A Suitable Boy

by Vikram Seth

THE FEVER BIRD The fever bird sang out last night. I could not sleep, try as I might. My brain was split, my spirit raw. I looked into the garden, saw The shadow of the amaltas Shake slightly on the moonlit grass. Unseen, the bird cried out its grief, Its lunacy, without relief: Three notes repeated closer, higher, Soaring, then sinking down like fire Only to breathe the night and soar, As crazed, as desperate, as before. I shivered in the midnight heat And smelt the sweat that soaked my sheet. And now tonight I hear again The call that skewers through my brain, The call, the brainsick triple note— A bone of pain stuck in its throat. I am so tired I could weep. Mad bird, for God’s sake let me sleep. Why do you cry like one possessed? When will you rest? When will you rest? Why wait each night till all but I Lie sleeping in the house, then cry? Why do you scream into my ear What no one else but I can hear?

her spirit would remain not only in the memories of those who knew her, but in the very world that surrounded them—in this garden, for instance; in this house.