Habib Mohana was born in 1969 in Daraban Kalan, a town in the district of Dera Imsail Khan, Pakistan. He is an assistant professor of English at Government Degree College No 3, D. I. Khan. He writes fiction in English, Urdu, and Saraiki (his mother tongue). He has four books under his belt, one in Urdu and three in Saraiki. His Saraiki novel forms part of the syllabus for the MA in Saraiki at Zikria University Multan. His short stories in English have appeared in literary journals in India and Canada. In 2010 and 2014, his Saraiki books won the Khawaja Ghulam Farid Award from the Pakistan Academy of Letters. His book of short stories in Urdu, titled Adhori Neend, won the Abaseen award from the Government of KPK. He is currently seeking a publisher for his novel The Village Café.
The Brutal Spring
Back then, we lived in an adobe house in a village on the Damaan plains, and all our mud rooms were bird-friendly. In fact, they were more bird-friendly than human-friendly. Even after having been bolted or locked, the doors of the rooms were wide enough for winged creatures—swifts, swallows, house sparrows—and they could easily squeeze in and out. Then there were the holes that were punched near the ceilings for sun and air and smoke. Our straw-wood ceilings had enough gaps and spaces for the birds to build nests. The beaten earth floors of the rooms were always messy with nesting materials. Every morning my mother would sweep them away, grumbling, “Why don’t they build their nests in the village orchards?”
At our house, one small mud room was under my occupancy, where I would study or sit daydreaming. The ceiling of my room was hummocky with bulging nests of house sparrows, but they all lay deserted.
Then, one afternoon a lone female house sparrow flitted in. She looked at all the abandoned nests, chirped, frisked on the plate rack for a good while, and then flew away. I was expecting her to mate and show him her pick. I was jubilant that now my silent mud study would ring with the twittering of nesting sparrows. Towards the evening, she flew in and squatted in one of the best nests, all by herself. The single sparrow spent entire winter in my room. Every morning she would wake me up with her staccato chirping.
One afternoon, the sparrow hopped into the room, dragging her right wing and leaving a bloody trail in her wake. Her wing was badly wounded, certainly the doing of some impish urchins. She would fly for a few feet and then come tumbling down like a paper airplane. But still she gave me a tough time catching her. I cleaned and dressed her wound. I put her in a twig cage and filled the two little bowls with wheat grains and water. I did not release her until I was sure she would not be an easy meal for cats on the prowl.
Spring arrived. There was love in the air. For the birds it was time of spring dancing, but for me, the hectic exam season had just kicked off. The village orchards were a blaze of colours. Now and then, the fragrance of lemon blooms would waft in from the orchard belt, and I would think of freedom and friends. Away from the colours and fragrances, I sat besieged by bulky books.
Then one day my lady sparrow glided in, a dashing male in tow. She showed him around her property like an expert real estate agent. Her choosy mate was a little jumpy. He flew back, and the resident sparrow tailgated him, twittering incessantly as if she was saying, “Wait – I have something else to show to you.” A little before evening, she arrived back with her new boyfriend, who seemed to like her choice. They started living together, not bothering to get my blessing.
The birds would sit on the beam or on the wing of the ceiling fan, and mated right in front of me, excited calls streaming from their short beaks. But the pleasures of coupling also brought a basketful of responsibilities for my birds. To give their future chicks a comfortable bed, they flung themselves into collecting straw and husk for the nest, while I remained immersed in my books.
One morning, I woke up to the peep of newly-hatched chicks. The pair was busy ferrying tidbits to their new arrivals. Spring also brought the creaky ceiling fan back into action. Whirring over my head, the rickety fan sliced the air with its rusty blades. Their beaks wriggling with worms and flying low, the pair fed their demanding chicks with the feasts they found. They were fully aware of the squeaky fan, and had learnt to dodge its whirling wings. In one hour they made several manic trips, flying in and out until the gorged chicks fell silent with satisfaction.
One crisp morning, the male sparrow was returning with his pickings when he was suddenly sucked into the vortex churned up by the ceiling fan. He was hit like a cricket ball is hit for six. He cannoned into the whitewashed wall, imprinting it with a bloody abstract painting. Then he fell to the ground with a dull thud. A bouquet of green worms wriggled free from his unclamped beak. I made a dash for him, and took him in my palms. I had hardly located his warm wound when his beak opened and closed for the last time. I made a lunge towards the power point and pawed the fan off. The cursed thing groaned, then came to a standstill, its one blade flaunting shameless blood stains.
I was responsible for the death of the father sparrow. I was disgusted with myself.
With her partner gone, the mother sparrow girded her loins and raised her two chicks single-handedly.
I took some security measures. Firstly, I was extremely careful with the fan. Secondly, I bricked up the smoke holes so that the lone parent would not drift into the deadly droning blades. I wanted her to enter from the door and fly low get to her nest.
One day when I came back from delivering a paper, I stumbled upon a wriggling ball of tiny yellow ants. I took a closer look and found that it was a featherless sparrow chick that had tumbled down to the ground. It squirmed helplessly while the ravenous ants feasted on it. I picked it up, plucked at the predatory ants with my fingers, and blew them off. The chick’s tender, almost transparent body was riddled with multiple tiny wounds. A few ambitious ants had blazed a trail into its flimsy digestive system. Sensing danger, the ants stumbled out, their mouthparts gory from the bloody feast. The doomed chick yawned for the last time.
The mother bird was now left with one chick. After a couple of days, it grew into a fledgling. It would peek out of its straw home, surveying the weird world below. Their nest was positioned exactly over a huge chest that was filled with winter things. The distance between the nest and the chest was less than a yard. Often, the restive chick would flap down to the chest, scamper on it for a while, and then wing its way back to its dwelling.
One day when its mother was out, the chick landed on the chest. I offered it cracked wheat in a saucer. While it was chirping blithely and pecking at the food, a cat appeared from nowhere, pounced, and took off with the tiny bird. I scrambled after it, but it climbed onto the roof and tore away. I was angry at myself. After some time the mother sparrow flew in, her beak bristling with choice worms. I could not face her. She headed for her nest but found it silent and empty. She popped in and out several times, confounded. She called to her baby, but to no avail. She called and called and called. Her panic made me nauseous. I averted my gaze. She perched on the peg that supported my ironed college shirt. She pumped a slushy dropping over the stiff collar and flew back to her abode. She flapped out the room and then came back again. She made many restless trips back and forth, keening. That day I was utterly miserable. The words in my book seemed to bite me like scorpion’s sting.
Evening fell. The mother sparrow came to roost, but couldn’t accept reality. She wailed. All night long I could hear her quiet weeping. She drifted in and out of sleep like a sick child. I couldn’t sleep peacefully either that night.
The next morning, she once again bulleted out to hunt for breakfast, and reported back, her beak full of larvae.
After a few days, the disconsolate sparrow left. Each day I waited for her, but she didn’t return. Eventually, her haunt was occupied by a new and hopeful pair.