Short fiction by Bulbul Sharma: A mother takes her children to birdwatch in the mountains

“What are you doing? The children are rolling down the hillside and you are watching some bird?” yelled her mother as Naina focused her binoculars on the verditer flycatcher. She knew the bird well; a restless creature, always on the move, and it wouldn’t stay on the branch except for a few seconds more. She ignored her mother’s tirade and continued to watch the tiny, turquoise-blue bird. The startling, glossy blue wings fluttered for a few moments, the black-rimmed eyes gave a swift glance towards the sky, and the little bird flew up to catch a fleeting insect. It was gone in a flash and the branch it was sitting on swayed a little, the only sign that it had perched there a few seconds ago

“I don’t understand this mania for birds,” muttered her mother, picking up the clothes that the wind had swept down to the ground from the clothesline. Leaves fluttered all around them on this bright, cool morning and Naina, still looking for the elusive bird, smiled at her mother affectionately and said, “The children are fine, Ma. Look how happy they are rolling down the hillside. They never get a chance to do this in our tiny flat in Delhi.” As they watched her son and daughter, shouting with laughter, her mother, too, calmed down.

“Yes. But you must spend more time with them. Take them for a walk or something instead of looking for birds all day. I have never heard of this odd hobby for women. Do embroidery or baking, not this silly bird-watching. People will think you’re strange.”

Naina nodded. “I’ll buy some embroidery thread tomorrow, Ma. You can teach me how to do cross-stitch,” she said, offering her mother an olive branch. They both knew this would never happen, but her mother was pleased that Naina had made the suggestion and went inside the house, humming to herself.

Naina knew the song well, a familiar one composed by Tagore, praising the glowing light that a firefly carried within itself, and her mother used to sing it all the time, especially when it rained. Her voice, sweet and melodious, echoed above the sound of the rain and always made Naina feel happy and content. All seemed well with the world when her mother sang this particular song.

Naina looked around the small orchard, glowing in the gentle sunshine. It had rained recently and the plum and peach trees were washed clean. Laden with ripe, pale gold and ruby red fruits just a month ago, the trees were now shedding their leaves but still looked gloriously luxuriant. A dense forest of evergreen pine and deodar lay beyond the orchard, forming a stunning and unusual background, like a huge emerald fortress. Naina watched the forest for a while, letting the sight soothe her eyes, and decided to take the children for a walk later.

“Don’t start bird-watching and forget about the children,” shouted her mother from the veranda, as they walked up the winding path leading into the forest. The children laughed and waved goodbye. “We’ll be fine, Nani…”

“Look, Mama, a monkey!” shouted Radha her nine-year-old.

“It is a Himalayan langur,” said Naina, giving her binoculars to her daughter.

“I also want to see,” said her twin brother, jumping up and down. Naina wasn’t keen on giving her precious binoculars to him as he was very careless, but she reluctantly handed them over. Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of steel blue and white feathers. “Quick, give them back to me!” she shouted, snatching the binoculars from her startled daughter. “The kalij, the kalij pheasant,” she whispered, pointing to the shrubs. “Where? Where?” the children whispered back.

“Let’s follow this path,” said Naina, “but stay very quiet.” She heard a scratching sound a little ahead and began walking, taking care not to step on any twigs.

She could see the white tail feathers of the male bird quivering in the foliage, and quietly inched closer. There it was, in all its glory – a handsome steel blue, black and white bird. Naina held her breath and looked. She could make out the elegant white crest and even see the tiny patch of scarlet around its eyes. Then the bird scrambled away and vanished into the steep ravine beyond the path.

“Wasn’t that fantastic? We’re so lucky to have seen this rare bird,” she said, turning around.

But then her heart sank and a wave of panic rose to engulf her. The path stood empty. The children weren’t there. They had been walking right behind her a few minutes ago, she had heard them talking to each other in whispers, and now they had vanished. The forest suddenly became eerily silent and all Naina could see was an endless line of old deodar trees, their heavy branches drooping onto the ground.

Fear racing through her heart she shouted, “Radha, Ravi!” over and over again, her voice striking the trees and coming back to her like a strange echo. Suddenly, she found she couldn’t breathe.

Naina forced herself to stay calm. “They must be here, they haven’t gone anywhere,” she repeated to herself as frightening images of the children lying injured in the ravine kept flashing before her eyes. “No, nothing like that could have happened, they’ve often walked here with me and they’re used to the forest. Radha, Ravi!” she shouted again but only a few ravens answered her with raucous calls. The trees began to close in on her as she hurried ahead, stumbling and falling over the dry stones on the path. She had heard the villagers say that there were leopards in the forest though she had never seen one. “Leopards only come out at dusk and they are not interested in humans, they only hunt small animals,” she said loudly to herself. “Bears. What about bears?” a small voice said in her head. No. No. A bear makes a lot of noise as it crashes through the forest, and anyway, this region of the mountains was not high enough for the Himalayan bear.

Suddenly she heard a scratching sound and turned around quickly. The kalij pheasant, both male and female, appeared before her on the path. A few small chicks followed. At any other time, Naina would have been overjoyed at this amazing sight but now she just gave them a brief, anxious glance, willing them to go away. “Radha, Ravi, where are you?” she shouted again, not concerned that she would scare the birds away. For some reason, the pheasants just stood and stared at her, as if they knew who she was. The male gave a quiet chuckle and Naina began to cry.

Excerpted with permission from ‘Birdsong at Twilight’ in Once Upon a Forest and Other Stories, Bulbul Sharma, by Women Unlimited Ink.