Events whether good or bad are a part of humans. While ordinary folks just experience these incidents, writers not only live through these moments but tend to analyze them as well. I too encounter these twists of life and then examine them through a unique prism.
Yesterday, like any other Saturday afternoon, I was at my desk when I heard chirpy notes of sparrows – emanating from the attached balcony. These soulful cheeps actually brought my writing to an abrupt halt. I listened to the lyrical sounds. Although, I couldn’t actually decipher its meaning or the hidden message it somehow cooled my overclocked brain.
It seemed there was an entire flock. How did I know? Well, from the mixed notes and distinct vocals. I silently closed the window leaving just a small opening for the fresh air to seep in. The room now felt much quieter which offered me a chance to introspect. The one thought which kept bouncing in my head was my sensitivity to everything around me. Even ordinary phenomena and its equally ordinary participants made a big impact on my psyche. It also affected my writing as it introduced me to newer emotions and newer stories.
I was still lost in my thoughts when the flutter of bird wings echoed inside the room. I pushed the chair back and looked up at the celling. A sparrow had made its way inside. The narrow opening in the window it seemed was mistaken for an invitation. The flapping of wings turned incessant when the feathered beauty realized that it was trapped. I guess, like me even birds were sensitive. I opened the window completely, offering a perfect escape route, but the sparrow was too overwhelmed.
The realization, that it might get hit by one of the rotating fan blades came a little too late. Before I could switch off the button, the little birdie entered the “No Fly” zone. And the very next moment it got hit and fell on my desk with a thump. I picked it up and looked at it closely. The small eyes continued to blink while the wings flapped crazily. Even the breathing seemed normal. It turned me euphoric. In spite of the knock the uninvited visitor was still in high spirits.
The bird lifted off from my palm, flapped its wings and then eased on the window sill. I sauntered towards it and felt its warm body, caressing its neck and its head. Once again the little one flapped its wings and this time it landed on the parapet, waiting for its final flight to freedom. After a long pause it did take off, soared several feet into the air and then abruptly lost momentum. It took ten seconds for the sparrow to hit the ground below.
I raced down the stairs, scrambled across the lobby, my eyes darting across the entire concrete course. And there it was, lying on its back! I picked it up. This time the eyes did not blink nor did its chest rise and fall. I was still looking at it when the gardener walked up to me.
“What happened?” he asked.
I showed him the body and said “It’s dead.”
“In our culture when a bird dies it signifies the beginning of a new life,” he said.
“What?”
“It means the end of pain, worries.”
“How can you be so insensitive?” I said and then shifted my focus on the bird. A group of crows had already gathered on the tree branch, waiting for the right opportunity. “Please bury it somewhere … away from these ruthless opportunists.
Back home I pondered on the tragic end of the sparrow. What turned me skeptical was the way the gardener interpreted its death. I did a quick research. And it proved correct. While some termed a bird’s demise as “metaphorically dead”, in all its poetic glory, there were others who believed that it signified the beginning of a new flight, a new journey. Some even called it a symbol of immortality.
However, very few empathized. Strange isn’t it?
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