For some time I was feeling that I will miss him. Last night we saw him and his mother, one of my two off-springs, off at the air port traveling to country of their present residence.
Perhaps it was too late in the night to start missing him. Airlines know weakness of men of some clans who otherwise appear and are mostly recognized as new age Hitlers, and time the departure of flights at ungodly hours so that such autocrats can hide their feelings successfully.
On way back home in the morning, I started sharing status and forwarded a picture to those very close to me. This was the picture.
The youngest of my siblings, an individual known for his ability to give no-nonsense, matter of fact, candid advice, regarded as a competent physician, a poet at heart with tremendous command over written and spoken english, a voracious reader, reacted thus:
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I for want of better expressions shall call this “ An immigrant’s flight of identity!”.
The lyrical story of a young immigrant boy, trapped in unbelonging after his family leave their native Italy for the gloomy and forlorn hills of Wales. His hollowing loneliness spills from the account below !
The hollowness to come alive and rebreathe is a challenge which in a foreign land is pretty much insurmountable!
“ It rained and rained and rained.
Little houses huddled on the humpbacked hills.
Chimneys smoked and metal towers clanked.
The streets smelled of mutton soup and coal dust.
And no one spoke my language.
All of it told me This is not where you belong.”
Throughout the story, we see the boy’s family — his mother, his infant sister — only as a ghostly and fragmentary presence, further contouring his all-consuming sense of isolation. Dislocated and desolate, magnetized by nostalgia, he finds solace in the improbable friendship of his elderly neighbor — a retired coal miner who spends his days caring for and training racing pigeons.
Just one thing reminded me of home — of sunlight, fountains, and the vanilla smell of ice cream in my nonna’s gelateria.
It was Mr. Evans’s pigeons in their loft behind his house, cooing as if they strutted in St. Peter’s Square in Rome.
Every day, the boy visited Mr. Evans and watched his pigeons soar “above the chimneys and the towers, up to where the sky stretched all the way to Italy.” One day, Mr. Evans put a grey pigeon with a head “whiter than a splash of milk” into his young friend’s hands — a pigeon he believed was going to be a champion, one whose “eye blazed with fire.” He asked the boy to name the bird. "Re del Cielo", the boy replied in an instant — "King of the Sky".
The boy began accompanying Mr. Evans on train trips, releasing the pigeons at various stations along the line to let them race back home, taking them a little farther each time. Each time, boy and man returned to the loft, eating Mrs. Evans’s Welsh cakes as they awaited the pigeons’ steadfast return.
It never took them long. From places far away, places that they’d never been, the pigeons flew home straight and fast as arrows. But the pigeon with the milk-white head was always last.
Still Mr. Evans said he’d be a winner.
Aged and frail, Mr. Evans grew weaker by the day. By racing season, unable to leave his bed, he entrusted his young friend with putting the race rings on the birds, taking them to the train station, and logging their return on his clipboard.
The pigeons’ winnings rake in, but none for King of the Sky. Still, Mr. Evans asserts with unfaltering confidence that the white-headed bird is destined for victory — if only they can find the right race for him. “He’s got the wings for distance,” he tells the boy.
One day, the perfect race for "King of the Sky" emerged — the bird would go all the way to the boy’s native Rome by train, then race more than a thousand miles back to the humble Welsh loft.
As the race commenced and "King of the Sky" started making his way back from Italy, rain and lightning enveloped the land. For two days and nights, the boy awaited his champion’s return, but the pigeon was nowhere to be seen.
“I sat beside my friend’s bed, and told him that perhaps the sunlight and the fountains and the vanilla smell of ice cream from a thousand gelaterie had made our pigeon want to stay.”
“No!” said Mr. Evans. “That will only tell him… This is not where you belong.”
At last, the downpour ended and the boy ran outside to squint at the sky, into the clouds of fragile hope. And there it was — “a speck… a blob… a bird.” His "King of the Sky" — a soaring alter ego for the displaced boy trying to make a home in a new land, trying to fathom the depth and meaning of belonging.
Twelve hundred miles he’d flown, from somewhere far away he’d never been. Steered north and west, finding his direction from the sun and the force that guides a compass needle. Flown until he saw the shape of humpbacked hills, the lines of little houses and the chimneys, heard the clanking towers, smelled the soup and coal dust.
Flown down into the arms of the smiling, crying boy — the boy who knew at last that he was home.
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I could relate with the emotions, having seen my boy from such close quarters. Having read the boy inside out. I tried to develop his character sketch, purely from the point of view of helping him develop those characteristics which will make him pure human being. He is no less today.
He has been a reluctant immigrant. Even after two years, he lures to be where his heart is, back to home country. Not that he is a dashing, fearless individual. He comes out as a docile, introvert and body language shows, at first sight, lack of confidence. He can not fight for his rights. He has a small select group of friends including from among cousins. He is not heard normally, except in company with those few, even when he is crying. He weeps and does not cry, when he is uncomfortable. Discomfort could have been caused by physical disorder or emotional, specifically fear of parting, fear of impending shouts. He is extremely cautious. Dreads uncertainties.
He is owner of a gold of a heart. His new school recognized his character in the first six month of his joining and has confirmed again in the second year. He is presented with School Stars for being "Respecting, Responsible and Caring".
He melts at the site of others suffering. He can not stand me or his grandfather ill treating coolies on railway station or parking lot attendants. He would share his portion of Prasad with rickshaw driver. He would leave his belongings for the boy living in the outhouse of a neighbour. He would befriend someone who had been admitted to his school class recently and has no friend. He is good at math (and he is particular about how it is pronounced). He does not need to be goaded for learning. Appears to have inherited "Learner" as a strength. He has liking for reading books. He would rather buy books from all the cash received from elders while on visit.
He will take on responsibility of getting his grandmother's tablet repaired. He would ensure battery of an old camera lying in his maternal home is replaced. He would insist all antique pieces lying in the house are preserved and volunteers to take care of ancestral properties in future.
He needs help on two counts.
1. Overcome his apparent deficiencies, build confidence and self belief.
2. Perfect the abnormal characteristics of being human.
I could make some suggestions for improving body language to demonstrate confidence. But that is not adequate. We need to support him so that he is noticed, heard, believed and followed. All suggestions from psychologists in my circle of resources are welcome and will be appreciated.
On his day of departure, he was briefly sitting by my side and I asked him if he can listen to some heavy stuff. He was a game. I mentioned to him that "Caring" is recognized as a quality he possesses, by the school. He can be caring on three counts. Taking Physical Care, Emotional Care and Financial care. In each area unless he becomes stronger, he can not take care of others. To the extent necessary, he need to be selfish in spending time to develop strengths so that he can be more caring.
I hope he understood. He is all of 10 years old.
