LatinosUSA

“There are so many birds in your garden. Do you know their names?”

Kira asked as she stooped to collect black jamuns under the tall tree. She tilted her head, her rabbit-like ears pricked toward the distant whistling. A soft, magical symphony was floating through the morning air, but she couldn’t spot a single bird among the thick foliage.

Mustakim burst out laughing at her frantic searching.

“What is so funny?” Kira’s voice hardened with annoyance. She hated being laughed at.

Mustakim held her hands. She tried to pull away, but he kept hold of her.

“I’m not laughing at you, Kira,” he said gently. “I’m laughing because what you heard is something wonderful. I’ll show you. Come with me.”

Mustakim pulled the annoyed girl along behind him.

Kira had known Mustakim for barely five days, but they had already become inseparable friends.

It was her first summer in Jaynagar, her grandfather’s native village, one hundred and fifty-three kilometers from Jamsedpur. They were to travel to Simla that summer, but her grandfather’s illness changed their plans. His last wish was to see his ancestral house, and they could not leave his wish unfulfilled. The Simla trip was canceled, and they accompanied him to their ancestral village.

At first, Kira was disappointed. She wasn’t ready to trade Simla’s mountains for dusty village paths of Jaynagar. But she loved her grandfather and worried about his illness.

It was here she met Mustakim, the grandson of their former caretaker. As his grandfather was old and ill, his father worked as the caretaker. Mustakim and Kira were almost the same age. At their first meeting, Mustakim had carved a small wooden doll for her, a gift that led her to accept him as her friend.

In the village, Mustakim’s family used to work as coffin makers. Mustakim inherited the skill from the elders. It was not just a trade for them, but a tradition passed down through generations.  Each handmade coffin often bears a variety of carvings as a mark of respect to the dead. Villagers believe a well-made coffin is a final act of love, giving the dead dignity. Mustakim’s family also owned paddy fields, sugarcane, and cumin plots. Kira visited each field while chewing sugarcane on her way. Nature felt alive, and with Mustakim, she felt like the Knight of Arthurian Legend immersed in an adventure.

 The whistling sound echoed again.

Kira allowed Mustakim to lead her. Leaving the garden, they walked to the rear side of Mustakim’s house, where a narrow veranda opened into the wide fields. An old man was sitting there, Mustakim’s grandfather, his back bent like a frail, tired branch. His cloudy eyes gazed at the smoky crimson horizon. When Mustakim touched his knee, the old man lifted his head and smiled. He could see very little now, but he recognized touch and voice with unfailing warmth.

“Call the cuckoo for Kira, Dada,” Mustakim requested.

 Kira realized the source of that bird song. The old man was famous in the village for his extraordinary gift. He could imitate the calls of every bird so perfectly that birds often swooped down, perched on his arm, and ate from his gnarled palms without the slightest fear.

“When I die,” he often said, “I’ll be reborn as a bird.”

 “Who is Kira?” he asked, lifting his blurry eyes to take a better look.

 “My friend, from that house,” Mustakim replied, pointing toward the distance.

The old man rose slowly, his thin legs trembling, and peered at her closely.

“Oh, I know her. I heard of her when she was a toddler. She has grown beautifully.” He smiled gently. “Come, little one. Sit beside me. I’ll call every bird for you.”

 Kira stepped closer. She was eager to listen to the bird call.

 Soon, she heard the soft, sweet call of a cuckoo shaping itself in the air. Then came the quacking of a water duck, the chirping of the thrush, and suddenly the melody broke into a violent coughing fit. A rough, choking sound rattled out of his frail lungs.

 “Stop, Dada, stop!” Mustakim rushed to steady him.

“Kira, get some water from Ammu!”

 Kira ran instantly.

Soon, other members of the house gathered, and they carried the old, coughing man inside. Kira went back home alone. As she walked across the fields, transitioning from Mustakim’s house to her own, she felt sad, very sad.

That night, Kira dreamt she was the queen of Bird-Land. Thousands of birds were circling her, their colorful plumage brandishing the sky into a vivid rainbow. They were chirping a beautiful chorus. There she also saw Mustakim’s grandfather, who was whistling along with the birds. He looked content and at peace. He was not coughing anymore.

Two days remained before their return to Jaynagar. Her grandfather was recovering steadily. But Mustakim’s grandfather had fallen seriously ill from that evening, coughing up blood. Mustakim could no longer come to visit Kira. For the first time, she understood how deeply Mustakim was attached to his grandfather. She missed his friendship. She prayed for his grandfather’s recovery so that he could come to visit her and they could roam in the forest as they had in the early days before returning to Jamsedpur.

 But then the rain started. Kira never experienced such rain in her life. The heavy drops hammered the roof, as if the sky itself was grieving along with Mustakim. She waited for him, worrying, but he did not come. The storm grew fiercer by nightfall. Thunder bellowed across the sky and lashed on earth. The tiny village trembled under the storm’s wrath.

 The next morning, after the storm had passed, the village was a battleground with uprooted trees, scattered nests, broken eggs, and dead feathers- all soaked in the feeble morning light. Amid the destruction came the saddest news: Mustakim’s grandfather had passed away during the night. Kira’s family couldn’t stay for the burial. Her father had to join the work. Before leaving, she went to meet Mustakim. But he was nowhere to be seen. As they were in a hurry, she had to return heartbroken.

Later, she heard how Mustakim had carved his grandfather’s coffin himself. The villagers spoke of that coffin for years. It was an exquisite creation, every inch covered with intricately carved birds, hundreds of them, each feather, each curve shaped with his love and grief for his grandfather. Kira felt it was the coffin where the old man, who longed to be reborn as a bird, slept his final sleep, surrounded by the wooden wings. She kept her wooden doll carefully, hoping one day she would be back there to meet Mustakim again.