When Pegasus, the pigeon, not the horse
Had flown his nest, we, of course
Did not know whether to cry
Or scream that he learned to fly
Without any push from those coarse
Cousins of his who, by and by,
Showed him images of the petulant sky
On their phones, taking our WiFi source.
And told him that life was too short
To not know how to fly. He developed a sort
Of cryptic smile towards the end
Of his days with us. He was a friend
Whose existence started as a tiny import
From his Mum who decided to spend
Her pregnancy with us and defend
Him within the battlements of a fort.
She chose the balcony of the Bhowmicks’ flat
And made a nice home of it, at that.
She moved in search of healthy trout
And poked in and out with her snout
Until Pegasus thrust from the egg that
Survived the jostling and the doubt.
We wondered why he was so stout
More than any pigeon – he was no acrobat.
Took time finding his legs – the little one,
His cousins wondered if he’d jumped the gun.
Tried to make his life harder by being there
Not doing anything than sit and stare
At his futile attempts to join in the fun
Flapping his feeble wings in the air.
One day it became all too much to bear
A leap turned to flight, and his battle was won.
Mohul Bhowmick is a national-level cricketer and passionate writer. He has published three books of poetry and one travelogue. His latest work ‘Seeking Kathmandu: Travails of a solo traveller across Nepal’ is now out.