The Peepal Tree and the Birds: Stories from an Urban Balcony
Story Two: The Purple Sunbird
The Peepal tree woke to a beautiful song.
A thin, high note rose through the morning air, bright and clear like a distant soprano greeting the day.
A thin, high note rose through the morning air, bright and clear like a distant soprano greeting the day.
The tree searched its branches but saw nothing.
The singer was tiny, hidden among its twisted twigs.
The note came again.
A branch stirred.
The first rays of morning touched the feathers of the little bird—mid-song, its beak open and throat lifted to the sky—and it shone like a small jewel against the bright summer light.
A solitary singer, immersed in its own world, the dawn resting gently upon it as it poured its song into the waking air.
The singer was tiny, hidden among its twisted twigs.
The note came again.
A branch stirred.
The first rays of morning touched the feathers of the little bird—mid-song, its beak open and throat lifted to the sky—and it shone like a small jewel against the bright summer light.
A solitary singer, immersed in its own world, the dawn resting gently upon it as it poured its song into the waking air.
The Peepal listened.
And it remembered the words of Rabindranath Tagore:
And it remembered the words of Rabindranath Tagore:
Birds do not sing because they have something to say;
they sing because they have songs.
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