By Nadeem Mubarik
The fiction is about hope, which empowers us in dealing with most unfavorable conditions. It drifts us in right direction and teaches how things can get better. Hope of survival is the most instrumental thing needed in the present situation of pandemic.
One shivering morning when I rolled out of my bed with late night sleep burdened eyes, piercing through my half masked glass window, I saw a long tailed Bulbul sitting on a twig with a vice-like grip. Her glittering emerald stony eyes aimed at a little creature down in the soil. I could hear a chirp in the wind which blew against my sight as if the bird tried to round up all to the party. As some started to gather around, a sudden sonic boom created a shiver with birds moving aimlessly around here and there and some striking against drooping branches of the willows. The long tailed Bulbul dangled down to falter and struck against the ground with gobs of oozing saliva from the corner of her mouth. She had been struck by one of the splinters morseled from a cartridge just a little time ago. It was when I heard her cry for someone. A young two winged, that is what I heard was called, approached her and slouched in a birdish way to see the hopeless hooding eyes of his procreant. Much to the disappointment of the subadult, “I may lose the battle” said she with brimful eyes. The wound was too deep to heal forcing the two winged to cry in distress looking into the firmament as if he was trying to unveil something behind the clouds. His impetus crying was consummated by an eerie divine roar from behind the clouds. Quiveringly he heard that some Jelly from far behind the lofty peaks, a defile harbor, may heal the wound. Without wasting any time, the two winged deftly drew into the clouds for that wound healer to be used before the last sunshine. The ailing Bulbul, death warmed up with pounding pulse that could be heard from a distance. Her eyes unflinchingly roamed in the sky ready to grab the wings of the redeemer. It was a maiden flight of the two winged which he himself had not realized. There were birds from different ethnicities who commiserated with the ailing Bulbul, that is only they could have done. Long tails, sharp and curved beaks, effulgent feathers, black toes, young and old, strong and weak. All in concurrence shared the grief. The impending danger of a subsequent shot didn’t seem to shake them away from their obligations.
By this time, the two winged had collected the Jelly and was told by the old rugged alone manager about the whole voyage he had undertaken. Their eyes met unflinchingly with each other’s and caught off guards, he asked the old manager how he knew about it. Grinned from ear to ear the manager turned around and disappeared into the calmness of the defile. Much to his excitement, he had done what appeared beyond his capacity. When he appeared between the two masses of the cloud, he screamed quiveringly in an effort of being heard. This shook the ailing Bulbul off ground and she rose from the dead to welcome the hope. The wound was covered and the pain started to fizzle. All this joyed everyone around and in agog, birds started singing cheerful notes when the roaring voice from behind the clouds again struck my ears and filled the ambiance;
“It was not the Jelly but the hope, which you didn’t let die, had saved you” said the voice”
The nude and naked wings which resisted the hurtling winds and etched with desultory patterns by the frost remained with him forever and he said;
“Wings are given to fly, perched you die”
Nadeem Mubarik,
Srinagar, Jammu and Kashmir.
Email: mubarik.nadeem@gmail.com
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