Latent Hum
ਮਿੱਠੀ ਗੂੰਜ
January’s cold was in full swing, a typical Bay Area winter day. I was engrossed in conversation with fellow congregation members outside the arches of our bustling Fremont gurdwara. My bare feet reeled from the concrete floor’s unforgiving chill, but I kept myself warm by clenching a steaming steel cup of sugary chai. There was commotion in the alleys as kids headed to the playground; they had just finished their keertan classes. My 12-year-old son, Puran, gave me his musical instrument and quickly escaped with his friends.
Relieved of my parenting duties and enjoying my banter time, I felt a sudden tap on my back, then a series of slaps that spilled hot chai on my hands. Irritated by the interruption, I turned to see Puran.
At first, I thought he was horsing around, carrying his antics from the playground, but before I could say anything, he spewed so many words that all I could hear was “Bapu jee, dad!” My impatience grew as I broke off my conversation to try to understand him. Puran spoke again, still flustered: “Hurry! Hurry! Bapu Jee! Bapu Jee! Bapu Jee! There’s a hummingbird on the floor—we need you!” His panic snapped my cold inertia.
Urgently, I followed him to a circle of kids and scanned the wet concrete. It took me a moment to see the shimmering warrior’s tucked wings. She lay her belly on the floor, beak barely extending over the surface. Heart thumping erratically, I slowly inched closer, hoping she would startle from her stupor and take to the air as I approached. Puran and his friends whispered to each other, “It’s a hummingbird. Is she alive?”
I knelt on the rough, cold floor, shivering as I sought signs of life. Intuitively, I picked her up and held her in my warm palms: a fluffy gem, peaceful in her grace. I felt no trace of a heartbeat, nor did I feel awkward stiffness. She was on the cusp. Her colorful armor, long beak, and sly limberness were not eerie but rather a glimpse into the remarkable masterpiece of creation.
I asked the kids to fetch a cardboard box and a paper plate, but they hesitated, wanting to touch the rainbow feathers. I reacted sharply: “Touching her wings would soil her armor and make her unable to fly.” Their faces dropped as they murmured, "Why are you holding her, then?" I reiterated my request for help. “It will make her unable to fly if we all touch her.”
When the children returned with supplies, I placed her on a paper plate platform inside a padded cardboard box, her elongated beak pointing upward. Bhavnoor, Puran’s Keertan music classmate, was perplexed. Her eyes were glued to the feathered warrior. “I have an idea!” Bhavnoor exclaimed. “She needs nectar!” She jumped up, ran to the tea area in the dining hall, and returned quickly, her little hands holding a steel saucer with a metal spoon. She stirred sugar and water until the powder dissolved.
Our circle of anxious disorder grew as more children crowded to watch. With many kids humming their anticipation, a soft meditative chant erupted: "Waheguru, Waheguru. Please.” The hummingbird lay flat on the plate, completely still—a kid slumbering in bed too late on a Sunday morning!
We moved the box from the shadows of cold concrete to the garden area with stronger sunlight. Palm trees and colorful flowers lined the garden, and we hoped to make the hummingbird feel at home. We took turns dipping a paper napkin into the hurried, simple syrup and squeezing a few drops onto her beak, hoping the lure of sugar would wake her up, but signs of life eluded us.
I handed the responsibility of nectar to Bhavnoor and Puran before stepping away and pulling out my phone. I searched for open bird rescue centers and made some calls. The only one open Sunday was in Delaware, a country away from the Bay Area. With sinking shoulders, I returned to where the kids earnestly tried to revive her.
Bhavnoor gave me a fresh paper napkin. I dipped the folded edges in the syrup and delicately squeezed a series of shining sugary pearls onto the hummingbird’s long beak. My heartbeats slowed; Waheguru hum buzzed in my ear, huddled in a tight circle, all eyes on her. Then her sword-like tongue burst out, latching onto a few drops of nectar.
She flew up to a palm tree in a flash, and we froze in amazement. Momentarily resting on a frond, she gave us a final glance before racing away in her acrobatic style. The kids beamed with pride and quickly vanished to their next act. I picked up the box and held it close to my chest, the hummingbird's grace radiating in abundance, and the nectar sweet in my palms.
P.S.: I have promised the kids that we will create a picture book about what transpired.