HOPE AT MY DOORSTEP: LIFE'S SIMPLE PLEASURES

-Dr.Keren Vinita, Assistant Professor, Department of English

Late in the evening, I opened the front door of my house and something flitted by from the climber at the threshold. We have a modest garden with different fruit trees and a sugarcane field that is just a stone’s throw from where we live.

As such, it is not uncommon to sight a wide variety of our non-human companions: mostly birds from peacocks to crow pheasants (not my favourite) to tiny wagtails and hummingbirds following the daily rhythm— singing, foraging, bathing (particularly for the babblers, a time to exchange gossip as they dry out their wings) and occasionally engaging in lively skirmishes. Their day is done. Watching them always reminds me of how life is often simple.

Recently, I saw a little fellow (we named him Ashy) flitting away into the dark from the branch over the door every time I opened it. At first, I thought it was the fruit bat that randomly roams every night but it wasn’t him. Being curious, we finally discovered it was a common tailorbird baby, no bigger than our thumb. I wonder where he spends the chaotic mornings, so small that he is, navigating the complexities of the world with remarkable courage. It was pelting down for a few days and we were anxious for his safety when we didn’t find him at his usual spot; those heavy drops could have drowned him. Yet Ashy turned up bigger and braver having faced it all. I wonder about his family and how he finds his way back.

I’m simply amazed at this one little soul with feathers, who braves each day and lights up our world with his presence, our self-invited guest, finding his home at our home. This poem I was teaching for the general English class reminded me of Ashy. Did he who made the tiger and the lamb, made thee? Ashy is, to me, the metaphor for Hope, like in this poem by Dickinson-

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.

*Picture in Header: The leaves of a money plant (Picture credit: Dr. Keren Vinita)