Shyama Diaries -1
“Chirp! Chirp!”
I heard a sweet, tinkling sound while meditating. Someone must have a lovely ringtone on their phone, I thought. The sound came again. And again.
How long can someone’s phone keep ringing? I wondered, trying hard to bring my attention back to meditation. But the melodious chirping continued, gently interrupting my concentration.
When I finished meditating, I realised that the sound seemed to be coming from somewhere inside the house rather than from outside. I followed it, searching for its source, but every time I thought I had found it, the sound stopped. Could it be Shyama singing? Whenever I went close to the little bird, however, it appeared perfectly normal and remained silent.
Finally, I decided to hide behind a wall and observe it without being noticed.
And there it was! My little Shyama was singing its heart out.
I watched in amazement as the tiny bird chirped happily, again and again, expressing its joy in the sweetest language it knew. What a delightful discovery! Until then, I had thought of Shyama as a little creature that needed my care and protection. Now, I was discovering another side of its personality—a playful, joyful bird with a voice of its own. Its cheerful song filled the room, and I found myself smiling at the happiness of my tiny companion.
As Shyama grew, so did its mischievousness. It loved flying around the room, exploring every possible perch. Sometimes, it would settle on the curtain rod; at other times, it would land on the lampshade mounted high on the wall. The sofa, too, was one of its favourite landing spots. The entire room had become its little world of adventures, and I enjoyed watching every new discovery.
But one day, an accident changed everything.
While exploring the room, Shyama took off from the lampshade. Perhaps it misjudged the distance, or perhaps it simply failed to recognise the transparent barrier in front of it. Instead of landing safely on the sofa, it flew straight into the glass door of the wooden book cabinet.
The impact frightened me. I rushed to check on my little friend, hoping it had not seriously injured itself. But what troubled me most was the change that followed. Shyama stopped singing. It ate less and seemed strangely subdued, as though something inside it had gone quiet. The little bird that had once filled my home with cheerful chirping now sat silently, and its silence hurt my heart.
It was as if a part of its joy had been lost in that collision.
Watching Shyama, I was reminded of an accident of my own.
I, too, had once collided with an invisible wall. I had believed there was open space ahead of me, only to discover that what appeared to be freedom was, in fact, a hard barrier. The impact was not merely physical or momentary; something inside me seemed to break. After that, I could no longer laugh as freely as I once had. I cried and cried, and the desire to live seemed to slip away from me.
Shyama’s accident brought those feelings rushing back. I looked at the little bird and wondered how something so small could suffer such a profound change after a single collision. Perhaps it was frightened; perhaps it was hurt. I could not know exactly what was happening inside its tiny body, but I recognised the silence that had replaced its joy.
Sometimes, the deepest wounds are not visible from the outside.
Whether the barrier is made of real glass or an invisible wall we never expected to encounter, the impact can leave something inside us shaken. We may continue to exist in the same surroundings, yet the carefree laughter, the trust, and the desire to explore that once came naturally may no longer feel the same.
And as I watched Shyama sitting quietly after its accident, I could not help wondering whether its song would return.
Shyama Diaries -4
Pic 1: Shyama playing with me
Pic 2 : Shyama sitting on the lampshade
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