April 21: Sunbirds

I am trying to tie all these
different strings together --
the sheepish smile that lights up
my sister's face; or a home that
does not smell like a stranger's
land this time; or the summer
light that falls in shafts on the
lizards that grow fatter and more
translucent; or the chirping of
sunbirds - incessantly, untiringly,
doggedly, relentlessly, fiercely
flying back to my balcony with
a single twig or thread or rag
in arched beak each time, to
build a little nest on a bent
branch on a crippled tree.

I don't know whether I
feel too much or too little
these days - things that would
have made me weep or clench
my fists or swell up in emotion
now leave me quiet, peaceful.
But other things, newer things
still leave me aching, covered
in a sadness less sad but still
tasting of fresh melancholy.

My grandfather sits in warm
lamplight, older than ever,
and trembles as he talks of
Meer's poems on Delhi, how
it decayed and frayed and
died a hundred deaths. I can
see the tears, hear the quaver
in his familiar voice. I watch
partly from afar, and partly
from his side. We both glance
at my grandmother's smiling
picture on the wall when we
can - it is still a gaping wound
in the skin of our lives. We
cannot heal. We ache fiercely.

I try not to cry, do not
understand how I have
let go of so much, realise
that I will someday let go
of this too. Like all else.

Meanwhile the sunbirds
carry on, purposeful and
quiet, single-minded in
their task. I see the little
nest, see it sway on the
branch, ragged and poor,
half-built, out of thatch
and string and pieces of
mid-day sun. I see how
fragile the little object
is, how easily it would
crack into dust, and I
try not to weep at us
all, fighting this long
and meaningless fight
as the day wears on.

The sunbirds chirp
and quiver blue and
black, hear nothing
of my sad discourse,
weave among vines
and garden plants like
dancers, disappear
in a second when
I come too close.