A dead bird. A lesson of a life time.

“Ma, will he live?”

“Let’s hope he sang his sweetest and flew high and free all his life. Something we cannot even imagine doing.”

“Why do you say it like that?”

How do you tell a hopeful child that a bird he had hoped to save had just breathed its last in the ball of your palm? How do you introduce death as a finality to a small person who is just starting out his life?

Well, you don’t. Because life is the smartest teacher of all and has a way of handling such unanswerable questions. So although mothers are supposed to know it all, sometimes silence is the best response to uncomfortable questions they cannot tackle. Like I did this morning, when I knew, our little bird was beyond help.

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We were out on our morning walk today, when we spotted a bird, fluttering its feet up in the air, in a bush tucked under a tree. It appeared to be in pain and when I picked it up, a passer-by said: “Shot kheyeche, bnachbe na” (meaning, the bird had been electrocuted by a naked wire over the tree, where it was apparently sitting and will not live). Another guy, who was on a bicycle and had stopped to see what it was all about, said with a wise nod, “Ektu jol deen toh, dekhun bnache kina” (meaning, give it some water, see if it helps).

There was a tube well right next to where the bird had fallen. Ishaan pushed the handle hard and pumped out some water. Using my fingers I managed to drip drops into its tiny beak.

“Let’s take him home, ma. We have a dropper, right, which we use to give Neopeptin to Gabloo? We can use it to give him more water. Once he gets better, we will set him free.”

“OK, but we would have to break into a run then. We must be quick. Can you match my pace?”

As we ran, the bird cried out. A few times. I have never felt the tender warmth of a bird on my skin before. It was soft, fluffy, and I could still feel the life running through it. It was so tiny and so smooth, that you wanted to protect it. You wanted to shield it with all your might. As it chirped, our hopes rose. It must be getting better.

Soon afterwards, its head fell on one side and the eyelids drew into a closed yellow shutter. It was over. I knew.

I still ran. I never felt so cheated, so humiliated in my life. Helpless too. Here we were proud humans, pretending to act saviour to a dying bird. How dare he die on us, how dare he sneak past our efforts like that? How was I supposed to face my child? How would I tell him that I could not salvage the little bird’s life, he had so fondly rescued?

We reached home. I am sure death has a smell of its own, for Gabloo, who runs to me, every time I come home and begs to be picked up, stood still watching me carry the bird in.

“Didi, pakhi ta toh more geche” was Moonmoon’s verdict.

I watched my son’s eyes as they gradually welled up. Wordless tears rolled down his flushed cheeks. Despite all the ultimate conclusions being drawn around him, I saw him quietly pick up the plastic dropper. He tried to force the stiff beaks apart to dribble in some water into the dead mouth but soon realized that it was of no use any more. 

He asked me if he could take a picture of the bird to remember him by.

Then asked me if we could bury him with dignity. I nodded a yes.

Together we went downstairs, hand in hand. We buried the little singing bird. Wrapped in a fresh clean tissue roll. Somewhere, where no one will ever trample him, no one will walk over his sacred grave.

I do not know if it was co-incidence or providence, but we had gathered a few Shiuli flowers in the early hours of our walk today. Never knew the flowers would come to such great use.

To honour our little guest. His visit was short. But he had made for some unforgettable memories for a mother and her child.

Eid Mubaraq, everyone!

Let’s celebrate the gift of life – as long as we have it.

Hair colour, here she comes!

There is a beauty parlour right outside my society gate. I have seen it grow from a modest single room affair to a three-cabin luxury, if you will. I am an old patron. I land at their glass doorstep for a random hair-oil massage, a quick pedicure or that odd facial. I am habitually slipshod about skin and hair care and my most frequent beauty treatment is a shampoo at their salon. Especially during the winter months. Feels nice to lean my head back, rest my shoulders on the padded backrest, shut my eyes and feel the warm jet of water caress my head before dollops of shampoo work up the lather.

The technicians have a way with their fingers, I must say. They press the right spots on your temples, pull the right strands of hair, twist them with the right pressure. And they have one more way of therapy available for those willing – they keep you awake with their constant chatter. As I told you, it is a humble haunt for women who aren’t willing to travel too far and wide for services locally available at affordable rates. Definitely not a place for posh socialites. And unless it is a month away from Durga Puja, and every woman wants to look her best, you won’t find the place too crowded.

