Ananya stood at the balcony with her cup of untouched tea, watching the city wake up as if nothing had ever gone wrong. As if life had not betrayed her again and again.
The blood on the bathroom floor was anything but comforting. She knew she had lost her again. Yes, in her heart she knew it would be a girl, but now she will never know. Isn’t motherhood a natural process for all women? So why is it so difficult for her.
Three times she had carried hope inside her and every time she had to wash it away with despair.
It was not that her family blamed her for the losses. They were careful around her, treating her gently like tiptoeing around cracked glasses. Advices flowed abundant. Be strong. You are still young, you can try again. It’s God’s will. Medical science is so advanced now, doctors will find a way.
Their words floated past her like dust—present, irritating, meaningless.
She looked outside. The sky was gearing up for a new day when she noticed them.
A pair of sparrows fluttered onto the ledge opposite her balcony. Small, unremarkable and persistent beings gathering twigs, dry grass, bits of thread stolen from somewhere. They were working tirelessly, beaks moving with purpose and wings beating with quiet determination.
And without their knowledge they became a part of Ananya’s routine. Every free minute of her day she watched the birds grow from strength to strength. These birds were her own little secret. She named them, without telling anyone, like she had whispered names into her own womb.
The nest grew slowly. It wasn’t a perfect structure. Sometimes a twig fell, sometimes the wind scattered their effort. But they never gave up. They always returned to build again. Ananya found herself waiting for them everyday. She even placed a small bowl of water on the balcony ledge to show her solidarity.
After a week the tiny abode was complete. And then the tiny eggs came. One, two and three. The mother stopped flying out. The father kept bringing her food, chirping softly before feeding her. A wholesome family picture filled Ananya’s empty heart.
Then one morning, she saw it—a tiny movement inside the nest. Life. Ananya pressed her palm to the balcony railing, afraid to breathe too loudly, as if her breath could steal joy from the happy parents.
For a few days bliss was all that was there in that fragile cup of twigs tied down by threads of hope.
Until the storm came one night. Ananya was sleeping when the howl of the wind awakened her. The birds were her first thought and she rushed to the balcony. She could do nothing but watch helplessly as the nest shook, tilted, and finally broke apart.
When the dawn arrived, the ledge was bare. The birds were gone.
Ananya sank to the floor, sobbing with a pain that was ancient and fresh at the same time. It wasn’t just the broken nest. The empty ledge was the echo of hospital corridors, the sterile smell of loss, the sound of doctors saying we’re sorry without meeting her eyes.
“Even you?” she whispered to the lost birds “Even you couldn’t hold on?”
The next day arrived. And then the day after that. The world did not care about grieving parents. It went on. Only the balcony felt lifeless again. So did Ananya.
Until one day she heard the familiar flutter.
The bird couple had returned. They circled around the ledge, sat on the edge, chirping softly. Were they mourning their lost babies? Perhaps. Ananya watched them, tears rolling down her cheeks. She understood their grief more than anyone. Perhaps they were bidding a final goodbye to the family that was snatched from them. But, only, they weren’t.
To her surprise the birds started returning everyday. They began to rebuild.
Twig by twig. Thread by thread. Only this time they were slower as if more cautious. The nest was built deeper into the corner, shielded from the wind. They worked with the wisdom of loss, and the tenderness of protective parents.
Weeks later two eggs were hatched. The mother kept a vigil.Another week and there was movement in the nest. Ananya leaned in with anticipation.
There was one chick. Just one.
The daily routine followed until one evening the storm returned. Rain poured, wind blew. Ananya stood guard on the balcony, with prayers on her lips. The prayers she had stopped visiting in anguish. She called upon the Gods whom she had stopped believing in the last few months.
And this time it seemed to work. The nest survived. After a sleepless night she found the tiny bird, alive, chirping weakly, tucked beneath its parents’ wings.
That morning something tore open her grieving heart. A new found strength. The bird’s silent resolutes taught her that survival wasn’t about never losing. It was about choosing to rebuild when everything inside you was tired of hope.
The birds didn’t forget their lost chick. Neither would she. But they didn’t let loss define the end of their story.
That morning, Ananya drank her tea while it was still hot. She refilled the bowl of water for the birds and she refilled herself with a hope for life whatever form it might take, it still dared to return.