If you were a bird, would you worry about heights?

I had slumped into a familiar ease acquired over the past years spent in Athens and had let it envelop me for three months like a comforting fog which I knew would disperse soon.

As the haze lifted, I found myself catapulted into Palakkad, a small obscure-yet-notable town in Kerala surrounded by the lushest of green vegetation, humid weather, tropical fruits and vegetables... where traditions and old ways still reign. Superstition and logic are intertwined and so enmeshed that it’s difficult to decipher one from the other.

The unique feature that defines India is that of paradoxes. This quaint town of Palakkad is no exception. The land is dotted with schools of different genres, catering to varied income groups and different capabilities. The building next-door to us is an evening institute for children with learning difficulty. Beauticians and astrologers jostle for space on most streets. Doctors of regular and alternate treatments are available at a glance. Cows and cars manoeuvre the roads together at their pace; very common to see an elephant being led to bathe or gracing a temple occasion — Hindu temples often use these beautiful animals for festivals.

Kerala gods own country #sundaymotivation #sundayvibes #SundayFunDay #tharoor #palakkad pic.twitter.com/YPicBUZfNu

— siju.krishnankutty (@iam_cju) March 25, 2018

There is a wide choice of Hindu temples, mosques and churches to choose from for worship according to your faith. Swaying coconut and palm trees are spread as far as the eye can reach. Banana trees, mango and jackfruit trees are growing in almost everyone’s garden.

I have spent a small part of my childhood and youth in Kerala. So, it was not difficult to let myself be allayed into yet another cocoon of familiar comfort. When we arrived, it rained. Despite humming mosquitoes we sat on the porch, watching the curtain of water cascade onto the sun-baked ground.

That’s when I noticed the nest in the old rusted lampshade hanging from the ceiling. There were three tiny red beaks peeping out. Babies! What a pretty sight. Their eyes were closed. It hadn’t been long since they came into this world. They sat very still... close to each other, very quiet and unmoving. An example of perfect meditation. The mother bird came and surveyed us for a while and when she was confident that we were of no threat, she fed tidbits to the little ones. After that, it became an obsessive need for me to watch their progress. They opened their eyes in two days and looked around. I wondered what they thought of the surrounding world. The next day they hopped around a bit, and the day after that I didn't see them. They couldn’t have gone far. How could they, being so tiny and not knowing how to use their wings yet? I got worried. There was a cat lurking in the premises. Could they have disappeared into his gut?

Then I saw them. They had hopped onto the washing line nearby and were perched on my pink night gown drying outside. Very quiet. Very still. Very close to each other. In meditative mode. I could just go on gazing at them forever.

I let them be and rushed out the next morning to see if they were sitting in the same position on my night dress. They weren’t there! They had flown the coop. I think I had known already that they were ready for independence. They had taken all the right steps and flown away, unafraid, using their little wings against the wind, making their own soft breeze as they floundered, dipped and soared. They knew what to do.

There was no fanfare or intense activity like when my children left to go to university.

We use the term ‘fly the coop’ when our children leave home. There is really no comparison. For my tiny feathered friends there was no need for new suitcases to be bought and filled, no tickets and rooms to be booked, no forms to be filled and no tearful farewells. They were ready to face the world as soon as they could flap their wings.

It is from this land that I flew the coop to a big city for work. I remember I couldn’t wait to be independent and get away.

The sadness of having left my family behind came as a jolt unexpectedly much later. The distress came in waves and then settled within me somewhere to give way to a hiatus and a cocooned existence.

I wonder about the flying species. Do they feel disoriented and distressed each time they explore new heights and unknown territories?