Yemberzal

By Leya Mathew

The pigeons have found the ideal Suicide Point – an old disused net that hangs out of the 3rd floor window balcony of the house that was abandoned 17 years ago. The new spot is ideal and fool proof. Everyday they come, sometimes as many as four in a single day, to hang themselves by the neck until dead. Sometimes they try to escape, when they feel the breath of life being strangled, but their strenuous efforts only tighten the noose faster.

The winter is long and hard in the mountains. Many of the younger pigeons have known nothing other than bitter adversity. They were born into the wrong generations, one without hope; or even a memory of hope. The torment of life saps the strength of Youth and many are looking to Death for deliverance.

Yemberzel was fat, even for a pregnant pigeon. She had never been pink cheeked and pretty, she was the sturdy hardy domestic type. She felt the eggs inside her and continued her search for a nesting site. Times had changed. It was going to be difficult bringing up children as a single parent in these difficult times. There were many things to consider, but the eggs were not going to wait till she sorted her life out. In fact, she was cramping already. Was it happening? So soon?

At the window below Suicide Point Yemberzel found two half empty clay flowerpots. The contractions had begun in earnest and Yemberzel plopped down heaving wearily. The mud was hard and caked from the cold, but the soft down feathers warmed them up in no time. What with global warming and everything, the climate had also lost its sense of time. It should have been spring already, but it was as dark and howling cold as the middle of winter. Shuddering from the exertions and the cold, Yemberzel neatly arranged her feathers around her and snuggled deep into them for warmth.

Everything had gone wrong from the beginning. She had fallen in love with the wrong man and had been too proud to admit it. It was pride that kept her from going back to her parents even in such a state where she clearly needed some womanly advice. Now, here she was, in a half empty flowerpot for a nest, having her first babies, in the middle of the freezing winter. Two tiny eggs eased out and nestled inside the soft gray forest. Yemberzel looked down in surprise and a stupid grin plastered her face. She felt a warm wave of satisfaction creep over her and something like happiness envelop her. Tired, she snoozed.

On the bare winter branches, Yasin clucked angrily. What was this fat pigeon doing beneath Suicide Point? They don’t even let you die in peace. He swooped down to cackle Yemberzel away. Only when he was directly above her did he see the tiny eggs. Swerving in his flight, he shifted gears and landed gracefully back on the dead branch. There was nothing to do except wait. He couldn’t go hanging himself above babies, could he? He hung around and noticed the other Suiciders hovering around undecided like him.

It became a habit for the suiciders to check in on Yemberzel every now and then as they went about their daily business. Yemberzel was fidgety and quite crazy by nature. But now, she sat as still as the winter, gazing out into the snow with a glazed smile on her face. One still afternoon, Yasin was pleasantly surprised to see an ugly yellow bundle peeping out from under Yemberzel’s fat ass. Yasin puckered his tired forehead and on a sudden bent of curiosity flew over Yemberzel to investigate. As he flew around trying to get a better look at what he hoped would be a beautiful baby, Yemberzel stared back fixedly, rotating her neck in all directions like a broken wheel. Yasin found this most disgusting and went back to perch on his dead branch.

From his top angle view Yasin could see one perfect half of the discarded eggshell. Yemberzel shifted her fat bum around and Yasin saw the baby. An ugly mangy bundle with large scales covering the eyes. What a monster. Nothing like what he had expected. He had hoped for a nice wooly soft bundle of clucking joy, not this repulsive creature.

Sajjad and Umar joined Yasin on the branch. The Suiciders knew each other by name now. They still kept to themselves, after all they were intensely private brooding individuals forced together by an unforeseen quirky twist of fate. They hardly talked to each other but contended with watching Yemberzel and the yellow patch under her. Yemberzel was busy gurgling up food into her throat. The baby stuffed her beak deep into her mother’s gullet to receive her food. Mother and child writhed in grotesque orgasmic convulsions and the Suiciders looked away. The baby flapped a wing and lay down to rest. Yemberzel continued to stare at the Suiciders with that unflinching stare of hers, still and plastic.

The second baby soon arrived and within a day, they were clucking their beaks at each other, eyes still sealed shut under the dirty gray membrane.

It was strange to see the Suiciders together. They were acutely aware of how gross it must look. That fateful day, as always, it was Yasin who arrived first. He liked his hours of solitude on the branch. He sat himself down, resting his old tortured legs. He had grown old while still young. There had been a time of anger and hope. Now there was only bitterness and he had wanted to end it all. He couldn’t deal with Life anymore. He wanted to die. Yasin heaved a deep sigh. It had seemed simple. The Suicide Point had become a beacon of escape for many like him. He had thought long and hard before deciding on this course of action. He would never have given the others credit for such a brave effort. He thought them opportunists who had used every heartbreak to enrich their coffers. But, here they were. Did they also see the deep darkness, feel the numb pain of despair Life had become. Death would be such a welcome relief. But Yemberzel had changed all that. Fat, ungainly Yemberzel.

Yemberzel. That name sounded faintly familiar. An old memory of a small white flower flooded Yasin’s mind. A memory of flowers and gardens and valleys and meadows flashed past his despair. Was he dying? Was this paradise? The wind howled and Yasin shivered. No such luck. But he did remember what Yemberzel was. She was the first flower that bloomed at the death of winter, announcing in the white wintery cold that Spring was coming. She was the flower of Faith and Hope while the snow still fell thick and fast around and froze the blood. Yemberzel. Why did she do that? Why didn’t she let them sleep the peace of Death? And what would he do when Yembrezel and her babies flew away? Would he still continue his path of suicide? Yasin grew tired of the incessant questions wandering around his small brain and of staring at the dirty yellow balls sticking out from under Yemberzel’s still fat ass and he flew away to attend to his daily business.
It was a long day. The daily grind was tough. When he returned to the dead branch in the evening, he was not prepared for what had happened. The flowerpot nest was empty. Even the eggshells had disappeared. Except for the earth spotted with grey green shit, it was hard to imagine Yemberzel had ever been here. What had happened? The Suiciders looked at each other. Yasin volunteered “I had checked in on them in the morning, they were fine.” “Then you’re the last person to have seen them” Umar replied. They listed their questions like a TV journalist listing the options in a popular murder scandal. Did a kite eat them? No kite would eat both chicks together and the discarded eggs as well. And where was Yemberzel? It was her disappearance that puzzled them most of all. If she could be found moping around then the story would fall in place, but she had vanished into thin air. “When do pigeon babies start flying?” Umar wanted to know. Old Geelani shook his head, “No, its too early for them to have flown away.”

Over the next few days, the Suiciders searched high and low for any news of Yemberzel. Nobody had heard anything of her in a long time. They said she had migrated long ago, that she could no longer be found in these parts. The Suiciders were left wondering whether they had had a communal hallucination. Had there really been a Yemberzel? In some corner of the dark winter of their hearts, they wanted to believe.

The River was rushing furiously. The current was churning whirlpools. Yasin shifted from leg to leg as he sat on the banks scanning the onrush. It would be suicidal to jump in. The chances were very low. But what if the babies had fallen in? What if they came flowing down with the current. He knew he would jump. Would he die? Suddenly he was terrified. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want the pigeons to die. He scanned the horizon anxiously. Yasin turned and tossed in his sleep as many agonizing hours passed by. Only debris whirled past. Yasin woke up with a heavy heart. The snow had ceased to fall. The sun was making a hesitant appearance. The dark heavy secrets of Yemberzel weighed him down, but he knew Spring would come to gladden his heart. He had returned to life, Suicide was not for him anymore.