The Birdbrain and His Birds

Atrayee unfolds the life of Agastya, an autistic child, through his sister, Swaroopa, in this poignant story, for the Special Feature. A Different Truths exclusive.

It wasn’t very cold that winter, yet a thick layer of mist had its wing spread. He sat in the balcony. Wrapping a thin shawl and a monkey cap which Mother always advised during winter, he waited eagerly for his friends to come. He peered out. Nothing caught his sight, except the rubble from that demolished house of Mr. Dutta. Nowadays, he was surrounded either with the cacophony of a new construction or the din of a destruction.

For his unfading love for birds, Didi even named him ‘birdbrain’. He grinned as he harked back on those bottled memories of his sister.

Was this mist alms of nature or its wail for the pollution? He thought while arranging the trays of grains in sequence. He also filled water in the big porcelain bowl. His friends should come soon today lest he should be late in cleaning the balcony. Decades later Didi was coming home and she never liked him playing with these birds. For his unfading love for birds, Didi even named him ‘birdbrain’. He grinned as he harked back on those bottled memories of his sister. And there, a pair of Myna tweeted over the railings.

***

The train exhaled its final groan at Cooch Behar station. An overnight trip sharing a single seat with her ten-year-old son, that too in the peril of a sleeper class, became taxing for Swaroopa. Not to forget about the preceding flight of more than 24 hours from San Francisco.

“Is it where you grew up Mom?” Joy asked Swaroopa as they stepped out of the train.

“Is it where you grew up Mom?” Joy asked Swaroopa as they stepped out of the train. She eyeballed the station. Perhaps yes. Counting out the new façade, the name, of course, remained the same.

Their auto-rickshaw struggled to make its way through the narrow and cramped lanes of the bazaar. Swaroopa was suddenly plunged into the sketch of much simpler lives.

The clock ticked at 9 and the Sunday bazaar was flushed with people. Footpaths were overrun with vendors.

The clock ticked at 9 and the Sunday bazaar was flushed with people. Footpaths were overrun with vendors. If one proclaimed for fresh and cheap pumpkin, the other sat glaring into nothingness in the dearth of a buyer. Bent down, poring over the quality of fish, Swaroopa heard someone bargaining for a mere ten rupee. A long-forgotten affair of her childhood revived within.

Joy looked a little irked, for this kind of pandemonium was new to this American born Indian blood. Face crinkled in disgust, he chewed a gum hastily and blew out a bubble of his gum. And there, before even Swaroopa blinked the bubble burst. Phuttt!

***

Phutt…Phutt…Phutt

“There is nothing scary in this…Do not shut your ears.” She clutched his shoulders and yelled.

The eight-year-old boy tightened his clasp around the ears and ripped himself out of her grasp.

“You little birdbrain…Stop there.” She shouted again and put all her might to make him stand still. Eyes glowering the floor he snivelled and kept on muttering his SOS word. Mother.

That thirteen-year-old girl was more into a conniption fit, so unusual. And that little boy, he stood against the grain calling out only his mother.

“Shut up, will you?” That thirteen-year-old girl was more into a conniption fit, so unusual. And that little boy, he stood against the grain calling out only his mother. Her cheeks shone red, eyes lined with the tears of acrimony she held him tight.

“Why do you behave like this Agastya? Embarrassing! I am mocked everywhere because of you…They call you mad…They call me the idiot’s sister.” She snarled in anger and slapped him.

Strange! Agastya was neither cautioned nor did he move to escape. He just raised his hands to clasp his ears again.

“Oh God! Not again.” She pulled out his hands again. “Put it down… I said.”

This time Agastya resisted and pushed her aside so much so that she hit the nearby shelf and got a deep cut on her forehead.

***

“25 Rs, Madam!” The driver braked in front of a small bungalow.

Swaroopa got down and eyed her house. It seemed like eons to have been in this courtyard.

Swaroopa got down and eyed her house. It seemed like eons to have been in this courtyard. A mild breeze snuggled around, and those front locks of hair flustered on her face. The mark of that deep cut was still agile and so was her memories. The wrought iron gate, the Gulmohar tree on the left, the warming redolence of Jasmine shrubs and that neatly laid path of cobblestones; everything earned the rub of time.

He is not mad Swaroopa…

The loud outcry of Mother rekindled from those entombed memories as Swaroopa walked inside.

Swaroopa was just five when Agastya came into their lives. Father, a fighter jet pilot was deployed for the Indo-China frontline and Mother shuffled between her doctor duties and the parental one.

