Bardaan’s mother talked with birds. Of course, he thought it was odd, even felt embarrassed on occasions, especially when Naini, the girl he liked, was at his house. But when winter came and it snowed night and day, and the world became sad and lonely, he too found it impossible to ignore those poor creatures. “Bardaan,” his mother’s voice would reach him from some unexpected place in the house. “Bardaan, see why that sparrow is twittering away on the balcony.” And carrying a bowl of dhup incense, trembling with anticipation, he would at once begin to chant Sanskrit mantras and dash through the dusky corridors to meet the bird. After watching it for a while he would press its beak between his thumb and forefinger, and though the bird had uttered not a word he would inform his mother, “Mai, this sparrow says he died only a moment ago and he deserves to be sent back to life. Mai, he also complains that everything under the sun and stars has been unfair to him. He says Gods are cruel, mai.” “Poor thing!” his mother would reply with a sigh. “Ask him if he knows anything about Gayathri.” It was during one of these snowy evenings when he was trying to persuade a sparrow to tell him about his sister Gayathri, a mysterious blue bird appeared in his room.
Bardaan was annoyed at first. Not because in its agitation the bird had hopped about recklessly on the windowsill and sent the plate of sliced apples clanking down the floor. True, this in itself would have infuriated him on other occasions. After all, he had saved those apples for Naini who would come to see him after dinner. He liked to watch when she ate those crisp pieces, crushing them between her teeth. He liked it when her eyes, as she savored the taste of the apples, snatched the light from the lamps and glistened with nostalgia that awoke memories from another world. “Want some more?” he would ask, forgetting that there were no more ripe apples left. “You should take this last bite,” she would reply with a smile. “Here, eat this for me.” “I’ve had plenty already,” he would lie, yet take the half-eaten piece with the taste of Naini’s lips lingering there, and chew it with slow, deliberate motion of his mouth. “Any news about Gayathri?” Naini would ask a little later. “I don’t know,” he would shake his head. “I don’t think she is alive.” “Why, Bardu?” she would take his hand. “Bardu, you mustn’t listen to others. I know the villagers say she is dead. But I think your mother is right. Besides, you know Bardu, even if your sister is dead, she will come one day because of your mother’s faith. She will.” And Bardaan, with tears welling up in his eyes, would embrace her and say, “Thank you for believing my sister is alive.”
Now, as he sat halfway up in bed, his feet dangling, he didn’t at all worry about those apples strewn across the floor though, it is true, he contemplated them for a moment. A flock of sparrows and doves waddled in through the door and began to peck randomly. He was so used to the clumsiness of these birds that even the worst imaginable accidents brought on by them had ceased to disorient him. As if the pieces that lay on the floor were the most natural thing, he turned his head away with cool indifference and fixed it on the open window. It took him some time to completely grasp his own forgetfulness, which had annoyed him and now, though dissipated, continued to clamor inside his head. He was annoyed because the bird, instead of using the open door as its entrance, had forced itself in through the unlatched window. How could he have forgotten again to latch the windowpanes? Only last Monday his mother had reproached him for that, because a pack of rowdy crows had forced themselves into the house through his room. Not that the crows did any harm, and neither did his mother reproach him on account of the crows. It was his irremediable forgetfulness that was concerning her. And now all these memories, heightened by his sense of guilt, paralyzed him for a moment. As he collected his thoughts and looked around with clear conscience, he found the room teeming with all sorts of birds. One of them, whom he had never seen in his room before, was pressing itself against the glass surface of the lamplight. Somehow it seemed to have discovered the warmth radiating from there. “Hey, you,” Bardaan made the sound of that bird, which he had recently picked while listening to his mother talk with it. “Be careful, you’ll burn yourself there.” But the bird, amid the chaos of noise and flutter, didn’t hear him. So Bardaan stamped his feet thunderously on the floor and drove all the birds out of the room. He then, as if remembering suddenly, rushed to close the window. Unfortunately, even before he could reach there a flock of crows began to pour into the room.
