United in compassion for a little squirrel
Some years ago, I was driving along a road in Sydney – there was a flash of fluttering white in front of the car before me, which suddenly halted. I jammed on my brakes and saw with relief that the car behind me had also stopped without crashing.
A white cockatoo had fallen from the sky and was fluttering in difficulty on the road; we couldn’t see why.
Cars coming the other way began to stop too, and altogether about eight vehicles quietly came to a halt as we all waited for the bird to recover, hoping hard that it would. There were no horns being tooted, no fingers held in the air, none of the angry urgency seen quite often on this busy road between the station and the shops.
It was as if that ordinary stretch of road became filled with compassion. Except for a murmured “Oh dear”, no one spoke.
After about a minute and a half the cockatoo became still, spread out its wings and flew back smoothly into the sky.
A squirrel eats in our garden, watched by others who will take their turn
We grinned at each other in pleasure, all strangers, got back into our cars and drove on. The moment lives forever.
Last week, there was a similar moment, but sadder. We were a street away from our house in Jayanthipura, near Battaramulla, as our tuk-tuk driver swerved away from a squirrel frozen in panic on the road.
To our horror, a four-wheel-drive was coming towards us at speed, with the squirrel directly in its path.
The tuk-tuk driver tooted and pointed frantically towards the little creature. We all leaned out and waved our hands in warning. The people in a van parked nearby also tried to flag down the 4WD – but it rushed on like a juggernaut.
Two yards away from us, a wheel passed over the little squirrel; its beautiful bushy tail twitched slightly, and all was still. The vehicle raced on and disappeared behind us.
Our tuk-tuk driver, angry almost to weeping point, leapt out and cradled the stricken animal. Two burly workmen from the parked van jumped out with a bottle and vainly sprinkled water over it in an attempt to revive it. But the squirrel had died.
Once again, there was that universal impulse of compassion and, this time, of grief for the little one that would not be going home to its family that evening, would not leap again from branch to branch, making that amazingly loud chinking noise. It could have been one of the squirrels for whom we left spare rice on a shelf on our garden fence, and watched every day as it and other squirrels and birds took turns eating.
Six assorted strangers on that road loved the little squirrel whose life we had shared for a brief few seconds. In compassion we became one – just for a moment … just for a moment.
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