The house of the wren got destroyed. The wind came so hard and hit the tree that it got uprooted from its roots, and, in the strength of autumn, when the leaves were fallen among the ground, dark brown and yellow, the farmer could see the huge tree. His name was Uddin. It was his favorite tree once, its shade beneath which many a summer they spent, its fruits that they climbed and broke off, its twigs with small leaves that they used to fan themselves when they were hot, but then they were small. Not anymore like that now, though.
The sky had changed its color from blue to a dark grey, clouds gathering above him, and the wind was blowing so heavily today that the leaves flew in the air and slapped him on his face. Snakes slithered quickly on the ground and the fisherman drowned and died. The roofs of many a house now kissed the ground and the loud noise of the sparrow, cuckoo, nightingale and crow together made him feel as if his surrounding was haunted. Indeed it was.
As he walked on the leaves making a rustling sound, an eerie feeling surmounted him. He wasn’t sure whether he was trotting down the right path, in fact, he was now somewhat sure that he had lost his way. It was as if an earthquake had evolved out of nowhere, changing the paths and the ways, so that no one could ever reach where they wanted to. The eggs in the nest were now broken, six of them, six lives gone, death before birth, just like the thousands of dreams that so many of them wove each day and then gave up.
The wren was nowhere to be seen. It did not care whether the tree was broken, whether her babies were alive or dead, because she herself was no more, because she died in the pain that her children were no more. It was a queer feeling all around him, and he could not explain what was happening, since he could not understand it either. He rushed back, but alas! He could not understand where he was walking, where the road was leading him, who all were with him, since there wasn’t anyone actually, and he was walking all alone on this silent path.
The road had somewhat become narrower now, the other trees pressing into it from both sides. The mud on it swirled up and down, the dust raking up memories, then crushing them whilst a tiny fleck of grass stung his eye and went away silently. No one gave a second look at the nest, except the one wren who sat beside it, silent all the while. It was the father.