Budgies Can't Be Left Alone for More Than 48 Hours

I'm really not a fan of Han Kang's stories. Still, I read her short story titled 'Heavy Snow' published in The New Yorker on November 10, 2024. It's translated from Korean by e. yaewon and Paige Aniyah Morris.

The 2024 Nobel prize in literature has been awarded to the 53-year-old South Korean author as the voice of this era and a voice for women. However, Han Kang declined a celebration and press conference because she felt that the global wars didn't warrantee any sort of celebration on her part. Nice to have her voice resound and she tries to make her opinion count. 

Narrator Kyungha was a writer for a magazine who paired up with photographer Inseon for assignments for three years. The women became firm friends for over two decades. Life happened and Inseon returned to live in Jeju and after graduating from carpentry school, she started making furniture. Kyungha-ya remained in Seoul.

The one day, Inseon asked Kyungha to bring her ID to see her at a hospital in Seoul. She had accidentally sliced the tips of two fingers off with an electric saw. They had been reattached but not fully safe from sepsis and gangrene. Inseon wanted Kyungha to get to her home in Jeju before sunset so that she could feed her bird Ama, and it wouldn't die. Inseon had already been in hospital for a few days, and although she had refilled the food and water bowls that night, it wouldn't last for more than three days. By now, it needed more refills.

Kyungha went to Jeju in the middle of a heavy snowstorm. She made it to the last bus of the day, and got off at the stop that led to Inseon's workshop and her home. But the snow was heavy and she fell down and was injured. Every step was a bit of a torture. She got there. But... 

This was a pretty good short story. I almost couldn't bear to read the ending. I didn't want to. This is why I can't live alone and have a dog too. Or leave my dog alone without caregivers. Arrrrrrrrgh. The final paragraphs of the story said, 

By this window, Inseon has placed a table she made from cryptomeria. The birdcage sits on it. The blackout cover and a few cleaning tools hang neatly from the metal hooks she’s attached along one side of the table. The cage has one fixed perch and two matching swings, all made from bamboo that Inseon cut and sanded down and positioned at equal heights to prevent a struggle for dominance between the birds.

In the thunderous stillness, which is as chilling as any sudden loud eruption, I walk toward the cage and its unoccupied perch and swings. The water dish is dry. The wooden dish that Inseon fills with dried fruit and the square silicone container for pellets both stand empty. A handful or two of chaff is all that remains, strewn across a ceramic plate. And beside all this lies Ama.