They say that birds bring messages from the heavens above; their songs are as old as time, and their melodies carry healing if you are willing to listen.
It had been months since Mira had opened her window. The curtains remained drawn like her constantly closed eyes, unwilling to face the light. Her world had shrunk to the size of her bedroom, of grey walls, an unmade bed, and the hum of a ceiling fan that sounded like a weary sigh.
The world outside her window, once a place of sunshine and morning chai aroma, had become a thing of the past. Since her mother passed away, the days had merged like a child’s attempt at watercolour.
She wasn’t sure when exactly the sadness had settled in like soft dust gathering on forgotten shelves. Grief, disappointment, and loneliness had conspired quietly, and now they sat with her, day after day, like uninvited guests who refuse to leave.
One morning, just as the first pale light crept in, Mira heard a sound that didn’t belong in her silence. A lilting, clear whistle. She stirred under her blanket, not fully awake, unsure if it was real. But there it was again, only sweeter this time, like a flute. She pushed herself up and parted the curtains just a tiny bit.
There, on the edge of her window, sat a red-vented bulbul. A small, plump, black-crowned bird with a crimson patch under its tail like a tiny fire glowing beneath feathers. In its beak were bits of dry grass. It was building a nest between the metal bars and the corner of her windowpane.
Mira stared, spellbound.
For the first time in weeks, she didn’t go back to her bed and pull the covers back over her head. She sat there, watching as the little bird worked diligently, singing between flights, its feathers ruffling in the breeze. Her song was soft, warm and enchanting. It sounded like the words: ‘Pleased to meet you!’
She felt like the bulbul was addressing her and felt oddly pleased.
She learnt later that the bulbul sound of ‘kink a joo’ is often transcribed as ‘Pleased to meet you!’
The next day, the bird returned with a mate. The two bulbuls sang, nested, and took turns watching the tiny cup of twigs.
Mira found herself waiting for them in the mornings, sometimes even opening the window a crack to listen better. She began to keep a notebook by her side, jotting down fragments of thoughts, how the wind smelled or the way the bird cocked its head while rendering a melodious tune. She even began to notice how the tunes of the song changed with the mood of the bulbul duo!
She named them Rocky and Rani.
The names Rocky and Rani made her smile each time she whispered them, though cautiously, as not to startle them.
Then one morning, she saw three small beaks set into tiny bird faces, still trembling, eyes still sealed. Life, raw and new, had been born on her window. The sight filled her with something she hadn’t felt in a long time – the feeling of wonder!
Something shifted.
She began stepping out of her room for longer periods. Watering her forgotten plants. Cooking something simple. Calling an old friend. When asked how she was doing, she found herself saying, “A little better today.”
Weeks passed.
Now, the curtains stayed open. The breeze knew its way in. Mira had begun to open too – not all at once, but enough.
One golden morning, the chicks stretched their stubby wings. The bulbul parents chirped and encouraged them from a nearby branch. Mira watched with bated breath as the first chick fluttered, stumbled midair and took flight.
Not perfectly. But it flew.
It was followed by the other two.
Mira stepped outside that day.
She walked to the nearby park where she and her mother used to sit. The bougainvillaea was in bloom again. A bulbul sang from its branch, and she immediately recognized its notes, ‘Pleased to meet you!’
Mira smiled, looked up and whispered, “Thank you, charming one. You have taught me to live again!”
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