Hubbub

The sky pours like cats and dogs.

I don't even notice the orange summerskies change their hues to grey in June this year. The balmy northern breeze carries the scent of the nearby drenched cotton fields and unbloomed sunflower seeds.

The earthworms seem to hide in their burrows.

I sit at the rust-coated window sill of this abandoned one-story house, which I do on most days anyway. But today it's particularly for the ceaseless rain.

My caramel-beige spotted wings turn dry,
and my stomach chirps again,
for nobody had scattered grains for me on their terraces in the rainy weather.

The rain begins to slack off. The worms must be out anytime now. While I prepare to spread out my wings to fly off the sill, I find my little feet tangled among the roots of a dwarf banyan tree growing out of a crevice in the faded-auburn wall.

'Don't depart yet please', it murmurs to me.

If I had eyebrows I'd have definitely raised them !

The trees do not generally chatter with us,
given their composure of a retired collonel with a fat moustache.
Yet, the banyan speaks to me !

Shell-shocked, I gather myself more tidyly to be all ears to it.

'I've seen you visit this abode on so many days that I've lost count somehow. The last time I remember was your 187th visit', it says. 'You turn up everyday, you sit, share my silence, and take your leave. That contended my longing for some warmth till yesterday, but today ...', it leaves the words pouring mid-sentence.

My first ecounter with a timid banyan !

'Yes, I found this place last year. It's quiet and comfortable here, nobody to throw pebbles at me and no annoying cellphone lines to interfere with my health, already my friends have moved to the greener sides of the state, near the countryside'....I begin to twitter to curtail the banyan's uneasiness.

It listens,
dutifully nodding at the right intervals.

I go on, '...but you know sparrows live for just three years, banyans like you won't know how...'
then it interrupts,
'This is my last winter here'.

I grow mum.

With a little pause it says, 'This building has vanished from anybody's memory nearly seven years ago. The only people who visit, are either children basking in the glory of their hide-and-seek games or lovers with reddened cheeks and hush-hush smiles.

I see them plucking the ivory-gold flowers from the Champa tree and tuck it behind the ears of their beloved.

I see the children widening their irises at the soft grace of the blossoms above, that they can't reach. So, they pick up the fallen ones to take them home to their mother, to tuck the flowers one by one in her bun as she tenderly pulls them into her arms.

And here I am, devoid of any ivory or gold flowers, slowly tearing down the only home I have ever known. The more my roots toughen, the more I see the mighty craters along the walls lenghthening. Not long before the next spring will these four walls crumble down like battlefield soldiers surrendering to an already-dead enemy.
So, I wish you stay a bit longer each day, before I...', it keeps the last word silenly echoing.

An hour passes by,
a couple of hours pass by.

I take my leave.

Flying over the dingy flower markets and deserted playgrounds, I look back at the mid-afternoon of last summer, when my beaks carried a banyan seed to a deserted house, and left it there without a thought, only to come back twelve weeks later.

A small sapling was growing out of the southern wall.

A Life !

From then on I visit the forsaken abode...

A day passes by.
A couple of days pass by.

A month goes by.

Alike the moon and the sun,
each day I take my leave to be at the same spot the next day.

Three months go by.

Today on, I won't get to visit the stranded house.

But I get to visit another abode.

Carrying a banyan seed in-between my dusky beaks, I sit at the white-washed window sill, white like the moon that smiles a crescent from within the bedsheet of the firmament. The vermilion bindi fills the sky with tinctures of reds and pinks (and blues).

This time, the walls are a liminal between chaotic moments and echoing memories. I hear the chatter of hearts and the giggle of little ones within, and flutter my wings to add to the mellow cacophony of life.

Loneliness seems a distant cry now.

The path of a one's life may seem too twisted to another. Yet, with existence comes understanding. Understanding, the meanders of existence. Understanding, that wilderness in forests, the rough terrain of mountain-roads, the chaos in a crowd, are all too natural. Understanding, 'What seems unnatural, is also natural'.

- Hoping you know why the countrysides don't feel like home.