Mahesh Paudyal
“HANG ON DEAR moon,” said the nightingale, “for there is no light, and I am not yet decided where I would put up tonight.”
It was extremely cold though the sky looked very clear. It was twilight but the moon was just an arc of diamond upon the head on the western mountain.
The nightingale shivered remembering the previous night. Oh, what a dreadful experience it had been! Someone in the south had set the whole forest on fire, and its little nest on a little willow had burnt, roasting its two little kids to death. It shed two drops of tears for the kids and flew away, and sat on a silver wire that hung between iron poles, knowing that a silver thing would not burn. It was nightmarish hanging on a silver wire all through the night.
“Allow me to stay here for tonight, for both of us are dying soon,” said the nightingale to an old ebony tree that stood alone in a big, flat land, bare and shabby.
“How do you say so?” asked the tree.
“You know not a thing about the world as fastened are your feet to the soil. I fly and see what is happening in the world. A devil has burnt the forest in the south. He will soon be here,” said the little bird to the old tree.
“Oh, terrible!” said the tree, and shed thick drops of tears. Then it said, “I have a hole, dear nightingale; but I have rented it to a squirrel. Make it your home for tonight. You need to leave early tomorrow, for the squirrel that has gone to the Manasarovar, will come back.”
“So kind of you! In the morning, I shall sing you the best of the songs I know.”
By this time, the moon had almost slipped off the mountain. “Hold on,” shouted the nightingale again, and said, “Give me light till I go to bed. Early at dawn tomorrow, I shall sing you the most beautiful of the songs I know.”
In fact, the moon waited until the nightingale had found a cosy hole on the tree. It looked into it carefully, until it was convinced that there was no snake to try an ambush. When it had safely housed itself, the moon gave a last, parting wink and disappeared. The veil of the night covered the tree from all around.
Oh, what a cosy night it was! The nightingale soon fell asleep and dreamt of the Sleshmantak Forest, far way. Trees full of nuts bedecked the dream world, and the nightingale sang to the king’s daughters sailing to Malaya on the cloud-ships in the vast blue ocean, up there in the sky. No hunter would ever come in the dreamland, and no woodcutter would ever charge his devilish axe upon the tree that gave it a home.
When the day broke, ‘too-whee’ sang the nightingale, and the tree woke up too. The moon—just an arc—appeared too, and ‘too-whee’ said the nightingale. It paid for their favour.
When the sun was fairly up, the nightingale thanked the old tree and took leave of it.
It flew over the great Bagmati River, in whose water, little naked boys dived and searched for coins devotees often threw. It also flew over burning dead bodies and trembled to remember the burnt bodies of its little kids. ‘Man and birds are same,’ it thought, and flew north.
Up there in the north, the returning monsoon rode on the wings of a storm and soaked the nightingale all through. A terrible rain had set the sloppy land sliding and everything from houses to trees, or from chestnut to pine, was flowing down with the swelling rivers People ran in all directions, shouting at Lord Indra, who, as they thought, had poured the whole of the Blue Sea down upon them.
“There is not a tree to hold the slide,” said an old man. “Somebody dead has cleared the entire thicket. Hell be with him!”
‘It’s terrible,’ thought the nightingale and twisted its little tail, changing its direction. ‘The tree that hosted me last night is far better. Let me go back; perhaps it will allow me a stay for one more night.’
“Dear old tree, I love you better than anyone. Do allow me to put up for one more night, for both of us are dying soon,” it implored.
“How do you say so?” asked the tree.
“Up there in the north, the Lord is so angry that he is emptying the entire Blue Sea upon the earth. The land is sliding, carrying all trees—big and small—down the hill. The rivers are touching the sky, and the creation is ending. I will miss you, good old tree, when you die.”
“Ouch, terrible!” said the tree, and shed thick drops of tears. Then it said, “Stay for a day, little bird, and when the day breaks, sing me a song for the leaves that have fallen off my body. Ah, how much I miss them!”
“So kind of you! In the morning, I shall sing you the best of the songs I know.”
So the nightingale stayed for the second day. Early next morning, it sang a sad song for the fallen leaves, and said to the tree, “Soon, you will be with your lost leaves, dear old tree.”
“How?” said the tree, which was just waking up.
“For, you will lie dead upon the same leaves down there. Rain will pound upon you, and the land underneath will slide.”
The tree dropped two big tears. The nightingale wished it a long life before the flood, and flew away. It had heard that the west had trees with the sweetest figs on them.
The sky had cleared now after the nightlong crying, and the rays of the sun shone brightly. It flew all day long, till in the afternoon, the rays of the sun directly fell on its little, round eyes. The nightingale saw many colours—red, blue, green and violet—floating in the sky.
Far away, it saw a fat man with a yellow cap, driving a big yellow thing across the forest. It was felling all the trees that stood, and the land was being levelled.
“We will make a city here,” shouted the politician. The lovers said, “Do make for us a lovely park.”
“Swimming pool,” shouted the children, and the ladies wanted a cinema—the biggest one in the country—to come up. Brick merchants, who had come all the way from Bhaktapur said, “This soil is best suited for bricks. We will perhaps make a brick kiln here.”
‘The old tree is better than this,’ thought the nightingale and turned back. It was afraid that if the squirrel was back, the tree would allow it no stay.
