THE sun’s golden rays streamed through the open window, kissing softly the baby’s face as she laid in her crib sleeping. She opened her eyes, stretched her little body and laughed a sweet little laugh as her chubby hands tried to catch the sun’s beams.

“Priya.” It was her father’s voice calling her name; the voice she heard every morning and in the evenings: Deep but gentle; a loving voice her senses held on to.
She cooed in answer, kicking her arms and legs, and he picked her up gently in his arms, handling her with great care as he gave her a bath and her feed, singing for her a special little song her mother had written for her. Then he would be gone for the day to work; as he would say to her as he kissed her goodbye, “So I could earn money to take care of my little girl.”
The nanny came to stay for the day, and Priya’s eyes followed her father to the door, her little arm stretched out, wanting him to come back, but she did not cry, knowing her mother would soon be there. Arvin took one last look at his baby daughter as he left for work, his heart still heavy with grief as it was just four months ago that tragedy took away his happiness.
He looked at the garden, almost expecting to see his wife there, picking flowers for her morning prayers, and her beautiful smile that always began his day. But it was just his imagination, for she was gone, now in Heaven’s garden, and he was left all alone with their newborn baby, a bundle of joy they were supposed to share, to love, to watch grow.
A bitter lump formed in his throat, and as he walked out the yard, he did not see the white songbird on the Pandora Tree watching him go. The bird flew into the house through the bay window and perched on the baby’s crib, watching her playing with her toes. The baby laughed, reaching her little arms to the bird, for she saw, standing there, her beautiful mother, and heard her sweet soft voice as she sang the same song. Her eyes closed in blissful sleep, and as she slept, the songbird flew down into the crib and nestled closely to her, until she awoke for her feed, her change, and her playtime.
So it was every day since she had been brought home from the hospital; not nestled in her mother’s bosom; no gentle voice and mother’s care; just a father’s grief, and his broken, sad voice, for losing his wife so soon was too much for him to bear.
The bird was seen by no one but the elderly nanny, and, wise woman that she was, she said nothing to anyone, for she knew the power of a mother’s true love; and the songbird’s presence in the baby’s life was truly a miracle. It came every morning after the father left for work, and stayed until he came home in the afternoon; then it would fly back into the garden, where the sweet sound of its singing would be heard as father and baby slept in the night.
No one thought he could take such great care of the baby the way he did, knowing how shattered his life was when his wife died, just two years after they were married. But his deep love for her somehow kept her close still, his heart refusing to let go; and it gave him the will to stay strong, for, through his daughter, he would see her; she will always be a part of his life.
That night he lost her was a night he would never forget. It was a dark night when the labour pains had begun, and the chill of rain was in the air. He had driven her to the hospital, nervous and scared, and as he had sat outside the ward, fear in his heart, listening to her screams of pain, the rains came with thunder and lightning.
He had called to a nurse to let him in to be by his wife’s side, but was rudely told he could not come in. An hour later, he had called again, for she was still in pain, and a harsh voice had said, “She’s not ready yet.”
He’d tried desperately to reach the doctor, but could not, and another two hours later, a nurse with a somber expression had called him in, and as he held his wife’s cold hand and looked at her pale face, he had cried. She had whispered, weakly, “I’m sorry, please take care of our baby.”
The skies had opened angrily, and the lightning flashed as her eyes closed. Looking back, he felt that night was an ominous sign, and in that ward were dark angels.
The years went by, and the baby grew into a pretty and sweet young girl, cheerful and full of life. Her father’s grief slowly ebbed away, happiness coming back into his life as she grew, the picture of her mother: Her voice, her smile, her love for reading and singing. For the songbird, the mother unseen, was always there in her life, guiding her, teaching her with her songs.
Priya wrote for her poems, and on her sixteenth birthday, she read a poem she had written of the songbird; and that day, everyone saw what miracles love can wrought as she stretched out her hand and said, “Come to me, mother, so everyone can see you.”
The songbird flew in from the garden and perched on her hand; and Arvind looked at the nanny who nodded her head, tears in her eyes. He couldn’t believe it! Tears welled in his eyes. How often he had heard the bird’s singing, but he knew not she had stayed to help him with the baby. It flew on his shoulder and pecked him on the cheek; then it flew away into the sky, for she had done all she could, and he would be able now to let her go, for their daughter had grown into a sweet, charming and smart young woman, blessed with their love.