I called out to it, asking if it was hurt. It didn’t feel stupid, it felt right.
There was another chirp and a fluttering of wings and then the chirp rose to a higher pitch. It was circling down dangerously fast, unable to maintain its flight. I caught it gently and cradled it in my arms as if it were a baby.
The bird was small, with a bright reddish-orange beak, an orange face and chest, a white circle around its eyes, a green lower body and green wings. I examined the wings and saw that the right one was injured.
I stroked the bird’s head to calm it down, reassure it that it would be alright. I sat down and I cleaned its wound, talking to it gently as I did. The bird focused on the tone of my voice, and felt the affection. Affection is not in the honeyed words you speak, it’s in the bees that worked hard to produce that honey, unsure of how it would turn out.
The bird’s wing was fixed and it fell asleep. I didn’t move, even though I could have safely left it behind. I decided instead to stay, humming to myself as I did.
The bird eventually woke up, surprised to see me. It nibbled my finger affectionately and I smiled. It turned around and glanced around uncertainly. I had a faint feeling that I had often pulled this expression.
“Hey,” I whispered to it. “If you don’t know where to go, you can come with me.”
It turned around to stare at me. Then it made a little hop and flew to my shoulder. I stood up and continued walking.
I followed the Path, revelling in its twists and turns, in its unpredictability. As I walked, I pointed out to the bird everything that was happening, chattering away banalities that because of its presence turned into matters of great importance. While I showed it the way, it showed me how to better that way. It nudged me to point out particularly flavourful herbs and fruit that I would have otherwise missed, pointed me to obstacles which I would have otherwise hurt myself on. It was strange to feel such friendship with something that could not even speak the same language as me, but maybe that was the point.
When I grew quiet, the bird started to sing. Contained within the song was a soulful and molten memory, of two lovers, estranged but with no reason to be. It sang of how even though they were deeply flawed, they tried to be honest with each other and forgive the other’s sins. They loved each other, but did not know how to love each other. They could never survive together. They were not free, birds in their own cages. I yearned for something so pure, and I wanted to cry out to the world to bestow it on me, that I may complete their love through my own.
The bird stopped singing to brush away my tears with its head. I stroked it quietly as we sat down to rest. We spent several sleep-cycles like this together, happy, until one sleep-cycle there came a high- pitched chirp from somewhere else in the Forest. Both of us turned in that direction to see another green and orange bird fly out of the woods. It looked at the one on my shoulder and chirped, inquisitively and happily.
My friend turned to me and opened its tiny, white- rimmed eyes as wide as it could, as if questioningly. I smiled.
“I never did call you my bird, did I? You are my friend, my companion; and it would be a travesty to clip your beautiful wings, simply to achieve a fleeting happiness that would pale in the long walk, because I would have denied you yours. So fly, my friend, and be free.”
I stroked its head, waited for it to hop off and then leaned back against a tree and closed my eyes. When I awoke, that bird had flown. I had loved that bird, and I had expected nothing from it, I had shared with it music and melancholy, and unlike the lovers in its song, I could let go of my love to let it be free. Because true love is companionship, and a companion only remains one when they are free to be whoever they want to be.
I looked up at the sun. It had risen higher. It was perfect sunlight, as if someone had lit a giant candle in the sky; a light on in a home to remind me that even if it was empty, I was remembered, I would be welcome back.
As I walked on, I realized that I hadn’t undergone any trial. I hadn’t been tested. And yet, this is what I believe I had really set out on this journey to do, to someday help others, to guide and to love. My meaningless conversation with the bird was (and would be) the most important conversation of this entire journey that I had undertaken because of the fact that it didn’t have to be meaningful.
And though it seemed like there was no lesson, there was something very important here that I would soon forget: That there did not have to be lessons, that love was the goal and not everything it was reduced to.
And as with all the most important lessons, it would soon be lost to memory and time.
6
Promised Land
The very air was crackling-as if alive.
It was a strange rapturous joy that infected everything around me, the leaves greener than they should be; the barks more elegantly lined than was possible, as if a mystical hand had taken a brush and drawn them in with tender care.
The pressure mounted, the air grew almost taut, and every movement through it was cutting an invisible barrier that offered no resistance.
I squeezed between two trees, and when I passed through, the pressure left through my mouth as a gasp. A slope lay in front of me, and a vision of unfiltered glory seared itself onto my eyes. I clutched at my eyes, groaning in the pleasure of that beautiful pain. Soon, tears streamed out of my eyes and I thanked all the Gods I knew of.
I wiped away the tears and started to make my way up the slope quickly with a swelling pride inside my heart. Suddenly, I looked down. I was not merely climbing; I was gliding up the mountain. I let loose a joyous laugh that echoed loudly, Nature laughing with me. I wasn’t tiring as I moved higher;
the pressure and pain that had seeped into my bones were draining away, small drops of liquid falling away from my body till they disappeared, melting into the crackling air. There was not a speck of dirt on me, I was clean.
I reached the top and I think I lost the ability to breathe.
I had arrived.
