Rohet Garh, India
I woke to the sound of someone being murdered. Screams cut through the morning darkness. Fumbling for my flashlight, I knocked it to the floor, where it rolled under the bed.
More screaming. Couldn’t anyone else in the hotel hear it?
I wrapped a bathrobe around me and went to the door.
The screams were intermittent now, as though the victim were in her final moments (from the sound of it, on the other side of my threshold).
There was no peephole. Mustering up my courage and foolhardiness, I cracked the door.
There stood a wild male peacock.
He regarded me for a moment, taking in my bed head, oversized bathrobe, and bare feet, then screamed his displeasure.
I slammed the door and groped my way back to bed, where I listened to him voice his opinion on a variety of topics at the top of his bird lungs for the next forty-five minutes.
I now understood the small packet of earplugs on the nightstand.
Later in the day I asked the hotel’s owner about my early morning visitor.
“Is he always that…vocal?”
“Oh, yes,” the manager said. “Peacocks are like people.”
“Noisy?” I grumped.
The manager nodded his head. “They have a great many opinions, all of which they believe are best expressed at the top of their lungs. Repeatedly.”
I couldn’t disagree with him.
P.S. This encounter inspired a short story, “The Peahen,” that was nominated for a couple of awards. (In addition to traveling, I write crime fiction.)
Be one of the first ten people to email me and I’ll send you a copy. Or you can buy the story collection where it appears ($3).
