Our Birds have Come

“Masi, they are not here,” Rishi said.

I looked up and sure enough the trees across the road were glistening green. But the egrets were not there. Every year around the beginning of October, a dozen or more of them would crowd in on the branches of a particular tree. They pecked constantly and though it was not clear, if they were having a go at the flowers or fruits, they all preferred that one tree.

I folded the newspaper and finished my tea. The early morning air was getting pleasantly cold. It was still a week or two for winter to set in. Rishi usually came to visit us in India, for three weeks in December. But this year things were a little different.

“Rishi, do you want to go down and bike for a while? I will get your breakfast ready and go down to the clinic.”

“Yes, masi. Can I check with Tutul to see if he is free?”

Tutul was our neighbour’s son, a little older to Rishi. They have been friends ever since Rishi had started coming to Nagpur to spend his holidays with me. I prepared his PB&J and kept in the fridge wrapped in foil. It was easier to eat with the jam and butter hardened a bit.

Some chicken fried rice would be good for lunch, I thought. Usually my food planning was kept at sustenance level. But with a kid in the house, I had stored up on savoury, meat, sauces and all handy things to toss up fast meals. As Rishi was here for some time, I needed to be innovative with food.

Rishi’s mother, my sister, was younger to me by 10 years. A month back she had gone for a check-up after feeling some abdominal pain. It turned out to be ovarian cancer. She had called me late at night.

“Di,” her voice was different.

“Girl, its late.”

“Di, I have cancer.”

It was so unexpected that it had taken a while for me to ingest it.

Her doctors were hopeful; the early detection was lucky, they said. It increased the chances of recovery many folds. But they would have to run a few tests, to be able to exactly determine the internal spread. Ten minutes into the conversation and Tia had overcome her initial stress. She perked up, as her brave heart and logical mind processed the situation. Talking to me helped, as she was talking to a doctor. Soon she was consoling me and soothing me with encouraging words.

It had always been like this. When Tia was born, I left my dolls for the more entertaining living kicking sample. Choto ma, my father would say lovingly. ‘Small mother,’ that’s what I became to her. As she grew older, she became my de facto protector. At home, in our neighbourhood, through our life, till now.

“I have to get admitted. I will be able to wrap up in two weeks. You need to take in Rishi,” she had said.

“Of course. Goes without saying.”

Rishi had arrived in two weeks. I had gone to pick him up at the airport. I loved to see his changes, as he was growing up. It seemed like reliving Tuhin’s childhood.

I heard Rishi turning the key and coming in. He peeped inside, face flushed and indicated that he was going to take his shower and eat. He was all of ten. I often marvelled at his maturity. He knew his mamma was sick. He knew it was cancer and he knew it was a ‘big’ disease. But the other day, when I had reached out to hold his hand, while we sat watching television, he had not taken his hand away. He had patted me back. Just like his mamma would, I had thought.

My clinic was on the ground floor. It had always made things easier, even when Tuhin was growing up. Tuhin, my son, was now in the US, staying with his father. My husband and I were still married on paper. Tuhin had made a choice. The US was more attractive. He had gone to stay with his father after finishing school.

As I came up for lunch, the house was quite. Rishi would be in the study, finishing his homework. His classes would start in a while. He also had an online piano class in the evening. In between we spoke to his mamma.

Tia had always been wiser than her years. Baba would tell, “She will look after you.” She did just that. When my husband migrated to US, making it clear that either I leave my job at the hospital, or leave him, I struggled to decide. I had become a doctor, against all odds. My apprehensions and fear, most of all. Leaving India, where I was slowly making a name as a neonatal paediatric, would have meant starting all over. I did not want to do that. Tia stood by me.

When my son chose to leave, it was Tia who made me evaluate the situation differently.

“Di, it’s an opportunity. It will be foolish not to go. Let him chart out his life.”

Though in my heart I saw it as an act of abandonment, at least Tia gave me a solid alibi to face a questioning society.

Every morning Rishi checked the tree to see if the egrets had come. He was growing restless.

“Are you sure they come now? Do they sit only on one tree? If they come late, will the tree still have its leaves?”

Every night I would go to bed praying for my sister to get better and the egrets to come.

This year Durga Pooja was in the third week of October. I took Rishi out for shopping on the Saturday, before the festivities started. He had wanted a kurta-pajama set, and we selected one in black and red. He beamed as he checked himself in front of the mirror.

“Mamma will like this. Masi are you not going to buy something for yourself?”

It was tradition to get new clothes during Pooja. Hindus in India celebrated the festivities as Navratri or as we, Eastern India people, called it, Durga Pooja.

“I will baby. Your mamma has promised to come during Christmas. We will buy new clothes then,” I managed to hold the tears that threatened.

We had eaten at his favourite restaurant. Fish and chips and garlic butter nun. Rishi loved his nan  without any gravy. He had placed our shopping bags carefully on an empty chair. We had bought a scrabble set. It was wooden and beautifully curved.

“Masi is the price a lot?” he asked.

“Yes darling. It is. But you will see it’s worth it.”

“Ma always beats me.”

“I am not sure if it will be as easy for me.”

We got home and watched a Bollywood comedy. It was quite late when we went to sleep.

“Masi, masi, wake up.”

I could hardly open my eyes. “Masi, they are here!”

“Who is here?”

“The birds. They have come. Just as you said they would.”

“Really?” I jumped out of bed, as eager and excited as Rishi.

We hurried to the balcony. And there they were. The white lovelies dotted every branch of the tree.

We counted over and over again. Individually and jointly. Every time we thought we had the exact number of guests, one of them would fly from one branch to the other, messing up our math.

Rishi was jumping up and down.

“Can we call mamma and tell her now?”

“It’s too early. She is sleeping sweets. Let’s click some photos, shall we?”

Suddenly my phone started ringing.

It was Tuhin. “Ma, how are you?”

“I am good babu. How are you?” I said.

My voice was hoarse. It had been quiet some time, since he had called. I had called a few times. He had been busy. Submissions, group discussions, networking clubs.

He was coming home. He missed me, he said. He would be staying for a while. He was taking a break after his MBA finals and planned to work with Animal Aid in India.

That afternoon there was more good news. Tia’s reports had come. The cancer had not spread. Her doctors were very happy. The chemo could be controlled. There would be no need for a surgery, at least not at the moment.

What a day it had been, I thought, before my eyes closed in sleep. October true to her autumnal temperament had changed colours. Soon the leaves would drop. Here in India, fall was not a crazy riot of colours. It was gray.

But my birds had kept their promise. Rishi had learned to trust and so had I.