Category: Vignette

Disclaimer: Don't own nada. Its aaaaaaaall somebody else's. I just stuck 
it in this lil fanfic which I only wrote because I love the show, and 
not out of any expectation of fiscal recompensation for lost sleep. 
(I.e., I'm making no money)

Archivers: It's yours if you want it.

Synopsis: Hadji reflecting on life in Bangalore.

Dedicated to Daria, because understanding is reached only through 
confrontation, and she's helped a lot with my understanding :) 'Sides, 
I wouldn't have written this if I didn't have her fic running through my 
head.

Blackbird
By LesliWeird.

	We are taught that where we are is where we are supposed to be. 
	Why, then, does this feel so alien? It should be my home.
	The moon is rising full and yellow on the eastern horizon. Its creamy 
light reaches out to touch my feet as I sit, sleepless, on the edge of 
the regal bed that I suppose I should call mine. The moon illuminates 
the finely woven rugs and ancient vases that try vainly to fill the 
room's emptiness. Intricate shadows trace their way across the floor in 
the shapes of the metal bars. They twist like climbing ivy, but they are 
still bars. In the cold revealing moonlight, the room feels like a cage.
	It is well past midnight, but I cannot sleep. I think it is the smell 
of the room; the incense that tingles the inside of my nose. I had 
always thought I would like for my room to smell like this, sweet and 
musky. It is how I used to think my home should smell. 
	I am Indian, after all.
	The thought feels positively hollow as it echoes through my mind. For 
so many years that has been my mantra. Wasn't this all I aspired to? 
That the great wheel of karma might someday bring me to this station, 
where I could use what wisdom I had gained for the good of the people? 
 	The stars shine outside the window as the moonlight bathes the bars, 
and my hand comes to rest on something cold and metal. I smile faintly. 
In this strange marble cage, it is something familiar and tangible. 
	It is an old harmonica Pasha gave to me when I was eight. I loved it 
dearly, thinking it must be the most fantastic treasure in the world. It 
broke my heart to learn that I had left it with him when Dr. Quest 
whisked me away on what was to be the greatest adventure of my life. I 
tried not to cry, but even then Dr. Quest could read my mind like a 
book. He bought me a new one, but it would never seem as valuable, no 
matter how hard I tried to make it so. I think he knew, deep down. It 
hurt me, because I wanted to make him happy, because he was so good to 
me. Even now, it is with great effort that I do not call him "sir," 
though I love him like a father. I was never truly his son. I still 
belonged to India.
	I take the old harmonica and bring it to my lips. Pasha gave it to me 
as a "coronation gift," his idea of a joke, I think. But also something 
deeper. 
	"Ya got roots, kid," he said, smiling as he corrected himself with a 
"your highness" that had the same conversational tone as "kid." "Don't 
ever forget 'em." 
 	Then he left. I cannot blame him. The palace seemed to glare down at 
him. Even the servants steered clear of him coldly. And even if they did 
not, the market in Calcutta would soon be in full swing.
	Roots.
	The tune that comes to my mind is not an Indian one. It is the first 
Dr. Quest clumsily attempted to teach me when I came into his care. 
Somehow, the song itself suddenly seems more precious than the 
instrument. The notes echo in the moonlight as the words echo in my 
head.

 	Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take this broken wings and 
learn to fly.
 	All your life you were only waiting for this moment to arrive.
 	Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these sunken eyes and 
learn to see.
	All your life you were only waiting for this moment to be free

	"My son, you are still awake?"
	I turn, letting the harmonica fall guiltily from my lips. "Mother." The 
word is still uncomfortable; it is so new to my vocabulary. I have never 
known exactly what it meant to have a mother of my own. She glides 
through the moonlight to drape an arm around me.
	"Are you alright, my darling?" She purrs the words, her voice full of 
concern. I bury my face in her shoulder, wanting nothing more than to 
cry, as I had when Dr. Quest gave me the harmonica.
	Because once again, I have been given a perfect gift, that could 
somehow never replace my old one. She knows, deep down. It hurts me 
because I want her to be happy, because she is so good to me. I want so 
desperately to love her the way a son should. I open my mouth to try to 
speak, to make some apology.
	She holds me tightly and hushes me, rocking me slowly in the pale light 
of the moon.  "I know, my son," she whispers, unconditional love in her 
voice "I have already bought the tickets for you to return to America."
	"But mother"
	"Shhh." She holds me closely and I feel sleep begin to creep over me. 
"My precious, precious son." Her arms are warm and gentle, and my eyes 
seem so heavy. "I love you too much to see you like this. I will not let 
you live in a cage."
	"Mother" The second the word leaves my lips I understand what it 
means. For an instant my eyes open wide and I see her smile. She 
understands, better than I do myself. I am a stranger in a strange land. 
No matter where I go, this will always be, but there is a part of me 
that will always have a home with Dr. Quest. 
	And as I look up into her eyes I understand that there is a part of me 
that will always have a home, here with her. It had always been so; I 
had only lost it. 
	Now I find myself again with both the instrument and the music. She 
lays me down on the bed as sleep overtakes me, and kisses the top of my 
head. The moonlight spills the shadows of my cage across the two of us, 
but I no longer feel imprisoned. I feel free. 
	She begins to rise and I whisper, for the first time that I can 
remember in my life, words that say more than any song.
	"I love you, mother."

Fin.

So, how's that for two in the morning? I was lying in bed thinking about 
it, and then it just hit me and I had to write.
Just on a personal note, my dad used to sing several Beatles songs to me 
as lullabies (it was years before I even knew they WERE Beatles songs) 
and blackbird was one of them. And since the good doctor is officially 
the same age as Dad (early fifties) I figured why not? 

Well, that's it for me kiddies. I've hammered this out and I am off to 
bed.
LesliWeird