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.