I am an avid and shameless nosher of human conversation, not that I intentionally eavesdrop or anything. But when there are words flying around to catch and cuddle, I don’t let the chance slip. I think the same goes for them. They draw their energy from the women they have been trying to beautify for ages now. Naturally they ask a lot of questions. Unassuming, unpretentious, and unboring, they lack the typical sophistication of the beauticians at the classy spas who talk in whispers and never look into your eyes. They will ask you how long have you been married, was it a love marriage, how many kids did you bring to the world, where do you work, what do you do. I have always fuelled their curiosity with more than the information they have asked for. Indulging them to ask more. They have readily given in, with encouraged smiles.

The little salon is a stage set for drama of all kinds. Petty jealousies have unfurled between the girls before my eyes, professional rivalries breaking out - "Why does she sit all day when I work my ass off? Why can't she bring me the wax before I ask for it? Why didn't anyone shut the fridge door properly?" Sometimes I have heard unsavoury gossip about someone they commonly know, also witnessed a genuine camaraderie between some of them, smelled the home-cooked food they had brought for lunch in steel tiffin carriers, neatly arranged at the top of the little white refrigerator that stores gels and creams. Over a period of time, I have grown a strange sense of familiarity with the gang of girls.

After all, these are the women that you let touch yourself.

Hair, nail, skin.

And possibly your deepest sense of being women and belonging together to a tribe of workers.

So when my mother complained that her hennaed hair was all lacklustre after a long hospital stay and that her well earned greys were all showing, I decided to take her to the girls for a treat. I think it is good to mention here that my mother has never been to a beauty salon before. I must also quickly run to add that she was vehemently opposed to the idea that I take her to one for services, which would not only dig an unnecessary hole into her daughter’s purse but also infuse the world with deadly carcinogens. The henna that she has been using on her hair was all natural, she insisted, plucked from her own garden, mashed in her mixer and applied with a blue flat brush. With of course, my father supervising.

Also, having lost a lot of weight, she was suddenly conscious of strangers. But I stood my ground and took her in. The girls at the parlour were forewarned of her arrival and they were ready with all possible colour catalogues for the hair. After rejecting all the shades, declaring all as uncouthly garish, Ma sat down with a frown, silently fuming at my reflection in the mirror facing her:

“I told you, this is not a place for me”.

I saw panic in the girls’ eyes. I saw one of the senior technicians pick up a mobile and run out of the parlour. Shortly thereafter, walked in the owner of the place, sweaty and obviously hassled. She was busy preparing for the Janmashtami puja at her house, when she had got this SOS call from her assistant. With the patience of Job, she catered to my mother herself, asking Aunty-ji what exactly she wanted. My mother explained in broken Hindi that she wanted her hair to look as natural as possible, but not in any shade of black. Stirring in two different colours in a plastic bowl, the good lady had finally and confidently found a hair hue miracle.

My mother sat through the 40 minutes with a grimace. I was looking at the clock and telling my racing heart to stop acting up. After all, even if she hated the colour, she could never hate me, now could she, her last born? But with the Sanyals, you never know. We are a clan of raging ancients. We belong to an era when righteous anger was considered noble and an honest annoyance never disguised in phony smiles! So I was taking a huge risk and I knew it. All I said out loud was:

“Ma, we can always re-do if you don’t like it, right?”

Which was again greeted with a stony silence. The minutes hung heavy like wet clothes on a weak line. The good lady who had mixed the colour and supervised the application, was now standing near the wash basin to see the results. She was wiping her forehead repeatedly. Two air conditioners were fanning us with all their chilly might.

Soon, the colour had all drained away and there my mother sat with a wet mop of mane, trying to get a glance into the mirror and take stock of the disaster. She got ready to exclaim and chastise my foolish decision. I did not give her that chance. I screamed:

“Ma, you look so fabulous! Who would think you have been so critically ill!”

The girls knew their cue too.

“Mashima, bhishon bhalo lagche! The hair looks all natural too!”

They chorused in perfect unison. Suddenly the salon was filled with complimentary chatter and mother was looking all confused and unsure. Two of the girls flipped out a pair of blow-dryers and positioned themselves behind my mother’s chair. They attacked her tresses with the same alacrity with which James Bond aims his guns. My mother’s reaction:

“I don’t like it at all. It is too dark for my age.”

When she was leaving, the girls asked my mother the secret to her flawless skin at this age. My mother turned and answered:

"Coconut oil. All through the year. Not the stuff you sell here."

Well, friends, here she is, with her hair braided in a homely fashion.

A woman, who has never worn any make up, never had a beauty treatment in her life. Tell me honestly, would you say she has been fighting for her life in the ITU, pipes and channels dug into her body to help her make it through?

Isn't she beautiful, my mother?