Razia, Razia | Sara Siddiqui Chansarkar
I select a yellow songbird from the cages the bird vendor dangles towards me and pay him 300 rupees. He thanks me, then asks, Why do you purchase a bird every day, Amma?
Curious as most are about a widow living by herself in the mohallah, the man tries to peek inside my house through the door slit.
That’s none of your business. My bird, my money, I’ll do whatever I want. I shut the door on his face.
Ammi, Ammi, Razia calls from the bedroom in her precariously thin voice, audible only to my attuned ears.
Yes, my beta, I rush to my daughter, making kissing sounds as if she were a child of four and not a young woman of 29. I prop her onto the pillows arranged along the headboard, my arms aching with her weightlessness. Her eyes are hollow, her head bare as an upturned handi, her body shivering under the layers of blankets.
So pretty. Razia’s pale face lights up on seeing the songbird as if someone has turned on a lantern inside her.
It’s just like the bird you had when you were ten, I place the cage on the stool beside her. Remember how you stole green chilis and fruit to overfeed it?
Chee Chee Chee, the bird sings for Razia, tilts its neck to look at her through the slats.
My daughter rounds her lips to whistle for the bird but her lungs fail her. How she used to elicit Bollywood tunes before. Before. Before I got her married to Shahid—an engineer working in the USA. Before she failed to conceive for five years. Before she was diagnosed with a late stage of uterine cancer. Before my application for a US visitor visa was rejected, twice. Before I watched her withering into a husk on video calls. Before I pleaded with Shahid to bring her to me.
I fetch some green chilis and Razia feeds the songbird with fingers just as thin and tender. She names the bird Sarson for her color. Yesterday, I bought a koel and she named it Kaali. Before that, it was a mynah she named Bhoori.
Razia’s excitement wears her down, her smiles are pained. How I wish I’d let Razia marry the man of her choice, the math teacher at her college. At least then she would have remained in front of my eyes. My daughter never complained about her marriage, but Shahid’s face when he brought her back said it all—it was the relief of a courier man having successfully delivered the last package of the day.
My daughter refuses further treatment, says she’s tired of chemo. Her appetite is as small as a sparrow’s. Her meals are bone soup and grapefruit, a bucket waiting beside the bed for her to throw up.
By mid-afternoon, Razia leans back, exhausted, while the bird is still active and singing. I ask her to open the cage and free her feathery friend. The songbird hops out, opens and closes its beak, looks at Razia, then takes flight. I kiss my daughter and hold her close.
The imam at the mosque says prayers continue to work after medicine fails. I entreat Allah—pray seven times a day instead of five, recite verses of Quran on the tasbih, fast from dawn to dusk every Friday. The next-door neighbor says that the prayers of innocent creatures are more effective than those of humans. So I have Razia free a bird every day, hoping it will whisper a word to the skies, hoping angels will take the prayer to Allah.
The next day, the bird vendor brings me a handsome parrot with lush green feathers, a long tail, and a rose ring around its neck.
1000 rupees. He grins with his bad teeth and runs a hand through his black beard.
The bird says, Assalamalaikum, Sister, to greet me respectfully. I hand the bird dealer the money I’ve gleaned by selling my wedding gold.
Look, Razia, a talking parrot, I call from the doorway, excited to show her the lovely bird. I know you’ll name it Hariyala.
No response from inside. Razia never sleeps during the day. She has trouble falling asleep despite the weariness. I latch the door and step in.
Razia? Razia?
Utter silence. My feet freeze, refuse to carry me across the courtyard into the bedroom.
The smart parrot mimics me.
Razia, Razia.
Not a peep. Only the bird seller advertising his wares through the alleys. Parrots, mynahs, sparrows, koels . . . the very best ones.
I shudder and tighten my grip around the parrot as it flaps its wings and claws at my arm to free itself. My palms are sweaty but full of unusual strength and purpose. I twist the bird’s neck to the right with a quick motion. Snap. It falls on the brick floor. A lone green feather breaks away from the lifeless bundle and rises towards the sky.
More about the author:
Sara Siddiqui Chansarkar is an Indian American writer. She is the author of Morsels of Purple and Skin Over Milk, and is currently working on her first novel. Her stories and essays have won several awards and have been published in numerous anthologies and journals. She is a fiction editor for SmokeLong Quarterly. More at https://saraspunyfingers.com