Goodbye
Note: This was written on a hot May day in 2019. I share this today because after twenty one months of weekly posts, sometimes twice a week, I ran out of things to say in this last week of a year we will never forget. Let 2021 be a year we will always remember.
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The weather is changing. The rains have stayed away and a hard sun blazes in a listless sky. The parched earth is covered in concrete and paver tiles. The trees have been hacked or cut down. Progress and development march down the streets.
The small birds prepare to fly away. They dream of shade, sitting on barren stumps. They imagine pools of cool clean water, whilst they sip from drying puddles after the cars have been lavishly washed. The sparrow and the magpie robin. The coppersmith barbet and the golden oriole. The red vented bulbul and the rose ringed parakeets. They have lived in this city forever. They are not migratory birds. But their instincts tell them it is time to leave. If they stay, they must die. The small ones, the weak ones, are no longer wanted in this megacity. They know no other land to call their own. But go they must.
They sadly call to the remaining trees. They flutter around the windows, chirping a farewell to the people inside. People who once fed them and smiled at them now turn away sullenly, will not meet their eyes, have nothing left to say.
One person takes the trouble to explain why. There are enough birds in our city. Birds that have learnt quickly to adjust, accommodate and compromise. They have built their nests on air conditioner boxes, and perch on pipes and rusted cars. They are friendly with the rats who live there. We have our birds, this person says. You may leave. Find others to love you. Find some other land to call your own.
The small birds fly away. The scavenging kites and the diseased pigeons and the garbage-eating crows jeer at them. They mock their small dreams and their lost sense of self. We are the survivors, they call. We are black and grey and brown. The colours of this city. We are the future.