The Peepal tree stood tall in front of the balcony.
Its leaves had fallen for the season,
And its bare branches spread wide across the skyline.
People said the sacred fig was wise.
Some believed it whispered its knowledge
to the birds that came to feed on its fruits.
A red-whiskered bulbul perched on one of its solitary
branches.
It was about to break into its morning raga—the four-note ginger-beer call—when the Peepal
spoke,
grave and low,
“Whisky springs not here to stay.
Summer comes with a scorching ray.”
The bulbul tilted its crested head.
“Ah! But I love the summer,” it chirped.
“The hotter the sun, the better the day.”
One yellowing leaf of the Peepal fluttered in the early
morning breeze.
“Hm,” the tree murmured.
The bulbul began its morning raga.
Clear notes bounced through the empty branches.
The Peepal listened.
The sun would be harsh this year.
The winds would be dry.
Yet the bird sang as if summer were a festival.
The old tree seemed to absorb the song as it spilled into the warm morning air.
Perhaps the bird was right.
Even in the harshest summer, someone must still sing.
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