Before the stories had been misinterpreted a dozen times to promote bigotry and small-mindedness; before they had been sanitized to ask worshippers to accept the pale limitations of their lives, to construct idols as a reason to stay in one place; there were the ancient legends. One of the oldest stories said that this journey was the greatest pilgrimage that one could undertake. It was act of prayer, an act of reverence to go beyond oneself, to go beyond the limitations of what was accepted, what was real, was the true meaning of spirituality, of God.
What was in front of me right now was the land of legend.
I was standing on a mountaintop and spread out in front of me was the most breathtaking spectacle I had ever seen. The Path cut through a wide plain, and on either side of it were rows and rows of flowers, all swaying in the breeze. There was a splashing of different colours, with red, golden and white thrown into the mix. Thick clumps of trees grew, all carrying a different fruit hanging from their branches, adding to the spectrum of colours. In between the trees and flowers were small lakes that glistened jewel-like in the sun, accentuated instead of marred by the purple and white present on their surface.
I didn’t examine it too closely; I just laughed softly, and then stumbled a few steps before I started running. My laugh resounded around the area, a pure, joyful sound. This was it, finally, proof that I was doing the right thing, that my spiritual purpose was being fulfilled. I soon tripped mid-run and my still-laughing face landed near the first row of flowers.
I stood in the chill mountain air. The entire scene was even more magnificent up close. The air was composed of a multitude of smells, sweet and bitter melding together into one. The smell of dew permeated the air, and whatever grass I stepped on grew back after I moved away. Bees fluttered from flower to flower, adding a pleasant buzzing sound to the atmosphere, while some flew up into trees to their beehives. Whichever tree they flew to, had flowing down its branches the sweetest honey I had ever tasted. The closest of these was a tree from which hung the most
succulent red apples I have ever seen. The wind blew faster across my face, as if inciting me to reach out and eat one. I plucked one. It was as polished as glass, yet smooth as baby’s skin.
I bit into the apple, and it tasted like fruit from God’s very own garden. When I opened my eyes once more, everything was more vibrant, the world had been doused in a fresh coat of paint.
I turned my attention to the rows of dancing flowers. There were white lilies with yellow bulbs; red roses that bloomed with love, and white roses to be held by two friends over vast distances.
As I bent down, I noticed that their stems were devoid of thorns, and their scent was headier and more intoxicating than any perfume I had ever smelled.
The first lake that I saw was to the left, between a row of lilies and a mangrove tree with roots growing into the lake. The very first blue that the created world had seen of the sky was the blue of this lake. It was delicate, as if no ripples had ever broken its surface. Floating silently on this lake were six lotuses, all a translucent purple, their high petals untouched by water, cleansed of sin.
As I straightened up, I looked around more carefully, and noticed there that there were two similar lakes on the other side of the Path. Something struck me at the back of my mind, compelling me to study the distance between the two and with a tiny gasp of wonder concurred that the two lakes had the same distance between them as between each of them and the single lake, forming a large equidistant triangle. I followed the lines and found the centre of the triangle to be a huge gnarled banyan tree, surrounded by six trees loaded with the most delicious-looking fruit I have seen (other than that apple I just saw, obviously). I started walking towards it, and the air was filled with a beautiful sound, and a lark landed on my shoulder and sang with the lightest voice I had ever heard, as if the air that transmitted the sound had been woven into melody.
The lark’s song was the sung by the first child to be taken into a new home after his parents had died; by the first woman to tend the hearth and make a home; by the first man to spend hours writing so that he may preserve knowledge for the future.
As I neared the tree, a dozen white doves flew from its branches, cooing softly, assuring us that they would return soon. The banyan had maybe a thousand roots hanging from its branches and maybe a thousand more spread across the ground. It looked like it had stood there since the dawn of time. It was wizened yet resilient, and I knew that it would stand there till the end of time as well.
Engraved on its surface were a series of symbols, and I stared at them for what seemed like hours, but were actually only seconds, before flinching away. Vague impressions of the symbols had been burned onto my eyes: A three; a weapon; crisscrossing lines; curves and more. I did not venture another look, because I spied something on the other side of the tree.
I went around it to find a small clay idol there, its features faded. It wasn’t very big, it easily fit into my palm and it was the only thing that was not pristine on the entire plain. It was shaped roughly in the form of a human, with bent limbs that were cracked along their surface. There was a puddle of wet clay nearby, and I covered the idol with it, freshening its coat. On impulse, I decided that I would take it with me.
I looked around the plain, eating the apple and taking it all in, breathing heavily, flowering in the presence of such beauty while the lark continued to sing from my shoulder.
The sun had risen higher in the sky. It placing was perfect, the sunlight warming enough to offset the cold air. It was halfway up the sky, midway between dawn and the top, finally beginning its proper climb upwards.
This was a sign that I needed to move on, too. I could have stayed there, but then it wouldn’t have been the same. If this beauty only existed because I had started something, it would rot and fade if I became complacent. I disturbed nothing else there, took no more fruit or flowers. I buried the apple core, to start a new cycle of hope. I took one last look at the garden, said a prayer of thankfulness and turned around. The lark flew away and I watched it go as I began my descent down the mountain, wondering if I would ever see such beauty again.
