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