“Everything is alright, everything is alright,” he said in the crow language, waving his hands. “I left it open by mistake, not because I’m in danger. Believe me.” But the over conscientious crows wouldn’t heed his words. The one with its upper beak half-broken, tilted its head to the left and looked at him suspiciously. “What are you looking at me like that for? You think I’m dead or something, huh. You broken-beaked one,” Bardaan spoke with his teeth together, sounding awkwardly angry. And indeed his blood was boiling, half with anger and half with agitation, for he didn’t want his mother to find out he had once again forgotten to secure the windows properly. She would say, “Why did you open it in the first place?” While the other crows were flitting about the room, the broken-beaked, the leader of course, was up on his bed and was craning its neck towards something in the corner. As it hopped to the side, Bardaan noticed that the blue bird cowering in the corner. Only then he remembered about it and at once rushed to intervene before the crow would manage to frighten it. “Leave it alone,” he said, picking the blue bird in his hand and settling it on the windowsill after closing the window. “Is everything ok, Bardaan?” his mother’s voice resounded through the walls of the house. “Yes mai, it’s just some birds.” “Are you sure?” “Yes mai.”
Oriental Dollarbird, a new species of bird, found in Ghodaghodi
Bardaan sighed with relief and then said to the crow, inhaling deeply, “You guys should better leave now,” and began to clap, hoping to frighten them away. Meanwhile, the sparrows and other birds, especially the daredevils among them, were craning from the door, their astonished eyes fixed on him with certain anxiety and certain playfulness. “You should make sure the dhup incense is burning,” his mother’s voice came again. He picked the incense holder, added dhup flakes and blew a couple of times, so that an intense gust of smoke started to swirl across the space of the room. As he chanted the mantra his mother had taught him, the crows quietly began to depart one by one. The broken-beaked, before leaving, settled on his shoulder and cawed several times which Bardaan interpreted as, “You should talk to the blue bird. Today Gayathri will come.” But before he could ask, “Is she still alive?”, it had flown out of his room.
After peace was restored – though of course, few birds, especially the timid cuckoos, continued to waddle across the floor – Bardaan took a deep breath and thoughtfully regarded the mysterious bird. It was standing on the windowsill the way he had placed it, and its small, dark eyes, bulging like that of a squirrel, seemed to radiate grief comparable only to his mother’s sorrow. “Are you alright, buddy,” he spoke in sparrow’s slow, shrill twitter. Since he didn’t know what language it used, he was guessing, and considering the size of the bird, he had hurriedly inferred that it would understand sparrow’s language. But the bird didn’t respond, instead it tilted its neck and began to scratch its belly with the tip of its beak. Bardaan tried to recall if he had ever heard his mother talk with one of its kind, but he concluded, after a thorough contemplation, that he had not seen or heard about this bird before. “You’ve a parrot’s beak,” he said in the parrot's throaty croak. “You should speak parrot’s language.” Only then did he notice that sickly dove, which had lied to him that it was dead a few days ago, standing right beside the blue bird and starting to poke its beak into its neck. Infuriated, he picked it and tied it by its leg with a thread to the frame of the bed. “Is everything alright?” his mother’s voice rang through the house. “Mai, there is a blue bird, and I don’t know its language.” “Does it have a black circle around its neck?” “Yes mai.” “Ok, make sure it doesn’t fly away. I’ll be there soon after completing the evening ritual.” Bardaan heard prayer bells on the third floor.
A little later he could make out the approaching jingle of his mother’s anklets, followed by the warm, eternal smell of rhododendrons which belonged to his mother. “Bardaan,” she said, gently picking the bird in her hand. “I’ve already set the dinner for you. Go and eat soon and then at midnight listen for the sound of knocking at our entrance door.” “At midnight?” Bardaan asked. His mother said, “Today Gayathri will come. The crows informed me before they left.” As she started to leave, Bardaan asked, “Where are you going?” “And yes, son, don’t let anyone inside the house today except the one who comes at midnight,” she said gravely. She then added, running her hand on the bird’s fur, “This is a death bird. It’s only visible once in thirteen years.” “And it is today?” “Yes,” she replied, already retreating away. “And that too, these death birds are visible only in our Lo Manthang.”
