When I was small, my grandmother would point at the sparrows and narrate a story with them. She would sing it; and in the story the sparrow would steal rice grains from my grandmother’s plate and fly away. But the crow would steal the grains from her nest, and the sparrow would peck the crow and come crying to my grandmother again, for more rice. Somehow, I come in and give the sparrow some rice grains, to which it would peck me gently in gratitude and then feed her children, squealing at them in delight. And then my grandmother would put me to sleep, cajoling me that she would tell me more tomorrow, on the way to school.
(the word for ‘sparrow’ in tamil is ‘kuruvi’ and the word for story is ‘kadai’; so sparrow’s story is ‘kuruvi kadai’ for me, always.)
Birds have been a part of me, ever since my birth. There was a time when we didn’t have a net over the window grills, and the gaps in the grills were so wide that small birds could slip in very easily. I would be watching TV and I’d hear the sound of a sparrow entering and my feet would swiftly reach the fan switch standing over the small tea table we had (even though all my parents drank was coffee), calling out to my grandmother in my loud voice. She would come and try to ease the bird out again, and till then I would jump around the fan as the tiny bird look at me curiously, its head moving back and forth. It would be a while until it would leave, usually flicking a grain of rice from the bowl kept in front of the godly idols. It would sometimes be a pigeon, more often sparrows, once a mynah too. And as always, it would take a grain of rice or a piece of roti kept on the table.
(the word for pigeon is ‘praav’ and the word for crow is ‘kaka’; they feel like polar opposites.)
In my house, we always give food to the crows first. My maternal grandmother would make rice and cooked urad dal (which we call ‘parupu’ in tamil), topped with ghee and place it on the edge of the balcony railing. And as I would place an eye at the slit of the closed door, a black crow would caw and bring in others, and share their meals together, like a family. On special days, she would put vadas too and the occasional squirrel would gobble a piece after the crows finish lunch. And they’re never late; it’s like they have a watch in their heads. In my home, they would perch on the grills and caw loudly to bring my grandmother; and she would bring rice to them. Once my arms grew longer, I leant and placed the rice on the granite as the crows come when my back is turned to them. According to my parents, it’s our ancestors that take the form of crows and ask to give them food. I don’t know whether I believe in that, but I like talking to the crows.
(a crow stalled its journey at my window and I asked it why it stopped. It said it needed twigs for its nest and proceeded to pull a wooden string from the pieces of a study table.)
There’s a creek beside my school, and that’s where flamingos come every summer. I remember watching a flamingo jump from its place in the water of the pond at the end of migration and spreading its pinkish-white wings wide. I forgot the plant in my arms and watch its flight into the sky, and the sight etched itself in my mind. When I walk out of my building for school, I look up at the electric wires that connect mine to another building and find the parrots’ sharp feet curling around the wire. In the dim sunlight, I can see the green feathers mixing in the orangish ones. Birds have been the indicator that I’m not too late for school, that I have a child within me that is healing, that I have become human in this world of robots.
I think birds are forming into my memories and floating with the winds.
Until next time, dear reader. Thank you for your time.
"birds have been the indicator that I’m not too late for school, that I have a child within me that is healing" those lines are soo beautiful
i love it 🥺