Gayathri S.
20/UELA/009
Winter is slowly ebbing away. I can tell because I’ve spotted the first black stork of the year today. It was perched on the riverbank, its gracefully slanted body twitching ever so slightly in the golden morning light. Black wings tucked in, it laid one crimson leg after the other into the water. The bird lifted its majestic head allowing the sun to catch its long beak, an unsettlingly beautiful red. A single tear fell from my eye.
An overwhelming sorrow tugged at my heart. I don’t know why I was in so much pain, but that isn’t saying much, because I don’t know a lot these days. Alzheimer’s has slowly been eating away at my memories. An uninvited guest, rapping at my mind, and I can’t do anything about it. I can’t ask him to go away politely and I can't force him out. I can’t draw the curtains, nor can I hide under the bed, so I must live with him and watch in vain as he breaks in and steals all my silvers right before my eyes. Oh, such mockery!
But sometimes he shows mercy, flicking in my direction a long-forgotten memory, catching me completely by surprise. They are never perfect, almost always jagged around the edges and sometimes only a cluster of colours. But they are parts of me, so I hold on to them with a claw-like grip, only to forget them the next morning.
This particular memory is more flawed than usual, and it is stained a startling red, like the stork’s beak. But I can tell it is important. My hands tremble, as I feverishly write down and try to decode the details. I can’t afford to forget it. It is important that I don’t forget.
Madhu’s face grins at me tauntingly from the wreck of overlapping scarlet thoughts.
Madhu never belonged in Kashmir. Not his lips, which were permanently curved into a smile. Not his hands, too tender to pull a trigger. Not his skin, ebony set against the pristine white of the snow.
Madhu was a Brahmin. And in the underbelly of Kashmir, he was a misfit. So he learned to tiptoe in his own home, hide in his own skin.
A dull ache settles in my chest as I try to shake it off. Madhu— birds flying in every direction— the deafening silence after a gunshot — red.
There wasn’t a thing Madhu couldn’t do. While some of us were completely clueless at the age of eleven, Madhu was an exception. He seemed to know a lot about the grand scheme of life and the only time we saw a crack in his carefully crafted life was during the encounter.
Encounter was a common word in my hometown. A word so powerful in its impact, it is almost tangible. Like a blow to your ribs. Your first reaction is to inhale, a recurring shock despite the familiarity. Your second reaction is to wince and run for cover. Hiding came as naturally to a Kashmiri as breathing, sometimes even as a prerequisite.
But this encounter was very different.
It was a beautiful summer evening, glorious in its cosmic insignificance. The boys and I lounged under the shade of a tree on the bank of a shallow creek. We were laughing, blissfully unaware of the reality of our worlds, ignorantly immortal for a moment. This moment was broken by the soft rustle of leaves. Illuminated by the shimmering rays of the sun was a magnificent black stork. Its long red beak skimmed the surface of the water, one scarlet leg bent upwards. We’d never seen anything more beautiful. It wasn’t that we’d never seen storks before, but we’d never seen one this close or of this kind.
“Babu says they migrate to Kashmir in summer” Madhu whispered, his eyes fixed on the bird, “but it’s very difficult to spot one.”
I’ve heard about the butterfly effect, of events and its outcomes. That a single flap of a butterfly’s wings in one place can create a typhoon elsewhere. A string of calculations that eliminates surprise.
But there wasn’t a thing that could prepare us for what came next. One moment we were watching awestruck, as the bird gently lifted its majestic head and looked at us and the next we were crying out loud. The sound of a bullet rang in our ears as we saw the stork’s limp body hit the water. A scream, a cry of helplessness and Madhu’s howl of despair all echo around in the empty walls of my head. A distorted image of the stork’s last cry as it opens its beak, Madhu’s shriek spilling out.
The news of the encounter spread like wildfire. The story of the stork made conversations in chai shops easier, until two months later Madhu leaving Kashmir replaced it. They called it the Exodus Day when all the Kashmiri pundits were forcefully evicted from their hometown, a tragedy that left thousands broken and homeless. Gruesome tales that clawed at our throats and stirred in our guts begged to be told. That evening, the sky glowed crimson.
I don’t remember seeing Madhu leave. I don’t know if I ever got to say goodbye. Imperfect memories flicker through my mind like a broken record.
Madhu will always remind me of the black stork. Prey in his own home. An outcome of unfortunate consequences. Madhu, skin ebony like that of the stork and a red, red evening. That’s all I can remember.
I saw the first black stork of the year today. It was perched on the riverbank, its gracefully slanted body twitching ever so slightly in the golden morning light. Black wings tucked in, it trotted one crimson leg after the other into the water. The bird lifted its majestic head allowing the sun to catch its long beak, an unsettlingly beautiful red. A single tear fell from my eye.
Beautiful!