The Last Call

They say grief is a room without doors, but Christmas, with its tinsel and clichés, often finds a way in. And so it did that gloomy December morning. Saddened by witnessing a man run over an injured bird, I resolved to dedicate my life to the study of birds. That decision led me to the university library, straight to the ornithology section.

I didn’t expect to find anyone there, yet there you were—a girl with pretty eyes behind glasses, wonderful earrings, and a parrot-like nose adorned with a beautiful nose pin. What was this enchanting girl doing in the ornithology section? Over time, I discovered you had a deep interest in birds too.

As clichéd as it sounds, I found myself glancing at you from the corner of my eye, captivated by the way you tugged your hair behind your ears, exposing your dimples. Those earrings, glasses, and that nose pin—it was then I fell for you. I even wished I were born as a nose ring to live on your nose forever. 

I might have seemed like a creep hovering around the ornithology section where you read alone. But fate had other plans—we ended up catching the same bus home. My heart pounded like galloping horses as I tried to make eye contact. When you pointed to the seat next to you, I realised you felt something for me too.

What followed were days of meeting in the library—talking, discussing birds and their sounds, listening to recorded tapes of bird calls. It became a ritual for me to head to the library after classes every day. Seeing your nose pin shine across the light in the ornithology section made my day.

For the next 40 years, we found ourselves and each other through our shared love for birds. Early morning walks to spot birds turned into scooter rides and later car drives to lakes and distant places. We bought our first camera together and then new ones to capture birds and their sounds. We grew together, fell in love with each other and with birds—the birds loved us back.

Strange as it may sound—some might call it a cliché—we became lovebirds in our quest for understanding avian life. Over the past few years, it became our ritual to wake up every Sunday morning and drive far with our cameras and recording devices.

Every morning at four, I wake up first, make coffee for you and call your name—Ragini—to wake you up. It’s like a male bird calling his mate for an expedition; our version of nature's call between two lovebirds.

In our journey of studying, understanding, rescuing, and documenting birds, it seems we have begun to mirror their lives. We sing, we call out to each other with melodies, we soar towards one another after days apart, and we have crafted our own beautiful nest amidst the trees and woods.

Just last week, I delved into the tragic tale of the Kaua'i 'O'o bird's extinction in Hawaii. My curiosity led me to documentaries about this elusive creature. I discovered that the last known female Kaua'i 'O'o bird was sighted in 1982—the year we met. The last male was seen in 1987—the year we married. Between those years, the male bird sang his heart out, calling for his mate in a beautiful tone, only to realise she would never return. By 1987, he too had vanished.

My heart grew heavy and my eyes welled with tears as I read this. For the past six months, I have woken every morning, calling out your name, only to realise you will never come back.