The Slingshot and the Sparrow I

 t was 1952,

an afternoon heavy with sun.
We children played in the garden
when two, maybe three tribal youths
slipped through the gate.

Before we understood,
their slingshots sang—
a stone struck,
and a crow dropped
like a shadow cut from the sky.

Into a half-filled sack it went,
and they were gone.
All in the blink of an eye.

From that day
we made countless slingshots,
aimed at fruits,
at birds—
never once meeting success.
Perhaps our arms were too small,
our strength still folded in childhood.

The fever for slingshots returned
in summer holidays—
boys gathering in mango orchards,
flinging stones until enough
green fruit thudded to the ground
to drive away disappointment.

I longed for a fine slingshot of my own.
Friends told me:
Find a guava branch shaped like a Y.
After much searching, I found it,
cut it, carved it,
bent it into promise.

A punctured bicycle tube
from the repair shop,
two ten-inch strips.
From the cobbler’s shop—
a leather strip,
three inches wide,
holes punched on each side.

The whole afternoon slipped away,
but the knots failed,
the leather slipped.
In defeat, I asked the peon—
his hands quick and sure,
he made it strong.

The next day,
armed for battle,
I joined the hunt.
Friends scored hits,
but my stones
found only air.

I returned home,
lay on the woven cot in the courtyard,
surrender heavy in my chest.
A flock of sparrows landed,
pecking at scattered grain.

Still lying down,
I fired.
The stone struck a leg.

The sparrow spun in pain,
crying its small cry.
Guilt poured through me
like cold water.

I went to her,
lifted her gently,
smoothed her feathers,
set a lamp dish of water before her,
rubbed a little iodine on her leg.

My younger sister arrived,
dabbed a pink mark
on her forehead.

After hours,
she lifted herself,
and flew—
sometimes returning to the parapet,
pink-marked,
easy to spot,
strangely dear.

Now, in the long patience
God gives the old,
I scatter grain,
change the water mornings and evenings,
and she comes back in memory.

When the news came
that Chinese troops had felled
unarmed Indians
with stones and slings—
that pink-marked sparrow
returned sharper,
more aching.

In Jharkhand,
slingshot masters still send
stones through water,
hitting fish
despite reflection, refraction,
and the tricks of light.

Now their weapons are high-tech,
poisoned sap
coating sharp stones,
deadlier than before.

And I,
who once marked a sparrow pink,
still think of the moment
a small cry
broke a boy’s hunger
for the perfect shot
Now,
I scatter grain,
change water for birds.
Each time,
the pink-marked sparrow
lands in my mind.

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