My sister had brought a little sparrow
One morning, a year back,
When the last day she came from her college.
And she kept that inside a cage,
Beside my window, as it was too tiny
And had yet to learn to fly.
I didn't see her crying, unlike my mother,
For the degree, she could not get,
As our father could bring home very little
After he had spent most on liquors and gambles.
"A few pieces of paper can't decide what we become,"
My brave sister would say, with a wide smile.
Mother, of course, would not believe that
Nor she believed my sister's smile was true.
"Norah, who will teach the sparrow to fly?
Will it be able to fly? Ever?"
I would ask her, and she would say with a kiss,
"Nothing can stop it, love, but itself."
I would see her often, combing her hair,
She would leave home, smiling, on mornings,
With the least papers, she had, in her hands,
While feathers started to grow on the bird.
And she would return, with tired eyes,
With hidden tears, but seeing us, she would smile.
"If you forget to smile, you forget to live, love."
She explained to me one day, as she left, smiling.
I heard mother complaining, the world is wretch
And she hadn't had enough papers.
"No one believes her," she sobbed, like always.
I didn't understand all, but Norah's smile was sad.
She came home that night, with the saddest face.
"Norah, do you think the bird has learnt to fly yet?
I have not seen it flapping its wings!"
"You should set the cage open, Rory, try it,"
She said, without smiling, and she sat
Beside the hearth, burning all the papers she had.
Next morning, I heard my mother crying again
Like she would often do, just it was louder.
I crawled and opened the cage-like Norah said.
I believed the bird would not fly, but it flew away,
Amazingly, like it knew the skill from a thousand years,
And nothing could stop it that day.
I ran to Norah's room, to tell her she was right,
But she was sleeping still, mother screaming beside her
Complaining still, she had not had enough papers.
The ashes of the papers she burnt the other night
Was contained in a bottle, under which was a paper
The last paper she had left behind.
Norah was dead, while my father still slept
In his room, unaware, for he had drunk too much.
I didn't understand all, but I knew she was gone.
People say, she had taken something bad,
And blame it on father, who curse them for it,
But I think, she just had forgotten to smile.
-Ron'e Dutta