Through the thin-slated bamboo wall, the hot oil can be heard crackling loudly as slightly moist chili was dropped in the wok, followed by an even louder crackling when the dried salted fish was added on. The strong savory fishy smell pervaded the whole compound.
An old lady came out of the kitchen and put some seed in the birdhouse.
“It’s mealtime”, she said. The bird acknowledged graciously, glad to be home once again.
Just a short while ago, the bird was perched atop a leafless branch of a tree higher than any other tree on the hills. In total stillness, he gazed at the familiar sight before him.
His solitary stance was cocooned in comforting silence, broken in intervals only by the slight whirring sound coming from gentle breezes caught between the treetops far below.
His clear sharp eyes took in the magnificent sight before him. A pallet of blue, green, brown, and golden hues slightly subdued by the hazy film of the late morning air. Here and there thick clumps of trees and red roofs of the villages interrupted the vast spread of wet-field paddies in varying stages of growth. Indigo semi-circular mountain range surrounded the plains, the conical peaks shooting majestically into the clear blue sky.
The slight turning of his head was the singular movement; the object of his observation appearing still from the distance, as he searched for a sight to behold.
A sliver of bright magenta and violet barely visible in the emerald overtone caught his eyes. A wave of tenderness and warmth flooded his whole being, how fiercely had he guarded this sight in his mind during the long and cold wintry nights, often through starless, moonless sky, as he flew with other birds traversing vast oceans.
As his attention became focused, his imagination started to become alive. The magenta and violet in the distance transformed into a profusion of water lilies in full bloom growing closely together. Their giant saucer-like waxy leaves vie for space in the tiny earthy pond. A concerto of deep throaty croaks by his frog friends echoed while they playfully jostled each other. As if to stress the gigantic dimension of the leaves, only the biggest and loudest frogs lived in this pond, their puffed-out bellies creamy white, a stark contrast to their grayish-brown knobby backs.
He smiled. He too used to join them in the water, only to feel deep resentment and frustration when no sound would come out of his throat no matter how hard he tried.
Now his memory came back with the speed of an avalanche as familiar vivid images and emotions tumbling one after the other in rapid successions.
Bordering the earth-rimmed pond was a soot-covered bamboo hut, its color darker than the wet soil. Inside the kitchen hut, a few terracotta pots stood atop a low blackened brick stove. Mounds of week-old ash under the earthen pots formed neat smooth slopes. A bowl of yesterday’s rice was waiting to be reheated. It was not yet cooking time.
Behind the house, a quilted blanket of red, blue, and printed white patches hung to air. It was a large quilt, the squares meticulously stitched and color-coordinated to create a three-dimensional geometric pattern. The old lady’s pride. It once won the first prize in the annual village festival. Everyone agreed that ever since no one had created a quilt quite as fine or as beautiful. The stretched quilt swayed gently, in rhythm with the to and fro movement of the weeping willow branches at the edge of the pond.
Behind the blanket, stood another hut, the sleeping quarter. Next to the doorway, seeking shelter from the heat of the rapidly rising sun, on a large smooth flat stone sat an elderly lady. At her feet, a shallow vat almost filled to the brim with shallots. Some were for today’s meal; their transparent skin needed peeling off before they can be finely chopped. No matter that she had done this for most of her life, the hot sharp fume arising from the grazed shallots still made her eyes water. Today, however, it was mixed with her own tears.
She was feeling particularly lonely and melancholic. Since her husband’s death a year ago she had been large without a constant companion. Occasionally some village boys would drop by on their way to the fishing pond in the small forest in the hills behind her house. She made sure she kept a stock of sweet sesame-sprinkled rice balls to give them on such occasions. They would exchange small pleasantries; the boys would update her with the latest happening in the village. On their return, they would bring her some fish. However, these occasions were rare, and becoming even rarer still, as the boys got older and dreams of pretty girls replaced the excitement of fishing in the forest pond.
It’s been over a month since their last visit. She remembered. It was two days before the moon reached its zenith. Last night, the moon appeared quite round and full, although with her failing eyesight she could be a couple of days off.
