Rooted in the sky

I wonder what it feels like to move. Not just move, but to control your movements. Jasmine keeps reminding me that I can, we all can. But then, it’s only out of necessity, is what I say. Jasmine replies, that everything we do is because we have to. Jasmine doesn't understand.  I don’t expect her to.

Yes, we move. And yes, maybe we can control our motions: we bend for more sunlight, our feet –roots, Jasmine reminds me- stretch out just a little more to areas where we can take in more water, more minerals. But we’re otherwise so limited. Unless a breeze is around and allows us sway, to rustle just a little more than normal. There have been times when the winds were so vicious that plants have actually died. That’s what happened to my uncle Arbre, at any rate. He simply snapped into two. My parents were mournful, saying he was a young soul, and in a way he was – a young mind in an old aching body. There were parasites on him, sucking out his life, and I knew he didn't want to live like that anyway. I was at peace when he died. But he was the only one who understood me, my wishes to move about, to discover, to explore, and to dance. And when he was gone, I had to face the realities of the plant community. It wasn't easy. I wanted to be a squirrel, jumping about, a cat, prowling through the dark alleys of the street with its lamp-like eyes, but mostly a bird, flying freely to touch the ends of heaven. Instead, I got to be a mother to them all. I got to feed and nurture them, help these animals grow, without ever being one. The other plants, they were proud of the part they played in nature. They were proud that humans held them in such high esteem, proud that they were the foundation bricks of our ecosystem. They wanted me to feel the same way. I just couldn't.

A bird lands on my branches. It is small and black and red and the most beautiful thing I've seen. Its eyes are a sharp black. I wish I was you, I think. I gently guide it to my ripest fruit. It looks young, tired. Probably its fourth or fifth flight. It nibbles the fruit lightly, and continues to do so, until it has finished the whole thing. It sighs in gratitude.

You’re welcome, little birdie. You’re welcome. I think, before dozing off under the hot sun.

**                                                                              

I wonder what it would be like to be still. To be at peace. What it would be like to not be in a rush your whole life, to not have to keep moving around, to not be part of a crazy family. My sister just laughs when I tell her all this; It’s your life. Accept it. She says. If only it was that easy. My family, my friends, they’re too busy to think like this. They don’t even have time to think about slowing down.

There are new chicks born every day. Each new chick means one more celebration. There are celebrations for everything. When we first fly, when we catch our first worm, when we choose a mate, when we lay eggs, when they hatch… on and on it goes. Heck, my brother got an extra party because he finally opened his eyes! I’m telling you, we birds just love to celebrate.

The only alone time we get is when we fly to get food. Since this is my fifth flight, I’m still accompanied by my brother (who right now is constantly going from glaring at me to get me to hurry up to spying on another she-bird he finds cute). From my next flight on, I will be completely alone. Hopefully. The others know I’m a bit of a day-dreamer, they may just assign me a permanent companion.

I want to be a plant. Not only because they live quietly and peacefully but also because they are important. If I was a plant, I’d be loved and cherished. I’d make my own food. I’d never have to depend on slow, stupid worms. I’d never have to fly away from an eagle. I could be friend with other plant species, which is pretty hard as birds. I mean, we can’t be friends with eagles and kites. But I guess the trees can be friends with other trees as well as animals.

‘Parinda! Will you hurry up?’ My brother shouts. I hate that he calls me by my full name.

‘All right!’I stop sucking on my luscious fruit, and open my wings. I’ll be back. I think. And then I’m gone in a blur of black and red.