7
Fairytale Romance
Once upon a time, there existed a magical Forest, and a legendary traveller was walking through it to reach his Destiny, to fulfil a self-proclaimed prophecy.
Now, you shall hear of a short story of love (which is actually a part of a bigger story of love, but that knowledge is still hidden) about this nameless traveller who sometimes narrates in third-person for dramatic effect.
I was on my heroic quest, weary from walking, but still moving forward, undeterred. The lack of a suitable companion was causing me much trouble, but I was secure in my knowledge that the greatest and wisest embraced solitude.
Our current story starts one sleep-cycle when I was walking and heard a sound often repeated, directed towards me. I soon located its origin to be a branch of a nearby tree, more specifically, from the tiny creature trapped between two branches.
On moving closer, I observed this figure to be a fairy. It was light purple, as one often finds in the setting sun, a colour I am all-too-familiar with. The sound was emerging from its mouth, a plaintive cry for help. Its lustrous wings were caught in the branches, and I took pity on it, untangled its wings, and took it into the palm of my hand.
It had startlingly human features, with beady eyes and a high voice which now spoke to me.
“Thank you, kind and brave human. I have been stuck there for days, and I was about to die. Thank you so much for rescuing me.”
“It was nothing,” I replied grandly, a tone of voice which perhaps should have abstained from, because it really was nothing.
“You have...you have such wonderful eyes,” it said, opening its own as wide as it could and staring into mine. “And such a...regal face. You must be royalty! Where is your retinue?”
I laughed, obviously pleased at the unexpected compliment. “I am but a simple traveller.”
“Oh...” It said, as if disappointed. It tried to flutter its wings, but then cried out in pain.
“What is it?” I asked in an outpouring of worry and sympathy.
“My wings...they seem to be broken. And I’m all alone in this Forest, I have no to take care of me, nowhere to go and rest...” It broke down, crying tiny fairy tears which fell to my palm.
My heart melted and I leaned closer and spoke softly and compassionately. “I feel your pain, little one. I have been alone for a long time as well, even when I have been surrounded by those who say they want me. I am unwanted. But I will not leave you, I promise. I will make sure your wings are healed so that you can fly again.”
It emitted a slight shriek, and I might have imagined it, but it grew a little in my palm as it hugged my thumb tight, its tiny nails barely piercing my skin.
I set to mending its wings, as it alternated between crying out pitifully and telling me stories about its pathetic life, with family and friends who tortured and scorned it, and then exiled it deeper into the Forest away from them. Tears flowed incessantly throughout as I tried to prove comfort, telling it I understood, that I was here for it now.
I found that its body responded well to comfort, and that its wings were more active when I was providing comfort. We started walking and talking, and I found that the fairy grew larger slowly. When I pointed this out, the only response was a coy laugh and “You’re the one doing that, silly.”
I could not figure out how, for the fairy still required frequent rest-stops and I had to provide constant tending to its wings. When its wings were almost healed, the fairy was the size of my palm, its face more distinct now, its nails sharper and smile wider. One more rest would have healed it completely, but that was when disaster struck.
I woke up to find the fairy near me, its wings torn, its body covered in cuts and its nails broken and bloody. In heroic tales, when one finds an unconscious body in the woods, one has to give it a loving and benevolent kiss it to revive it, but I decided to save that as a la
st resort. Instead, I checked to see if the fairy was breathing, and then revived it by pumping its chest lightly, after which it spat out purple blood. As I tended to its wounds, the story was pieced together. There was a great beast up ahead which had attacked, and it had barely escaped with its life.
The fairy begged me to believe it, and I did, I assured it. It said that it knew an alternate way, but it would mean getting off the Path. I hesitated, but its pleading look and wounds convinced me. It instantly pointed me to a way that I otherwise would have never seen. I took a deep breath and proceeded down that way.
This way was much darker, danker and suffocating. Barely any sunlight entered here. I struggled to catch my breath, but the fairy seemed to perk up immediately. I was glad of this, but I needed to sit down and catch my breath while it stroked my palm, bigger already.
We walked on further, and I turned my attention to the fairy as often as it turned its attention to me. It could use its wings for short flights, and often brought me food that made my stomach queasy, and medicine to curb the queasiness. It stroked my cheek when I was ill, whispering comforting words, sweet reassurances of how much it needed me and how wonderful and kind and charming I was. These did help for a short while, but the relief faded when I had to tend to it, even as it grew and grew until it was as long as my arm.
My dreams were twisted and surreal, with screaming voices and bleeding bodies. I woke up to find myself bleeding all over my body for no apparent reason. The fairy claimed it was the beasts surrounding us (beasts I never saw), but it reassured me that nothing would go seriously wrong. It grew more and more affectionate the larger it grew and the sicker I became. Its features grew more defined, but I was losing the ability to comprehend them clearly. It whispered its adoration every hour, its tongue almost in my ear, of its growing love for me, its desire for me to love it back. It did not relent until I mumbled back this hushed confession back, until I did love it.
The First Storyteller Page 4
