Ashwini Mokashi

The Cuckoo’s “Kuhu Kuhu”

By: Ashwini Mokashi

When you live abroad for many years, it’s not just that you can’t find bakarwadi. You lose a lot more. One day, while speaking with my brother on the phone, this struck me suddenly. That day, I could hear the cuckoo’s call louder than my brother’s voice. Just that sound filled me with such inner joy that I didn’t want to hang up. My brother had no idea what I was feeling. To him, the cuckoo’s constant calling was annoying.

I realized how rare the scent of Pune’s soil had become to me—how long it had been since I heard the cuckoo’s “kuhu kuhu,” or the sparrow’s cheerful chirping. I had fallen in love with this cuckoo. What a melodious, beautiful voice—and what confidence in her call! Compared to that, our conversation felt dull. A thought quietly nestled in my mind—how wonderful it would be if I could hear this cuckoo live the next time I visited Pune.

It took a year or two for that moment to come, as visits to Pune had become short and rushed. But one monsoon, while staying at my brother’s place, that cuckoo—my soul-sister—began to sing right outside my window. What good fortune! Call it a dream, or a rare wish of mine—it had come true.<br><br>But that joy didn’t last very long. Listening from afar, I had never sensed how sharp her voice really was. Now, up close, it began to grate on me. After a few hours, the sound felt harsh. A few more hours, and I had to clutch my head—looking for headache medicine.

That afternoon, I noticed I hadn’t heard the cuckoo in a while—maybe a couple of hours. She must have fallen asleep, I thought. But how long do birds sleep? Like humans—eight hours? Or just a couple? Was it just one cuckoo or a whole group? The voice was so consistent, it felt like just one bird. That thought brought me some peace.

Of course, every individual is different, and the same must be true among cuckoos. I realized I had never studied birds, and perhaps now I should. At least I could figure out if they sleep at night—or maybe I should sleep now instead. When my kids were small, I used to nap whenever they did—because you never knew when you’d be woken again.

That first night in Pune passed in fragments, dozing off between the cuckoo’s twin cries. I was either asleep or wide awake. I was exhausted—and jetlagged too. So many things were off. There were plenty of reasons I couldn’t sleep. But I had no solution for the cuckoo. Never in my life had this been a problem. I don’t know how long I spent thinking that.

Next morning, I was calmly sipping tea, cup near my mouth, when I startled and sat up straight. The cuckoo had called again. It was as if she was saying, “I’m still here. Don’t get too comfortable.”

For the first time ever, I surrendered. I only heard her voice—she was nowhere to be seen. I finally decided that this bird must be male. Perhaps he had seen a vulture and was crying out in fear. What other reason could there be for such relentless shouting?

The rain kept pouring down. I thought, now the second night will go the same way, and by tomorrow morning, I’ll have no strength left to think. Somewhere during that thought, I must have dozed off. In my dream, the cuckoo had to confront vultures. One of them warned him, “Stop screeching—let these tired people sleep. Show some mercy—or I’ll eat you.” The vulture charged, and the cuckoo shrieked so loudly that I woke with a jolt. Thank god—it was a dream.

Maybe the bird had taken shelter here, unable to go anywhere in this downpour. The rain had disrupted even the strongest of beings. Where could this poor bird go? My inner unrest continued. Was this bird a friend—or a foe? I couldn’t decide.

By midnight, the rain had calmed down. I shut all the windows tightly, stuffed my ears with cotton, and prayed to the goddess of sleep. I held no grudge against the bird—only against what its voice was doing to me.

Eventually, I fell asleep and woke up in the morning. First thing—I listened for the bird. No trace—neither male nor female. I couldn’t rest easy. So I typed “cuckoo’s kuhu kuhu” into YouTube. And what did I find? Vasantrao Deshpande’s tender, pleading rendition of the cuckoo’s cry: “Will someone go, will someone tell her, will someone suggest to that cuckoo—don’t sing at night, don’t wear out your voice. Will someone go, will someone tell her?” I realized—I was not alone in this suffering.

The second night passed. The rain had eased. I had my morning tea and coffee. And just then, from a distance, came that sweet, familiar whistle—“kuhu kuhu.” Our friendship was restored. And the familiar smile returned to my face.