are capable of pooping uncontrollably, the man who swore that he would rather have one more child than adopt a puppy, the man who caught up on my allergies as an excuse when we asked him for a cat) to buy a duck.

What fascinates me is how she thought of a DUCK. I mean, it is a fine bird, but there are so many other living things you would name as a pet before coming to Duck. (I once had even suggested taking up spiders as pets since Billy Eilish also has a pet spider, and they live here anyway.) She said that not only was it economical (since it costs only Rs. 200, for which I could buy a purse), but it was also easy to manage since it has tiny poops, almost little to no shedding because of feathers (solves the cat problem) and does not make much of a noise (and if it does we can just tie up its beak). Moreover, it does not require a waterbody since people have brought up ducks in apartments.

I admit, my mind suddenly went to a cousin of mine, who takes ducks by their neck and swings them like pendulums (My grandpa once said that they get scrambled eggs easily due to his violent contribution). The problem with my sister is that she gets attached to animals. Too much. Once I saw her dressing up her pet rooster in baby clothes. Another time, I swear I saw her feed chicken fry to the rooster.

By the time I went through this thought process, we were about to cross the road to reach the petstore. An ambulance was coming by at high speed, and this little bugger sister of mine pulled my hands to cross without even considering the danger we were in. I pulled back on time and chided her, to which she replied, "You know, if we don't hurry there is a chance that Dad might change his mind and come running after us. Better buy one before then."

And so, somehow we reached the petstore. The storekeeper there was a North Indian, and so I tried conversing with him in my broken Hindi:

"Bhai, ek duck dhedho"

"Huh?"

"Ek duck. Yeh wala (pointing to the duck). Thoda cute wala dhedho"

"Malayalam?"

"Yes!"

And then he started speaking in rapid Malayalam that even I did not understand half of what he was saying. My sister nodded, though.

He asked us if we wanted male or female. To be honest, we preferred a male, because the female population in our household was already high, with a ratio of 3:1. But then I asked for a girl, because then it would give (or rather, we would take) eggs, and there is also a possibility of cooking if it refuses to lay eggs.

And so we came back, duck in a bag, quacking all the way home, so horribly that the neighbors thought that my sister started singing again. She kept talking on and on about how we could keep her (the duck) on the terrace and what we would feed it, while I kept swearing I could smell duck curry. On reaching home, the panicked duck started quacking like all hell broke loose, and ran over my mom's bougainvillas. We were afraid of the duck, and it was afraid of us. My sister was the bravest of us all, but she too decided to give it a bit of space to adjust and put itself together. 

After two hours, though, it started getting rather silly, that my dad decided to name it "cooker" which was apt since its cry did sound like a pressure cooker. 

Personally, I think that it might also taste well after spending some time in one.