A Bird That Stopped Singing

 

[Before you dive into this piece or while reading, I suggest listening to this song at least once, if you haven't heard it before. It sets the mood better than any introduction I could write. Youtube. Spotify.]

In Bangla, you can call someone you love Moyna(Myna) Pakhi, whether it is your partner or your child. I do not know the history behind the phrase or how it came into being, but when someone says “Amar Moyna Pakhi”, it simply sounds beautiful and full of love.

When I was a child, we had a moyna bird at our house. I do not remember it myself, but my mother told me stories about it. The bird could talk. It used to call my grandmother “Maa.” Hearing everyone else call her that, my father, my uncles, it learned the word and began calling her Maa as well. It learned the names of some other family members too, but throughout the day it would mostly chant, “Maa, Maa.”

Once, a hawker came to our house to sell saares. He noticed the moyna sitting in its cage beside my grandmother, constantly calling her, “Maa, Maa.” The man was so fascinated that he offered every saree he had in exchange for the bird. My grandfather looked at him and said, "It calls me Maa/Mother. There is nothing in this world that can buy that." I heard this story from my grandmother herself.

But, like so many things in life, not everything is permanent. 

One day, the bird flew away from its cage. It had done that before and always returned on its own. But that day, it never came back.

Like the Punjabi folk song says:

“Ve mahiya mera ji karda,
Ghar chhad ke malang ho janwaa.”

It simply flew away.

After all, you cannot cage a bird forever. Can you?

For many years afterwards, the cage remained exactly where it was, silent, empty, quietly reminding everyone that once there had been a life inside it. My grandmother could never throw it away. Perhaps it was the only thing she had left of that bird.

In the film Manpura, when Shonai finally sets his moyna bird free, the song “Amar Shonar Moyna Pakhi” begins to play:

“Amar shonar moyna pakhi,
Kon deshete gela uira re,
Diya more faki,
Amar shonar moyna pakhi.”

"Oh my beloved bird,
To which land have you flown away,
Leaving me behind,
Oh my beloved bird."

I imagine my grandmother felt exactly the same after her moyna bird disappeared.

Perhaps we all feel that way when someone we love leaves our lives.

Or perhaps we are the bird ourselves, the one with an immense longing to leave everything behind and fly toward the life we desire. Maybe it is our loved ones who are left with the sadness of letting us go.

This song holds something special for me too. But for a different reason.

The most beautiful version I have ever heard was not from Arnob or any other singer;  it was from our security guard at our home in Shudangdha. Coincidentally, his name was Pakhi, which literally means "bird" in Bangla.

We have lived in this apartment for almost twenty years. He watched me grow up from a little child into the person I am today. And in a way, I watched him grow old as well. I saw him spend a significant part of his life sitting in the same spot in front of our building.

Amar Shonar Moyna Pakhi was his favourite song.

Every night he used to sing it. Especially on winter nights, his voice rising loud and high in the cold air, carrying that god-gifted tone, echoing through the buildings around us. What it did to me is very difficult to explain. There was something in his voice, some unspoken pain, that made it all the more heart-wrenching. 

He is singing:

“Amar shonar moyna pakhi,
Kon deshete gela uira re,
Diya more faki,
Amar shonar moyna pakhi.”

And for a moment, the entire neighbourhood seemed to fall silent. 

As I said earlier, he watched me grow up in front of him. So when I left home to study in Delhi, he was happy for me. He was also happy that I had gotten into a good college. But when I went to say goodbye before leaving, I sensed the sadness in him. I knew he would miss me, just like everyone who knew me in this building from childhood.

Whenever I returned home from Delhi, he would greet me with a wide smile and ask in his Chittagonian dialect:

"Aisshus na? Hoidin tahibi?"

"You've come? For how many days?"

Whenever I returned, I tried to bring him something. But last to last year, in 2024, I forgot. My father handed me some money and said, “Give this to Pakhi. Tell him to eat something good. His health has not been very good.”

I went to see him. He was sitting in his favourite spot, enjoying the winter sun. Seeing me, he smiled and asked the same question as always:

"Aisshus na?"

I smiled, gave him the money, and told him to buy something for himself.

Who knew that would be the last time I would ever see him?

The very next day, his health deteriorated rapidly. He had to be hospitalised. He was suffering from severe problems with his lungs and liver. Within a day, the news came,

Pakhi was no more.

Within forty-eight hours, a man I had seen smiling and talking was suddenly gone. The uncertainty of life is sometimes so quietly devastating.

When his body was brought back, the ambulance stopped right beside his favourite sitting spot.

I was there.

He lay inside the ambulance, silent. 

His family was there, his wife, his son, his daughter. Of course, we knew he had a family. But when you see someone sitting alone in the same place every day for more than twenty years, you somehow forget that there is an entire life waiting for them elsewhere.

As I stood there looking at him, the first thought that came to my mind was, I will never hear him sing this song again.

There will be no one sitting here, singing Amar Shonar Moyna Pakhi anymore….

Like the lyrics say:

“Amar shonar moyna pakhi,
Kon deshete gela uira re,
Diya more faki,
Amar shonar moyna pakhi.”

[Oh my beloved bird,
To which land have you flown away,
Leaving me behind,
Oh my beloved bird]

Our Pakhi also flew away.

To somewhere we do not know. I hope he is singing there too, with that beautiful voice of his.

The spot where he used to sit remains empty. Every time I walk past it, I remember him..Just like the cage in our house that once held a moyna bird. Now I finally understand why my grandmother could never throw that cage away.

There is a famous song by Lalon:

“Khachar Bhitor Ochin Pakhi Kemne Ashe Jai.”

"How does the unknown bird come and go within the cage?"

In the song, the cage represents the human body, and the unknown bird represents the soul. Lalon wondered how the soul enters this cage and how it leaves. We do not know. But we do know one thing:

One day, we too must leave the cage and fly away…