A hand-grenade, an explosion, a leg injury and poof – your army career is over. You are on disability benefits at the age of forty.
Depression is a black hole. A void that sucks you deep in.
I let my limp define me. Stop responding when my mobile rings. Avoid friends. Cut the phone when the therapist calls.
The only time I get out is on my evening walks. Though ‘walk’ is a genteel word to describe my awkward, cumbersome shuffle.
I shift to the other leg, easing the pressure on the injured one and lean on the underarm-crutch. The pain is unbearable and I look for a place to rest.
There! Thankfully the bench is empty. Well not quite. There’s a black bird perched on the armrest. Looks like he had been in a recent scuffle. One of his wings droops and his feathers are in a disarray. But his curious, yellow-rimmed eyes stare at me boldly.
He doesn’t fly away when I sit next. Instead he chirps shrilly, his voice raucous. Then he suddenly stops and looks at me, tilting his head sideways. As if he is expecting a reply.
I ignore him and turn away to watch a squirrel run around a tree. My eyes follow him as he joins a mate and they chase each other. I glance back to check on the bird and he is still there. We sit on the opposite sides of the bench in comfortable silence. After a while, he flies away, effortlessly.
I call after him, “Lucky bird. You can fly, despite your injury”. It’s nice to hear my voice. I don’t know when I last exercised my vocal cords!
*
I begin looking forward to my walks. The black bird is there most of the days, waiting for me, perched on one end of the bench.
His flopping wing connects us in our shared impairments and his squawking voice is the greeting of a loquacious friend.
*
A few days later, before I leave home, I go into the kitchen and scoop up some grains for my new friend. After a long time, the muscles of my face relax into a soft smile.
I don’t want to startle him, so I wait for a while. Then I scatter the granules onto the ground. He looks disinterested at first. Then he gracefully flies down to peck on them.
That’s when I notice it. One of his legs drags and he walks with a visible limp. It has been invisible when he hopped or rested. He is busy, digging on the ground, finding the grains, unbothered by his lameness.
Then he hops on to the bench, twisters at me and flies away.
I watch him till he turns into a speck and disappears into the sunset. I watch him till a lone tear flows down my cheeks. I watch, my heart filled with wonder at his exuberance.
The sun goes down, but my soul lights up. Despite the cold weather warmth permeates my being.
