I was asleep. I don’t know where; whether it was in my dream or was it the birds really chirping outside my window. I woke up trying to recollect when I heard the sound of the birds chirping the last time. It was a long time ago probably in my childhood and that was long back. Now here I was again in the same village, where nothing seems to have changed much. Most of the people have left the village in search of livelihood to towns and cities. Now there are cement and BT roads and there is electricity, which is given in bursts of 4 to 5 hours.
There is a strange silence all around. The shade of the big jamun tree which is in my courtyard grows and shrinks. I looked for the sound; where was it from: that sweet, melodious note that seemed to revive some extinct feeling in my heart.
It was all the same but to me it appeared strange. I was a stranger to the surroundings in which I was born and spent my childhood. I was back now, quitting the city to find my solace and rest and collect something from my precious childhood which I had thrown away long ago. It was early morning. Summer was setting in. It was that intermittent period between winter and spring. The morning rays were beginning to brighten the air suspended over the ground. The dew drops on the palm leaves, glistened in the first red light. I moved to my backyard charmed by this morning scene. What was a grove of mango and guava trees was now a wilderness covered by thorn bush and weeds. The large peepul tree remained. The radiant light, failed to light up its green cover. There I saw on the branches a pair of sparrows, perched in absolute unconsciousness of me or the world around, chirping in chorus and in jarring rhythm, however they pleased, darting their small brown eyes on and around each other.
I stood still and listened, praying for an undisturbed repast of songs from those celestial singers.