The Birdman of My Childhood: A Tribute to Hassan

By ZGM

He is gone. My other half, my younger brother Hassan, vanished like a white dandelion carried away without a whisper of breeze. He left so suddenly that he forgot even to leave a parting note—no recollections of our shared childhood, no word of forgiveness for the terracotta toys I broke, the kites I tore, the paper boats I drowned, or the candyfloss I snatched from his hand.

When he was four, he swallowed a copper paisa with a hole in its middle and George IV’s crown embossed upon it. Tears rolled down my cheeks like monsoon rain. My grandmother and I rushed to the Astana of Naqshband Sahib, where I raised my small hands in supplication for his safe return. His recovery deepened my faith in the shrine. From then on, whether for examinations or results, I seldom went there without him. Yet now, even if I were to bow in obeisance for days and nights, weeks and months, he would not rise again until the day of resurrection.

It will take me time to accept that he is no longer here to share our mischievous memories—like the day we asked our grandmother’s brother to touch the live wire of a broken bell push and laughed until her stern gaze silenced us. Still, as an anonymous poet once wrote: “Brothers can never be parted; precious memories never die.”

In the treasure chest of my recollections, Hassan will always remain—the boy who loved birds. Feeding them was his joy; they trusted him as chicks trust their mother’s wings. After his passing, a short video went viral: Hassan, smiling broadly, feeding a mynah as tenderly as one feeds a child.

That video carried me back to our boyhood passion for pigeon-keeping. The great fanciers of our locality—Abdullah Saka, Muhammad Waza, and Mama Darazi—were our heroes. We dreamed of building a loft on our rooftop, a dream that never came true. During winter vacations, we visited the bird shop in our Mohalla more than once a day, pooling our pocket money to buy a pair of white pigeons. We admired thrushes and cuckoos in their cages but never bought them, perhaps sensing that “the caged bird sings for freedom.” It always puzzled us why Dervishes kept caged birds in their abodes.

On Eid, we pooled our Eidi to buy pigeons. In those days, when two annas was good pocket money, ordinary pigeons cost between twelve annas and two rupees, while fantails cost five. We never bought the fancy breeds, but we loved watching them dance. With our savings, we bought two pairs of white pigeons. Then came the question of housing them.

Our first idea was to empty our Kitab-e-sandook, but we decided instead to build a coop. For one rupee, we bought a wooden boot-packing box from Habba Kadal. Carrying it home on our heads, we spent a full day turning it into a pigeon house. Over the years, our flock grew to a dozen.

My hobby faded after the ninth class, but Hassan’s devotion never waned. He fed birds every day until his last. They had grown so familiar with him that they perched on his head and shoulders without fear.

May his soul rest in eternal peace.