The Peepal Tree and the Birds: Stories from an Urban Balcony
Story Four: Coppersmith Barbet
A steady metallic note echoed through the morning
air—somewhere a ghost in the canopy was striking metal: a craftsman, a
metalsmith, heard everywhere, seen nowhere.
The Peepal knew this colorful little bird. It had grown up
hearing its stories. Some said the bird had once been a coppersmith so devoted
to his craft that even death could not stop his hammer.
Others believed the faster the little hammer rang, the
hotter the day would grow. Farmers even predicted the rains by their call.
The small green bird with a red forehead sat quietly among
the leaves, patiently striking its invisible anvil.
The wise Peepal watched.
Some birds sang for the bliss of it.
This one seemed to sing with a message.
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