The Bird of Crimson and Gold

Two drops of water hissed as they hit the surface of the tawa, dancing like frenzied dervishes. Almost instantly they
evaporated, leaving the black metal surface dry as bone.

Rani slapped the flat bread expertly on the tawa, watching as it filled up with air, as puffy as the corner shopkeeper’s
belly unfettered, billowing brown and smooth from under his white vest. As the thin upper layer of cooking dough
rose in the air, she could see past its translucence to the other side.

A thin line of fire, like the drool from a dragon’s maw moved within her. Fueled by the heat of the burning sun, her
skin became increasingly sensitive. Beads of sweat rolled over her face and ran as a river between her breasts,
making her hands and feet clammy, lightly salting the dough she was working. The chappatis had to be hot and fresh
for dinner, which was in less than twenty minutes.

So she continued working and a fire she could not name simmered just below the surface. It simmered when she
wiped the snot off her youngest child’s face, when she spooned yellow spoonfuls of thick daal onto her husband’s
plate, as she lay silently under him, legs spread, still clothed under him, in their twice a month ritual.

“This has been the hottest summer ever,” her husband muttered as he wiped his brow and flicked the fan switch off
and on. “Damn this city and its electricity,” he almost shouted. He shimmered, a heat mirage, sweat drawing huge
circles under his arms. Exactly fifteen minutes after his return from work, he wanted his dinner. She served him and
the children, fanning them all with the reed fan her mother had made, just months before her death. Five years old,
and still in good shape.

The slow breeze of the fan did not touch her at all, since she directed it toward her family. She raised her eyes to the
ceiling, slowly and deliberately. And there, as it was the most natural thing in the world, was suspended the wondrous
bird.

Its wings were crimson and gold, interwoven, shimmering one color and then the other as it breathed. And it said to
her, “it is coming. Be patient.” She held its gaze as it disappeared slowly into the dingy white ceiling.

The heat baked the earth, until it cracked like a leperous hide, carving dry rivers of dust in the hard land. It seemed
like it had been this hot forever. As if the soothing breezes of winter had never been. She closed her eyes willing even
the ghost of a breeze to cool her.

Her loosely tied bun cascaded down her back, liquid curves of black hair. The same color as her eyes, and of the
kohl that outlined them. With her eyes still closed she lifted her heavy hair off her burning neck. A weak breeze
fanned by the trees outside slipped in through the open window and stirred the curls on her forehead.

She opened her eyes and looked into them, echoed in the mirror afixed on her cupboard that stood against the wall.
Her eyes traced the lines of her mature, slightly pendulous breasts uplifted by the hand that held up her hair. They
lingered on the in curve of her waist thickened by birthing four children. And brushed her ample hips that swayed
when she walked.

Her hips had been the first awareness of herself as a woman. When her breasts were still like sprouting buds, she
remembered the whistles of the boys as her hips danced when she would make her way home from the communal
tap, balancing a full pail of water in each hand. Knees slightly bent to minimize splashing, her gait exaggerated she felt
their hot eyes on her as she walked away slowly. And she felt their lustful whistles pierce her composure. She was
always careful not to spill any water, for that would mean an extra trip to the tap. Another trip under those watchful,
waiting eyes.

Only as she poured the water into the two huge containers in the courtyard, would her heart stop pounding.
Something warm had stirred within her, something she recognized as dangerous. So she had muzzled it and learned to
forget.

“Where is my mind wandering? Why did I think of that?” But still she gazed at herself like a lover would. Then life, in
the form of her children intruded and her day, burst into activity again.

The image of herself, played in her mind, like a movie. Except in her thoughts, there was no hero to touch her hot
skin, while she danced in a dream between gossamer clouds.

Diseased yellow leaves, small and dry floated lazily from the Ashok trees outside her door. The dusty earth outside
was carpeted with the gently floating leaves. Not that she had much time to step outside and look at them. Her life
was a mosaic of routine. Wake up at 6. Make breakfast. Pack lunch for all of them. Wake husband. Wake the kids.
Feed them. Stitch on a button or two. Watch them leave. Clean the house. Buy vegetables from the seller who
arrived like clockwork at 11 in the morning. Cook. Eat. Wait for her family to come home. Greet them with tea and
hot pakoras. Feed them. Clean up and go to bed. What time did she have in her day to watch dying leaves?