Bardaan pulled his mobile from under the pillow of his bed. He texted Naini, “Don’t come today,” and switched it off. While eating dinner in the kitchen he could smell the special jasmine and marigold incense which his mother lit only on important occasions. He wondered if his sister would come today. He had seen her many years ago, that is, when he was only around six years old and she was around fifteen. His family had been happy back then. But after his father married another woman and started to live in Jomsom with her, everything changed. His mother gradually descended into the abyss of depression and the house fell prey to her sullen moods. All the responsibilities, even that of looking after him, fell on his sister's shoulders. Never did she let her inner turmoil come to the surface and infect the house. So, when she disappeared a few years later with a group of wandering sages, it was a great shock to everyone. Bardaan was nine years old at the time, and he felt her loss as if he had lost, not a sister, but a mother. Even now, when he thought of her, he felt as if he was recalling his mother. After his sister disappeared, his mother became more responsible, she went far off places to find her. But nowhere was his sister to be found. Many a time the same group of sages, with whom she had disappeared came to the village, but never was she to be found with them. Some of those sages said that she was living in the deep Himalayas, seeking enlightenment, but most said that they had not seen her for a long time, that she was already dead. More than ten years had passed since he last saw her and now – maybe because of that, or maybe because of some other ineffable reasons – as he tried to visualize her face, he saw not her image but instead felt a palpable rush of longing that brought to him the thick aroma of the rhododendron flower which his sister wore behind her ear.
He washed his hands after dinner and carried a blanket from his room to the hallway of the ground floor. He settled on a bed there. He doubted, despite his strong desire to make it happen, if his sister would come today. After all, there had been similar occasions before, and he had waited all night long in vain. In fact, only last year a two-headed bird had appeared in his house: it's one head, especially the beak, resembled the beak of an owl and the other, with its curvy upper beak, resembled that of a gaunt parrot. His mother, like today, had interpreted it as the decisive sign that the gods had finally agreed to send her daughter back. That two-headed bird, timid and clumsy like any other birds, had never spoken a word, yet its mythical presence had put, not only his mother, but even Bardaan, into an intoxicated spell of certainty. The whole night he had waited for the knock on the door, but his sister didn’t come. Now, stretching his legs and pulling the blanket up to his neck, as he began to read the Upanishad, a knock sounded on the door. “Bardaan, why don’t you want to meet today?” It was Naini, her voice anxious and desperate. “Open the door.” Bardaan felt his blood go hot – why can’t she wait even a single day! He lay there, stiff and angry, hoping she would go away. But for a long time she continued to pound on the door, which further infuriated him.
When it became completely silent, he ran to his room upstairs and watched from the window to see if she had left. She was trudging through the knee-deep snow, and every now and again turning back to see if the door had opened. Bardaan felt sad and even reproached himself for feeling angry at her a moment ago. After she disappeared from his sight and the world became empty under the yellow lamplights and slanting flakes of snow, he returned to his Upanishad downstairs. Some of the birds, whom he had startled from their dreams by his confused rush, followed him and huddled on the bed beside him. He tried to concentrate. But try as he may, he couldn’t focus on the philosophical discourse in the text. He was beginning to feel restless, his heart, in its agitation, was giving off heat that felt tangible on his ribs like a weight. Somehow, he felt he didn’t know how he would respond if his sister actually came today. Would she recognize him? Or even worse, would he recognize her? He got out of the bed and began to pace about in the hallway. Something about today was different, even last year when the two-headed bird had appeared, he had not felt this way. He could feel a knotted lump in his throat. After drinking lukewarm water, he returned to the bed, wrapped himself tight in the blanket, set aside the book and let the silence of the night lull him to sleep.
At first he thought he was dreaming because the sound, he was sure, began in his heart. It was as if his heartbeat, regular and rhythmic, had gradually become the tapping that was coming from the door. He could hear that sound distinctly now. The birds, which had been hiding in the dark, came fluttering their wings and gathered in front of the door. Stretching himself and rubbing his eyes, he carefully listened. The sound was so considerate, and therefore so gentle, that it might as well be the wind. And if it was really someone knocking on the door, then it was possible that she was Naini. She was so stubborn that it was not entirely impossible that she could come even at midnight. However, something within him seemed to indicate otherwise. “Bardaan, why are you not opening the door?” his mother’s voice reached him with the force of a terrifying revelation. “She is Gayathri.” As he walked towards the door, the silence of the night, followed by regular thudding on the wood frame, felt to him like a palpable presence, like something physical, something he could lift in his arms and embrace tight. He held the latch bar, his eyes and heart bursting with anticipation. The tapping stopped, but even before he could let out a sigh, it became louder and more insistent. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened the door. A cool, rejuvenating burst of wind, filled with the smell of rhododendrons, embraced him from all sides.
