Call of the Roohani Bird

CALL OF THE ROOHANI BIRD

by Noora Kamar

Content warning: grief, death of a parent

Haleema Beevi always boasted that her ears were sharper than even that of snakes. She heard the calls of the Roohani Bird before anyone else. She would then say, “I wonder who’s going to die today.” When the phone rang in a couple of hours or—on the odd occasion—in the briefest of moments, she would chant under her breath: inna lillahi va inna ilaihi raji’oon, the du’a for the dead. 

My mother would then announce the death of a long-suffering relative or the untimely end of a neighbour. The house would be a flurry of motion. I would dig up an old hijab or a bland dupatta to wear over my head for what would be a long funeral if it was a close relative’s. I would also bring out my Yaseen book buried deep within my cupboard drawer. It would have been lying there since the funeral before. 

I did not know the Yaseen by heart. Umma knew. I had tried to learn when I was a child. I had given up because I didn’t see the point. Over the years I learned to make do, and at some point, acquired a small Yaseen book that I could carry with me. I was presentable at funerals, and reciting the Yaseen gave me a brilliant excuse to blend in. The Yaseen had been my refuge from any obligation to display grief. 

It was Haleema Beevi who heard the Roohani Bird that day too. Her usual neighbourhood jaunts had brought her to our home. Armed with the plastic bag of raw rice she got from the kitchen, she paused at the back door on her way out.

“There’s the bird again. I heard it twice this week. Raheem kaakka and Shailaja are both gone now. The bird calls for Hindus too, did you know?” 

I didn’t know.

Without waiting for my answer, she said, “Moley, your Umma is doing better, no? Give her my salaam.”

I was not in the mood to listen to the neighbourhood gossip prophecy Umma’s death.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be, Beevi? Should I call your son to come collect you?”

“No no no. I’m going only,” she scarpered. She didn’t want her son to know of her grocery expeditions to her neighbours. Even talks of death were measly when compared to her son’s wrath. She rushed through the makeshift back gate, making her way to Amina’s house to, no doubt, get some of the freshly laid eggs from their hens. 

Umma’s room was the same as I had left it. The two malakhs were still there, sitting on either side of her gently breathing, fragile body. They were twins, mirror images of each other, a mixture of cloud and smoke and no visible facial features. Each held a big and heavy book. If I squinted just enough, I could imagine fingers writing in the pages in smoky movements. Their cloudy heads were bent intently, doing their last stretch of calculations of rights and wrongs. I didn’t want to know whose book would be heavier in the end. 

People had been streaming into the house since morning. Maamas and maamis, velyaappaas and velyummas, cousins, and nephews and nieces, all near and far. There was also the floating crowd of kaakkaas and thaathaas, unrelated but relevant, who came and went, promising their return. The word had spread about Umma. 

Haleema Beevi had managed to sneak into the kitchen earlier to score her regular ration of rice amidst the slowly building chaos in the house. I had stumbled upon her on my way to find spare bedding for the guests. The house was a big one, and we had plenty of rooms. But everyone would want to flock together, skin to skin, breath to breath, exchange stories of deaths past, and tales of manufactured misery. I had to find enough bedding, sheets, blankets, and straw mats to fill the large hall and one or two of the bedrooms on the ground floor. It was almost a relief to be surrounded by so much noise, so many bodies. The kids blocked my way forward, falling down, picking each other up, so many hands caressing so many others. 

All day, I kept moving. I picked one mundane task or another to do despite the number of helpers around. Several times, without my noticing, I’d be back by Umma’s bedside. I would feel foolish for having left in the first place. Then I’d soon remember another errand that needed running, and I’d wander again. The end of someone’s life is a busy time for everyone else, myself included. 

I found some spare bed sheets and blankets in an upstairs bedroom. They were nowhere close to what was needed. I crossed Laila maami’s path on my way downstairs. She stopped me on the staircase and took on the whole burden herself.

“Where were you? Ibrahim kaakka and his wife are here. They were looking for you. They’ve come a long way. Make sure you see them. They’re getting very old. Who knows what’ll happen when,” she said, expertly tucking the tall load in her arms. 

I merely nodded. 

“Go sit by your mother,” she said. “You know Sifin can’t leave her kid alone. You’ll have to be there. What if someone else comes to pay their respects?” I was irked by the casual death sentence. 

“She’s not dead yet.” I said. My voice had taken on an edge. Exhaustion was beginning to consume me.

“Where is the kaappi powder?” she went on. “We’ve run out of tea as well. Nothing to give the guests. I’ll have to find Shaanu’s kid to run to the shop. Mine be blasted.” 

I nodded again. Laila maami, Umma’s youngest sister, had to be the most exhausted of us all. Except maybe Umma. I could not fathom the exhaustion that a stroke-ravaged body might feel. I guessed waiting for death must be exhausting. 

She scurried away, carrying the load, muttering something about having too many kids in the house and not being able to find where hers had gone. “Useless,” she said. 

Today, I didn’t get that tag. I was the dying person’s daughter, a person of honour. I could do nothing today and still be the most useful I’d been in all of my existence.

Continued in Augur Magazine Issue 5.2...