Violet

Nasrin Shahana ।।

I call my red-colored hen Violet. The first time I saw her that’s what she was, more violet than her four red siblings. I was not sure if she really looked pink or if the mixed red-orange sunset was giving me an illusion. My playmates and siblings laugh at me because I carry Violet everywhere. Every night before she sleeps, she cuddles on my lap, snuggles into my throw-rug, makes a contended sound, a feeling of just right. Now, in an auto rikshaw, I hold Violet close to my chest and she clams down. Violet is sick, or our mother thinks so.  As I open the door of the coop every morning, I see all of our chickens rush out of the door and I count one, two up until eight and make sure no one is missing as per our mother’s instruction. Then I hear, we hear the sounds of flapping wings. A chorus of hen-sounds mingles with the whistle of the trains that past the rice field. But Violet, I have noticed, is not in hurry to join the chorus. She makes her move more slowly. She does not join the family for the breakfast as I spray grains on their front yard, not even touches the water I keep by their coop.

My little sister and I take Violet to the city animal hospital. I can feel her wrinkled feet inside my fist as I hold her two feet tightly together. I hear her scream, we hear her scream, I feel the scratches she is making on my palm, and I feel the bewilderment in her. I still hold her strong.  My sister is never a fan coming to this hospital because there is always a long line waiting to see the vet. Instead she wants to stay home, play with her wooden dolls or run past the rice field to see the trains. She dreams that one day she will get on that train, leave this place behind to make a life in the city. She and I have only seen a city through two view-cards which we’ve bought from a local village store with our yearlong savings. The high-rise buildings, the paved roads, the bright lights, the fair ladies with the fancy sunglasses allure my sister a little more than me.

Now we are just two persons away to reach the doctor. Time seems endless as I wait on the line.  The sun is so strong above our heads, so magnificent that we cannot even look up. The angry sun melts as sweat under my blue kameej. I pull my scarf above my head, taking Violet under my wings. She become quieter as I rub my hand over her cheeks, her stomach. I feel her raspy breathing under my palm. I hear a single distressed peep, and I feel tears rolling down her cheeks. I hold her closer and almost whisper to her ear, “Hang in there, Violet, we are going to make it”.  Right then a crowd of men from out of nowhere storms the line. Before we can shout, before we even open our mouths, they snatch Violet from me. My sister runs after them, and I stand still, listening to Violet’s harsh high-pitched cry, muffled further away, then stopped as suddenly as those crowd of men had arrived.

My sister’s asthma is early this year.  When it comes, it is always bad. The smells of fresh grain give her bad attacks each year, during the month of Hemanta, the season of harvest. At first her on-and-off coughing doesn’t bother me or our mother for couple of days, then a very mild fever, then this morning, when she misses school. I didn’t give her as much thought as I should, preoccupied by violets death, or do I call it a murder. Those men were the veriest imposters, with sharp knives in their hand, adept with butcher like experiences. They knew how to cut just through the skin instead of cutting through the feather quill, so that their knife doesn’t get dull quicker.  A dying chicken is mandate for having a good feast rather than letting it die alone.  Anyone in this town would agree, but not me, and not my sister. From a distance, I heard my little sister’s angry voice, ‘Why, why, why did you kill my sister’s Violet?  For me no answers were needed. I started to walk back home. My sister followed me, crying the entire way.

I skip school, so our mother can go to work. I warm up some honey with freshly chopped ginger the way our mother does. It usually works, but this time it doesn’t. As the sun goes down, my sister’s fever rises up. The time drags long as her breathing goes faster; her temperature rises like a flaming pot. The village doctor, an honest man, tells us that this infection came from the hens, from Violet. His look is vacant, implying there is nothing more to be done here. They do not even have an oxygen tank. The nearest hospital is 50 miles from here. I feel the intense cry inside me, and I know where it is coming from. At this hour, it is ghastly dark in our village; there is no bus, no train, not even a single people around to ask for help.  I am crying in despair; I am crying out loud holding my sister close to my chest. She becomes quiet. I rub my hand over her cheeks, over her chest. I feel her raspy breathing under my palm. I hear a single distress breath, and I feel tears rolling down her cheeks. I hold her closer and whisper to her ear, “Hang in there, sisi, we are going to make it”.  Right then a crowd of men from out of nowhere surrounds us. I hold her closer to my chest, as I am taking her under my wings, asking how she is feeling.  ‘Are they going to take me like Violet?” she says calmly, though I can see her growing pale.