She thought of her late husband. He was a very good man: kind, strong and hardworking. A man of few words, but whenever he spoke everyone listened. He showed his love for her in subtle and thoughtful gestures. He often brought her favorite delicacies from the market. Sometimes he brought unusual colored wild orchids from the forest and put them in a jar by her side of the bed. When her feet started to swell at the beginning of the dry winter, he would cut lavender flowers from the river banks and make warm lavender foot baths for her. Her radiant smile and widening bright eyes were his reward and fulfillment.
She missed him very much. They were together for over half a century. Though she was sorry that she couldn’t conceive more children after their only son was taken down by cholera many moons ago, she felt very lucky to have had a loving husband and loyal companion for all the ensuing years.
A loud squawking noise coming from a group of crows woke her up from her reverie to find the vat almost full of peeled shallots. She looked up and her eyes fell on the hanging quilt, still brightly colored after all these years. She washed them with the ’klerek’ fruit, a dark brown shiny inedible fruit used by generations to preserve colors in cloths to withstand numerous washings. She made the quilt as a new bride. She had worked on it lovingly, wanting to show her husband that she was well prepared to be a good housewife. It took her a year to complete it. Fresh tears flowed down her cheek as she thought of how proud her husband was when she won the prize for the best quilt. “I am getting really old now. Only the old turns to nostalgia for comfort”, she whispered to herself.
She gathered the vat and strode to the kitchen as briskly as her arthritic feet could take her. She went into the kitchen. She took out a handful of shallots and put them on the kitchen table next to the chopping board. Today she was going to make her husband’s favorite fare. She wanted to thank his spirit for choosing her as his companion for this life.
She stepped out of the kitchen to a small plot where she grew vegetables. She took out a few lemongrass sticks, some chili, and several strands of green beans and went back to the kitchen. She pulled down one dried salted fish, which she made out of the fish the boys brought her one moon ago. She cut one-third of the fish and put it on the table next to the shallot and the chili along with the lemongrass and the greens. With practiced hands, one hand on the knife, the other feeding the ingredients to be cut, she sliced the shallots, chili, and lemongrass thinly. Again her eyes watered, but this time she smiled and chided herself, “You silly old woman, enough with the crying”.
She poured oil into the thick steel frying pan and fanned the amber into flame once again. In the small earthen pot on the next stove, she poured some water to boil. Once the smoke started to rise from the heated oil, she put the chili in first followed by the fish. The hot oil crackled loudly every time with each added ingredient.
The bird saw all these vividly in his imagination, for he knew her routine so well. He had watched her many times for as long as he could remember. The old man had brought him home after he was discovered alone in his nest on the ground with his mother lying dead next to him. The old man’s wife had taken him into her care. She poured into him all the love she had reserved for her son, urging him to take food into his mouth, patiently and persistently, until he grew strong enough to stand on his feet.
It was a while before he even realized he was a bird, the pond frogs being his constant companions from the time he could move around. The old lady used to feed him small critters from the water then left him by the pond as she went about her daily chores. He had watched the frogs frolicking for some time before he dared to come closer and stepped into the water, only to find he could float and avoid going under by spreading his wings.
He was filled with nostalgia. And before he realized it his wings were spread, he began his descent.
He saw his reflection in the big pond on top of the hills where the boys went fishing. He swooped down to catch a large fish, the same kind of fish the boys used to bring back for the old lady. In an elegant arch, he rose mid-air to continue his flight until once again he swooped down and descended smoothly and noiselessly at the doorstep of the kitchen.
He stood still, silently watching the old lady scooping out the chili-coated fish, loading it to the dish on the table.
As she turned around to drain the water from the boiled vegetables, she spotted first his long shadow on the parched floor. She lifted her eyes and took in the sight of him, his familiar sharp clear eyes fastened on her, softened with love and tenderness, a large fish stuck between his beak. A large smile broke her wrinkled face. Her eyes brightened with joy and welcome.
“You are back”, she said simply.
