Poetry: "Jatinga Bird Mystery" by Bharti Bansal


Note: previously published in Two Drops of Ink



Every year local and migratory birds fly to Jatinga only to commit suicide.

They die as the fog descends down the mountains around the valley,like a bride

And they rush towards the giggling light, get hit by long bamboo trees and die"

You see, the first time I looked at you from a distance, I knew you were going to be the death of

me.

I, like those silly birds, flew towards the halo of your being and crashed on your body

A deep chasm that echoed the last chirps of dying birds, a sad goodbye

I knew it had to be this way, your name sounded like a symphony of a toddler than a warning

bell

Jatinga, a small valley in Assam

Us, a hole dug in the mid of this fabric of world

Together we made a perfect pair for anything that could kill mercilessly


Those birds, migrating thousands of miles

Across seas and oceans

Leaving their nests like little soldiers

Only to die in a war that nobody started

Are their dead rotting carcasses, casualties of not looking enough in the direction where the dark

births out of the womb of the light

Or is it just another mystery that people forget soon enough, a friend who bids you goodbye, gifts

you harsh words you ponder over throughout your life and think if he ever loved you at all?

If we die together, is that even death or a celebration of it?

If we know we have no time, will we slow down and look at the skies above and the land below?

Will we ever know who loved us the most?

Does ground ever complain for mass graves or does it accept its fate?

Are these birds forgetful like me, return back to the same valley/you in the hope that maybe one

day you will love as you had promised to?

But who can blame you

Aren't you blamed enough already?

You have blood of innocent birds on your hand

You have unfulfilled dreams hanging like branches from your bodice, my father's pride, and my

mother's laughters, all perched on your shoulders like pigeons that surrendered themselves to land

years ago.

Jatinga, a paradise

You, my final resting place

Hand me the gun with no bullets inside

And watch me die still

For there is something so powerful about apocalyptic sky in your hooded eyes

When doom is about to fall

When we split like butchered sheep

When you laugh and I bow down before your feet

Take the knife and run it across my throat

For you had me flattered on the first day


When a shrink calculated my misplaced emotions as fifty percent depression

And I had smiled

There is something about finality of the last moments

Those birds know the difference

I always knew the difference

Yet we never stopped

Because regrets are mishaps of love seeking forgiveness

And we don't forgive easily, do we?


You see there is a reason why crematoriums and rivers run side by side

We all tend to wash away our last sins

Those birds become the victims

And I turn into survivor instead

We have the same tattered wings

Same blooded corpses

A final call for help

And a dying wingless fall to tell our story

"We mattered

We mattered

We mattered"




Bharti bansal is a 24 year old poet from India. She loves moon, universe, cat and poetry. She has her world published in online magazines like Aaduna, harness, oc87recoverydiaries.org and others. She can be reached at her instagram account @bharti_b42