Golden Feathers of Hope

An enormous cumulonimbus hung low in the sky, smudged here and there with varying shades of lead. Lightning streaked across the horizon followed by low rumbles of thunder, petrichor wafted up from the ground. Standing at the top of the hill, Huma zipped up her jacket to keep herself warm in the cold, biting rain. She looked around her and soaked in the view: a river gushing down the valley in torrents and its other side densely packed with a forest of huge sal trees. Yes, she thought, it was the same picnic spot of her childhood that she loved so much, how could she have forgotten all about it? She closed her eyes and let a wave of memories flood her knee-deep in reminiscences: seeking solitude under the rustling trees away from noisy picnic gatherings, bending down in the riverbed of Damodar for smooth, round pebbles, or building sand castles on the river bank. She had been getting a recurring dream of this place and she wondered if there might be a meaning behind it. She had rummaged through a long-forgotten cardboard box of photographs in her attic to recall the name of the place, finally finding it written behind a faded picture in her father’s neat cursive. Now, standing at the same place, she reasoned with herself an umpteenth time why she had decided to come here: her namesake had summoned her in dreams, a call of fate itself, and she could not ignore it anymore.

She climbed down the hillside cautiously, holding the shrubs for support and found a rock shelf wide enough to sit. It was a matter of time now, to wait for the dream to play again, this time, in reality. A loud staccato of lightning zipped through the clouds charging the atmosphere with electricity, the wind slowly picked up and turned to a wild gale. Just like her dream. Waiting in anticipation, she knew what to expect next. Goosebumps burned her arms, a shiver went down her spine as a large figure swooped down towards the horizon from behind her, filling the sky. As she looked up at the mass of golden feathers, the valley rippled with the shrill aquiline call of the bird. Huma bird, who never descends to ground and circles the sky throughout her life, smoothly glided away, parting the clouds, filling the valley with rays of her warmth, and faded off into nothingness like a dream.

Years later, as a best-selling author, Huma felt privileged for the fate that showered her with golden feathers of hope. It had strengthened her heart to chase after her dreams and aim for the limitless sky. After all, hope is the thing that Huma bird represents, and Hope and courage are the things she needed when she had dreamt of this bird so many times, so many year ago. As reflected in this beautiful piece of poetry – this is what Huma is for those who luckily see her some day: “Main kahan rukta hoon arsh-o-farsh ki awaaz se, mujhe jana hai bahut uncha, hadd-e-parwaaz se” (I do not stop to the call of land and sky, I want to go far above, beyond the limit of flight).