If she could make one wish today it would be for a release from the weather. With the truant electricity and the
summer not even in full swing all she could dream of was a cool release. She felt the icy lick of a cool breeze caress
her face. She smiled a smile of a sly knowledge as the gold and crimson bird fanned its wings as it flew around,
watching her silently. Her face tightened at the brink of ecstasy. And then the bird disappeared and the heat
swallowed her again.

The last dried leaf trembled on the tree and then it fell, tracing cursively, slowly through the air. She watched the once
a week the sweeper gathering the leaves into giant piles that the children jumped in, on their return from school. Each
morning the municipal sweeper would return and cluck his tongue noisily complaining loudly about the children,
hoping an open window would carry his voice to one of the parents. That someone would stop those damned
children. But nothing of the sort ever happened.

The heat intensified, building to an indefinable, distant crescendo. She remembered summers of her youth. When
summer meant sneaking out of her house on tiptoes to play with her friends and raid the neighborhood orchards.
Summer was soured teeth and tongue, eyes squinting as tart slivers of raw mango dipped in salt were devoured in
bulk. Summer was jumping in the gathered piles of leaf, at once airy and crisply rough against her skin. Lazy summer
vacations with pails of water brimming with ripe mangoes eaten instead of lunch.

Standing at the back door, buying vegetables, looking into the distance. The browned landscape shimmered in the
heat, glittering with trapped rays of the distant sun. It was like one of the dreams when the bird flew with her. Light as
the wind in a magical realm she and the bird would drift. And it whispered beautiful promises. Promises that made her
skin sing and her hair dance like enchanted serpents.

The bird had started appearing to her a few months ago. It fanned her with its tender feathers and kept her company
on long, lonely days. It never came when she called for it. It only appeared when she seemed to forget its existence.
Only then did it fly into her vision, asserting its silent right to be around her, never close enough to touch.

She scrubbed her light green sari spattered with tiny white flowers, with the large, hard bar of soap, washing away the
trapped dirt and the smells of the spices that surrounded her. Her exertions made her sweat even though she was
surrounded by water. Water dripping from the faucet, splashing as she rubbed the tough material against itself. Water
splashing against her legs and arms. It struck her suddenly how she only wore light colors. Light green, sky blue,
beige, brown… The only spot of color on her was the crimson bindi she patted precisely, with her index finger, in the
middle of her forehead, every morning just after washing her face.

Perhaps the next time she went shopping she would buy a peacock blue sari patterned in silver. Something different,
colorful, joyous, wild. She felt the gentle breeze flutter against her eyelids and kiss her cheek.

Breakfasts, lunches, dinners, teas, snacks, laundry, dishes, dusting, carried out efficiently in the searing heat. The
plants in the two flowerpots she religiously watered were dying of thirst so she brought them indoors to nurse them
back to life. She stroked the smooth, unburned patches on the leaves of the money plant, as if she could massage life
back into the brown, shriveled parts.

Sometimes, late in the afternoon, later in the summer, she would complete her chores early. Then she would lie on her
bed, snatching a nap between her duties and the time when her husband would come home. It was the middle of the
summer vacations and she could now delegate some chores to her oldest daughter. She was old enough to make tea,
cook dal, buy vegetables; the right age to be trained.

The cotton sheets felt rough on her over-heated, over-sensitive skin. The electricity had gone again, leaving the ceiling
fan dying a lingering death, rotating slower with each turn. She sighed heavily, resentful at being nudged out of sleep
just as its waves were starting to wash over her. Sweat streaked her face like a mask of tears. “I can’t bear this heat
anymore.”

Then she felt the silent beating of wings keeping pace with her thumping heart. And she smiled as her body melted
into the sheets and her hands danced intricately like kisses from the wings of a butterfly. “Oh that feels good,” she
whispered, as if in surprise, in her trance. Waves of coolness shuddered through her, making her body arch and twist.

Slender fingers of lightening gouged precise paths through the suddenly darkening skies. The wind sang softly, then
whined as it reached a fever pitch. Leaf-less trees danced in sheer joy, as the clouds above exploded. Exploded in
the first frenzy of the monsoon drenching the world, forcing dormant life to re-surface.

She finally felt the touch of the bird. Soft feathers, dewy soft, drenched in the first sprinkles of the early monsoon.
Like soft raindrops touching her skin, digging softly into her flesh, forcing her to close her eyes, making her body
tremble like a feather caught in a strong wind. Freely and unforced it melted into her.
And little droplets of rain trapped in the rapturous wind entered through the open window, misting her skin with
pleasure.