The Siberian birds make their way from the cool lands of the far north to the humid and dusty climes of the east. They fly in a flock that would put a smile on the sun as they cross the vast continent. They would certainly have stopped the sun's rays from reaching the dear earth by casting a long shadow. Their flight criss-crosses the majestic himalayas on the left and the mysterious arabian sea on the right. They would have watched the Taliban play their games with the machine guns at their disposal and would have seen the american troops battle it out with their unmanned drone flights. Some of them birds would have thought about it. How could he humans have so much intelligence to make a bird fly without anybody sitting at the helm but appear totally brainless to manage things when there are so many people controlling the power joystick.

They would have desired landing on the Dals lakes of Kashmir or the Swat valleys of Northern hills Pakistan. It would have resebled Siberia; not as cold as home but perhaps as beautiful or more so. Their pink colours would have gelled with the blue colours of the hemisphere or the sprinkling colours of the flower valleys. They would have come, taken a breather, stopped for a while and relaxed. But what for? The guns have silenced so many and humans have been converted into live bombs just to get a claim to a piece of land. The noise would certainly have silenced them. How can mere birds remain fearless! They only know how to fly and perhaps how to die.

The flight must have taken them over the Rann of Kutch. When the great sandstorms blow over the region, many get lost. But these are brave souls. These birds have flown together over many miles. Under one leadership. If the leader gets killed, someone else takes her place. Perfect unision. They would even find food here-in the kutch. Where the great many die, these pretty birds would dig into their turf, over the placid patches of land, over mudflats, little water bodies and find eternal food. Just enough food that takes them over to the great city.

The world has heard about it. But the great city fills the coffers of the great country and still remains like the quicksand. It however charms the birds in many way that they never miss this part of the world. They never know why here. It is a strange place for a bird. Noise, pollution, lack of space, hot and humid but still welcoming. Many become realtime fodder for the dinning rooms of the rich. But then, they come. They like to come for it allows them to delve deep into the place and dissolve. Pink is a colour of love. It is a symbol of likeness. But these birds feather it up with courage and grace. They come as migrants, as tourists, as mere visitors and as patient watchers of this entire changing horoscope of a region