The Iron Nightingale
Passing through the fields of Punjab,
sitting behind my father on a bike,
a sensation rose in me
at the call of a Ruston engine
breathing from a mud-bricked room.
Its call sounded as if from another world,
which touched my heart
and settled there forever—
one of the most unforgettable moments
of my life.
When I grew older,
I wandered from village to village
just to hear that iron nightingale
singing in the dawns of rural Punjab.
In my wanderings I discovered
that at night its echo,
deep in the quiet fields,
was like a spotted owlet
resting in the dark.
Now its music grows rare.
But whenever it reaches my ears,
the fields return—
golden crops bending in the wind,
silver canals under the sky,
and a little boy on a moving bike
holding his father
as the villages pass.
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