Free as a bird, at last

Geetanjali Gayatri

Geetanjali  Gayatri 

I was driving back home early morning after dropping off my daughter to school when I noticed a man by the roadside, cycle parked, rummaging through the grass with a stick. I looked at him and looked away but not before a movement had caught my eye. The wing of a bird? 

I took the next turn to drive back to the spot. The man had gone away. I parked the car and walked the stretch, searching and scanning the grass for the slightest movement.

And then, it caught my eye — a bird that couldn’t fly. It cringed when I first touched it. There were no visible signs of injury but something was wrong. I decided to take it home. 

It sat in my lap as we drove back and I talked to it, hoping to reassure it. It surrendered completely, wriggling to make itself comfortable and flapping a wing before settling in. 

I had no clue about birds and their behaviour, I presumed it would be hungry and thirsty from a night in the cold. My dog, Gabru, looked at me rather disapprovingly and out of curiosity, as I, bird in hand, hurried around organising water and rice.

The bird had none of it. I put it on the stone bench in the garden but it only looked back with longing eyes, wanting to be picked up and held close. I did that, and, I took it back inside. It sat in my lap as I went through the newspapers and watched it from the corner of my eye. It would occassionally spread its wings and turn over but it constantly looked up at me, blinking all the time. Surprisingly, not once did it use its sharp beak. Love, probably, is the one language we all understand, across species.

I caressed it and it closed its eyes blissfully, only to wake up the very instant I would stop to turn the page, as if to say it was criminal to do so. This repeated itself a few times till it lay still.

The eyes were open, looking up at me with the same earnestness but it wasn’t blinking. I cradled it in my hands to see if it moved a wing or feet. It didn’t. The seconds that filled the moments felt heavy and turned to minutes. It was motionless.

I realised it had drifted into deep sleep in the comfort of a stanger’s lap. At least it had been warmer than the wet earth and softer than the sharp grass blades it had spent the night in. At least it wasn’t alone and scared before it went. At least it felt cared for when it breathed its last. 

Maybe that is why I had gone to drop off my daughter that day. Maybe the cyclist stood there with a stick, turning it over, to ensure I don’t just pass it by. Maybe our paths were destined to cross. Maybe that’s why we all meet. Because, somehow, we are connected. In life and in death. 

I asked a neighbour’s gardener to dig a pit near the gulmohar I had planted. I prayed as I placed it back into the womb of the earth, under the flowering tree. When spring comes, I am hoping, it will sprout back and bloom like the flower-laden gulmohar. And then, maybe our paths will, unknowingly, cross yet again.