It flew past a dusty sky, full of fume and reeking odours. The air almost blinded its eyes.
“I am back, dear old tree, for I love you very much. Do allow me to stay for one more night, for both of us are dying soon.”
“How do you say so?” asked the tree.
“A yellow man in the west, with a yellow thing, is clearing the forest to make a city. It is felling all trees on the way, and soon, he will reach here.
“Oh terrible!” said the tree, and shed thick drops of tears. Then it said, “Stay for a day, little bird, and when the day breaks, sing me a song for my kinsmen that are killed far away in the west.”
“I will,” said the nightingale and kissed the old tree on the apex of its main branch. Then it came to the hole. Thank God, the squirrel was still out.
“I think, flood in the north has killed the squirrel,” said the nightingale to the tree.
“Do not say so, dear bird,” said the tree. “He has stayed with me too long, and I love him more than any of my fallen leaves. I will be dead too if he dies.”
“Live long, old tree,” said the nightingale, feeling sour at heart.
“Good night,” said the tree and started whispering to the slow breeze that had come at dusk to fan the few leaves that still lingered on the twigs.
At dawn, the nightingale sang the most melodious of songs it knew, lamenting the death of the trees far away in the west. The old tree heard the song and woke up. It was the saddest song it had ever heard.
“I take leave of you,” said the nightingale. “Stay well, and do not forget me.”
“Sure. I hope the squirrel is coming home tonight. It has been long since the squirrel left. Ungrateful creature; it takes no name of coming home early. I feel so lonely without him.”
“He must be dead in the northern flood, dear tree,” said the nightingale.
“For God’s sake, do not say so. For, if he dies, I shall lie dead too, broken in the heart.”
“I don’t wish so,” said the nightingale in a pathetic voice. “But if you die, I shall pray for you. Here I go, dear old tree!”
The nightingale made a quick flight and darted eastward. East, it had heard, had the best of the blackberries that grew on the banks of those long rivers that had been flowing ever since the world was created.
Far away, in the east, it saw the sky full of birds—bigger than the ones it could imagine—crossing the sky from one side to another, making terrible noises. It sat on a little willow with yellow, rusted leaves and watched the birds dart and play. Oh, what a terrible game it was! Sometimes the two collided, and both fell dead, torn to pieces, into the sea.
After a long wait, the nightingale saw something it could hardly understand. A black bird, fastest of the ones it had seen so far, laid an egg while still in the air. The egg fell down with a tremendous speed, and burst with the loudest of the noise it had ever heard. Soon smoke engulfed the entire land of the east and flames ran everywhere.
Unable to bear the spectacle, it darted away. Oh, the fume had smothered its little throat to death.
On the way, terrible vertigo besieged its head. It could not locate the direction of the kind and old tree. As night came darting, it slipped under a gutter that reeked of filth so terribly. Under it ran sewage, carrying all the dirty things of the world, and at times, its little feet touched the wet, smudgy thing. Above the gutter ran feet, all through the night, making strange but periodic trots. It could not sleep for fear of falling into the waste.
When the night waned and the sun rose, it flew out and sat on a tree. It wanted to sing a song to the beautiful sun, but a hoarse sound escaped its strained throat. For the first time in life, it felt that it could sing no more.
But its head was clearer. It looked far and wide, till it could locate the flags of the monastery on the hill. ‘The old tree is to the west of the monastery,’ it thought, and was soon on the branch of the benevolent tree.
It sat on the branch for a long, long time without a word. It had so many things to tell to the tree, but no word would occur to its beak. It just sat on the branch outside the hole, brooding. Its head hung low, and the eyes looked on the earth underneath.
“Ah!” shouted the nightingale all of a sudden. Its voice was no match to the songs it sang in the past.
“Are you back? Good. I missed you last night.”
“You will be dead now, dear tree, and with you I will be dead.”
“How do you say so?”
For quite a long time, the nightingale sat brooding, its eyes blinded by fresh tears. They rolled down and fell like thick raindrops.
“Your squirrel lies dead down there. Look down there, at the foot of the red-berry shrub. There it lies, stiff and dead.”
“No!” shouted the tree, but the few leaves it had on the top had, with the little holes on their surface, seen the squirrel lying dead.
“It has gone,” said the nightingale, and offered: “Let me fly down and see how it died.”
Down flew the nightingale and keenly observed the dead body of the squirrel, even as tears kept dropping from the tree upon its wings. Yes, someone had shot it with a catapult, and the bullet had hit its little head right in the middle. Some blood clotted outside the hole on the head.”
“I will die now,” said the tree, sad and forlorn.
“I will die too,” said the nightingale.
Then the nightingale flew up and sat on the main branch of the tree.
“Alas, alas! All’s gone now. Let me sing you the swan song—the last song of my life,” said the nightingale, and started singing of the saddest things. It sang of the fire in the south, flood in the north, the big yellow thing in the west, and the egg of fire in the east. Both shed tears until the little dead squirrel under the tree was fully drenched.”
“Adieu, adieu, dear old tree,” said the nightingale and fell from the branch. It dropped upon the dead body of the squirrel.
“It’s ebony. It gives the best wood to make seats for the theatre,” said a tall, fat man later in the afternoon, and the tree was sawed down.
—O—