My Friend, Canary by Bhavika Malik (14, India)

Last of the moon arose under my nose. It crept through the sky, as I spun around the machine, breathing lint that hung in the air. I walked on my toes, for my feet no longer supported my weight. 

My limbs yearned for the possibility of escape. I wanted to extend my hand out, let it soak the smell of grass, trees, bird dung, anything - as long as it smelt different. So, I could close my eyes, with my hand resting on my face, imagining a life that could not collapse under the weight of coal.

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Fortunately, I left the quarry after six months for a promise of education. We all were promised something. But not all of those promises were fulfilled, they were just tools to decorate reality with a tempting hope.
It was my fourth week working, I celebrated it with five whips from my boss, which was two less than the last time. I saw Canary then, for the first time. Untouched, freshly dispatched. He looked no different than any of us, but he wasn’t marked with soot and dust. His mind clung to his mother’s promise, the promise of return.
“Mama told me, we will be free when we are old enough, so right now, we have to work hard, pray and sleep,” he told us. He had the conventional idea of hope, the one that experiences complete erosion and succumbs to cynicism once it reaches its deadline. I wouldn’t say he wasn’t patient, but even his patience had a deadline.
Hunched over the chute, he chirped until the siren blew. Sometimes he talked about his folks, other times he endured the pain by singing, he spoke relentlessly. Although the siren provided momentary elations, it reminded him to admire his broken calluses. His back sunk over his body, leaning onto the ground, but he was still confident that he was the most handsome man in the crowd. 

He used his hands as sieves, grating against the current of dust and coal. His chest stood between himself and the cheerfully deadly air. He once saw a boy, swept off along the current, he said nothing. That boy had found a way to leave.
Each month my friend grew darker, like us, painted by the dust, and bruises circling his flesh like marked dates on a calendar. Still, he walked to work every morning, picking out stones as if they were gilded. He no longer protested it. I know this to be the deadline of Canary’s promise, for he never chirped again. I don’t know what made me last longer than others, but I suppose I didn’t let my hope disappoint me.

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