Swaroopa was just five when Agastya came into their lives. Father, a fighter jet pilot was deployed for the Indo-China frontline and Mother shuffled between her doctor duties and the parental one. Swaroopa’s joy knew no bounds as she watched her brother growing. She would tell him stories; she would fondle his head when asleep; she would console him like a mature woman whenever he cried. A bundle of happiness thrived in the family with each passing day.

By the end of the year, days turned murky with the news of her father’s jet crashing. Swaroopa’s naïve little mind took some time to realise that her father wouldn’t come home ever. But, Mother was perhaps groomed to such fate. Her emotions never turned amorphic. Neither on the day she received the award for her martyr husband nor when she strived harder to raise the two children as a single mother.

Swaroopa couldn’t recognise although those dimpled smiles were so familiar to her. Wasn’t she, their nanny?

An aged woman opened the door for Swaroopa with a wide smile. Swaroopa couldn’t recognise although those dimpled smiles were so familiar to her. Wasn’t she, their nanny? Yes, she was; the lady who took care of them when Mother went for work. Swaroopa looked lost as her thoughts rambled in the past.

“Welcome home.” Nanny uttered. Moist eyes, Swaroopa just embraced her nanny.

Three years passed and Agastya had not yet spoken a single word. He would not talk…. He would stare into the sky from the balcony and smile at the birds.

Her father’s demise had left Swaroopa with constant distress. She often sat near the telephone expecting a call from him. Years passed by and life seemed stagnant in a gloomy den. Three years passed and Agastya had not yet spoken a single word. He would not talk. He would not respond. He would stare into the sky from the balcony and smile at the birds. Swaroopa tried to play with him, but the poor girl she always returned disappointed.

Once mother took Agastya to a doctor. It was strange for Swaroopa because till date Mother herself cured all their ailments. That day onwards, it became a routine for Agastya to visit the doctor. Swaroopa often enquired but was kept in dark. Those days Mother spent more time with Agastya. Swaroopa watched everything from the far and somewhere amidst those walls her feelings remained unattended.

In a year’s time, Agastya was admitted in her school and Swaroopa, being an elder sister showered all the care she could.

In a year’s time, Agastya was admitted in her school and Swaroopa, being an elder sister showered all the care she could. However, a different tale contrived soon. Four months unfolded into a long chain of complaints about Agastya. Swaroopa and her mother were often called for Agastya’s weird behaviours. Agastya was not normal. And doctors named him autistic. Soon, Swaroopa too was bestowed with several funny names in the neighbourhood. She was always asked about him and it became rebarbative. Gradually, she nurtured an aversion towards Agastya. Mother’s constant attention to Agastya fuelled it further and Swaroopa laced both her words and action with hatred. A kind of resentment set within and Swaroopa would do everything that bothered Agastya. Calling up Mother about Swaroopa’s misbehaviours had become a custom for Nanny.

Swaroopa tremored as she climbed the stairs.

That was a miserable day. It changed her life forever. Holding her bleeding forehead when Swaroopa ran behind Agastya, the line between good and evil dissolved. Agastya was nothing more than an agent of discontentment in their lives. And heedless to the outcome Swaroopa pushed Agastya down the stairs. These same stairs.

Every wall was beautifully adorned with the paintings of Agastya. Swaroopa’s birdbrain-brother was an eminent painter now.

Swaroopa ran her fingers on the walls. They were no longer bare. Every wall was beautifully adorned with the paintings of Agastya. Swaroopa’s birdbrain-brother was an eminent painter now. The miasma of colours on the canvas was befogged by her tears.

Agastya was severely injured after the fall. He remained unconscious for two days, yet Swaroopa was adamant to bow. She demanded Mother to choose. And Mother fingered on the weaker born.

Did mother ever love me? Very often, Swaroopa asked this until she read Mother’s diary.

Every dawn sprung a new challenge for them, and by the time dusk set in, Agastya and Mother would have learnt something new.

Every dawn sprung a new challenge for them, and by the time dusk set in, Agastya and Mother would have learnt something new. Something perhaps very far from the approved normalcy, yet beautiful. What to say? Abnormally beautiful. Every page of her dairy had a narration as if the wretched soul of Mother wrangled tirelessly to bring the siblings closer. Not necessarily to love but to accept each other.

“Didiii!” Agastya came running to Swaroopa. “I have been waiting for you… Since so long…I don’t remember.” He giggled.

Swaroopa looked into his eyes. They still remained hesitant to meet hers.

Agastya was abnormal. Devoid of shrewdness but brimming with honesty; impervious to gathering but relishing the pleasure of togetherness.

Yes, Agastya was abnormal. Devoid of shrewdness but brimming with honesty; impervious to gathering but relishing the pleasure of togetherness. He knew pain. He knew love. He knew to forgive and move on. And above all, in his abnormality he was able to be human.

Photos from the Internet