South for Winter

17th was bitterly cold. A little girl was running madly up a steep hilly road. Dark clouds ominously rolled in the sky. 17th was dark. She ran madly, stumbled on a stone, fell and cut her elbow. She laughed, but quickly shook her head, picked her shivering self up and ran faster. Over and over. There was nobody around but she ran madly. The clouds chased her. 17th was cloudy. I could not help, clouds were in the way. Tears blew off her face. Over and over. The wind wanted revenge. It picked up dead leaves and flowers and blew them onto her face. They won; the clouds, they embraced her and she was wet. 17th was stormy. The blinding dust hit her like needles. Holding something cold and green she ran madly. She often turned her face away to avoid it; the dust. A yellow butterfly came under her feet. Her house was near, just dipping below the horizon. Little things die so easily and forever. So she ran holding cold and green. It would have died anyway because 17th was bitterly cold, dark, cloudy, stormy. So she ran. The butterfly; besides, it was a little thing.

It’s so cold where am I? Oh, must have dozed off on this park bench. It’s getting dark, I better go home soon, it’s going to rain today. The dream, I dream it often. You may not like to hear it, dreams of a loner, but come home with me, I’ll tell you. For that you’ll have to go back with me to the winter of 58; nineteen silent; almost forty years ago, when I was a little girl of eleven; the one in the dream; and we had come to this little hilly town about six months ago when my father got transferred here from Calcutta.

I was not really the social type, so missed few old friends. In fact when I was six years younger I overheard the doctor tell my parents not to expect much from me, for I had a wonderfully low intellect among other things I can’t remember. I do remember, however, that everyone said I was the sweetest child with the bonniest smile, Rupali that’s what they called me for short, have I told you that before?

Anyway, I loved my new home. However, when I quietly roamed the hilly terrain, watching the wind blow everything around, rhyming to myself, somehow my parents thought I was feeling lonely. So one fine day, my father bought me a parrot that was warm and green. I thought of a name no more common than Polly and put a red ink mark on her neck. And my name; no I have told you that. So when I roamed about the hills with Polly’s cage in my left hand, somehow my parents thought I was not lonely. Days, weeks and months slipped away, as was their old habit, though I used to weep quite often. Days, weeks and months slipped by with everyone thinking I was sad, so they tried to comfort me with words, which stopped whenever I looked up at them and smiled.

It  does not rain here like it does in Calcutta. Here the clouds chase you, embrace you and you are wet. Sometimes it rains as in Calcutta and we have rain with scary thunder, lightning, storms and occasional hail. Then the air smells really sweet and; they used to call me; no, oh yes, the rain, and next morning I would find temporary brooks intersecting the road to school, as they lazily flowed down the green mossy hills. As these little streams twisted and turned, small pools would form here and there where you could see your face. Often they’d be leaf-covered and splash! your feet are wet.

It's raining outside now, let me tell you more over tea. I always took Polly’s cage in my left hand on my rambles. She, however, never moved or reacted, just stared away at some far, far away place, where she wished to fly away; I rhymed; I began to like her though I don’t know from when or why. I felt she was not happy like me, as she never wept. However, she never smiled either and I wished she were happy like me. She, Polly my parrot, no I’ve told you that before. "Birds are never happy in captivity. They wish to fly with other birds, some birds migrate or fly south for winter and-"; I was wondering what rhymes with that; “Rupali are you listening? I was talking about freedom, birds like-” my 5th grade morals teacher. I smiled. “Sweet girl”, she said and turned her face away. Mother, she echoed the same words about the captivity subject, only using “animals” in place of “birds” in some sentences, before turning away. Why? Am I so ugly? Then why ‘dear’ and ‘sweet’ me all the time? I’ll tell you later. It’s raining hard now.

I ran faster, faster. 17th was bitterly cold, dark, cloudy, stormy. I was holding Polly’s dead body in my hand and running madly and crying. It was cold and green. Sometimes you cry even if not happy. Polly I mean; little things die so easily and forever. I turned my face away often to avoid staring it. I could not help her, she had flown away. Clouds in the sky hid her. They won; the clouds. Since the last two days I could not find her. It had been raining as in Calcutta and we had rain with scary thunder, lightning and storms. It would have died anyway; Polly I mean because 17th was bitterly cold, dark, cloudy and stormy. Besides, it was a little thing.

I never believed what my teacher or mother said. I liked Polly, first time someone did not make fun of me or turn away to hide. Compassion? Anyway days, weeks and months slipped happily by, I sometimes wept to myself, Polly never did, she stayed the same in her cage, in my left hand. The clouds embraced us and we were wet. It began raining as it does in Calcutta from 14th. On 15th morning she was missing and her cage door was open. I looked for her in the cloudy sky and smiled sadly. I feel so cold now.

17th was bitterly cold, dark, cloudy and stormy. I ran madly and reached my house, went into my cold, cold room, shut the door and cried in the dark. Polly was cold and green. That night it continued to rain as in Calcutta. The rain fell with great fury on everything, forming a mist. It pattered on the glass panes when the wind threw it there at an angle. Always-angry wind, blowing flowers and dead leaves onto my face. Tiny drops dripped onto the floor forming a small pool which no leaves covered and where you could not see your face. Near dawn the rain was over. A full moon rose and a silvery ray fell on my face through the still-wet glass panes. I closed my eyes, red and tired.

The rain is dying down now, as I was saying. Polly? My parrot’s name, no, I should not have thrown Polly out of the window, expecting her to fly away south for winter. Parrots don’t. Living in captivity for so long she could not adapt to the cold, dark, cloudy and stormy weather. It was my fault. I could not find her, clouds were in the way. On 17th morning I found her cold and green, near the window, when she had tried to return. Nobody had noticed as it was raining hard like it does in Calcutta. I remembered what I had done, felt very angry, picked up her body, ran all around, till I fell and cut myself over and over on that bitterly cold, dark, cloudy and stormy day.

When my parents understood why I was crying they hid their silly smiles. Mother said “It’s only made of Plaster of Paris, we’ll fix it, don’t worry”- What? Polly had tried to return home when she couldn't find other birds to fly south as it was too deep in winter. How can you fix it? What’s mother talking about? The rain has stopped long ago. Lying on the bed I can see the sky through the curtains as the wind gently sways them. Tonight stars are falling from the sky, time has changed everything in the last forty years; for the better. What’s mother saying- I don’t understand, its so cold and nobody ever understood me. Why? Was it because I never talked since I was five years old? Only Polly my little bird who nearly flew south for winter.

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