The sun was sinking slowly. The soft evening light fell slantingly upon the rich green meadow and the small pond in it. The scene was pretty but strangely depressing. She looked forward to the star-lit night, but felt that it would be pointless too, just like the day that was so theatrically bleeding to death on the western sky. Suddenly, the bitter screech of scores of geese filled the air. They swooped down from the southwest, the setting sun behind their backs. They dropped straight into the pond, noisily splashing about and drinking the water.
It was spring again. Every evening for the last week, a new gaggle had descended on the pond. They rested, ate the grass, swam around, and flew again the next morning. They were migrating north.
She looked at the new gaggle with a dull half-interest. They were Canada geese, just like herself. Except they were free. One would think she had gotten used to having her wings clipped, but sometimes she wished she could fly away with them. Not that she had ever flown. She was hatched in the farm, and her wings had never been allowed to grow fully. But every spring, she felt a restlessness in her bones. She felt that if only she could get off the ground, she could float in the air indefinitely. She would know where to go. Sometimes she wondered where these free birds were going. If only she had wings, she felt, she would see these strange places clearly, even without having to fly over them. How else could these birds find their way anyway? It must be in the wings.
She smiled drily. It was absurd to feel sad about the wings, knowing she'd never have them. At any rate, she had talked to some of the free birds, and their lives seemed no happier than hers. One keeps chasing this and that, thinking it will bring happiness. And happiness, like the horizon, keeps receding as one moves towards it. But then again, maybe it's better to fly towards a receding horizon than just sit and stare at an unmoving one.
Some of the younger birds walked towards the farm. They were on the other side of the fence, talking among themselves. Some looked up at her slyly. She was not a beauty, but she knew she cut a graceful figure. The keeper took good care of the farm's birds. Her neck and feathers had the lambent glow of youth. She was rather proud of her snow-white throat patch, and how it shone bright against the inky black head.
Suddenly, one of the young birds flew over the fence and landed in the farm. He was young, probably even younger than her. He had what they call a striking personality. He was rather handsome, but what one noticed was his jaunty air. He was clearly used to being liked. He was probably rather vain, but somehow, it didn't seem like such a bad thing in him. At any rate, he seemed good-natured. But today she didn't care for admirers, even the handsome ones. She turned away and started walking.
"Hey, hey! Wait. Don't be so pricey. I'm not stalking you, you know? Just being friendly"
"Oh, yeah? How come you chose me to be friendly with?"
"Because you are the prettiest one around, of course. Why else?"
"And you aren't ashamed to admit it?"
"Why should I be? I'm new here. All I know is what I see. Why wouldn't I go by looks?"
[shaking her neck] "Suit yourself. I have a headache. I am going."
"Oh, come on! Don't be so stern. I am good company, even if I say so myself."
"Maybe, but I'm not a flirt."
"Really? How sad! I suppose you are a very deep thoughtful sort."
"And I suppose you consider yourself fun-loving, and laugh at everything you don't understand."
"Of course I do. But I am only amused by your intelligence, while you are repelled by my frivolity. Which of us is narrow-minded, you think?"
"Hmm. You sure can talk."
"I told you so", and he chuckled.
She smiled, despite herself. She stayed. They got talking, and went on and on. I don't know what they talked about. It must have been something quite witty and very profound. Bright young things are almost always brilliant when they are with someone they fancy. The moon was out now. The night was bright and tender.
"Let's go swim in the pond," he said.
"I can't. I mean, it is too cold."
He smiled. "Don't be silly. I know you can't fly. I have been to other farms, you know? Just climb up the fence pole-by-pole. You can climb on my back." They went out. It was slow. She fell off every now and then. Everytime she fell, they giggled their heads off. They finally got to the pond, and swam quietly. Every now and then, they raced a few yards. He was the faster swimmer, of course. She was new to it. He made it a point to not slow down for her. Somehow, he knew she wouldn't like it. She had never looked more beautiful than she did that night, with the moonlight on her face, and the breeding frogs croaking madly all around them, and the scent of the spring night hanging in the air.
"I can't come with you tomorrow. I can't fly," she said, abruptly. He started to say, "Well, I haven't asked you yet, if you didn't notice." He checked himself. He couldn't get himself to joke about it. A sharp stab of pity for her ran through him, like a butcher's knife. He was silent for a while, and then he said drily, "Maybe I should go and sleep. We fly out early tomorrow." She nodded and started walking. With her new meekness, she followed him back to the farm. She whispered, "Good-night. I'm generally up early. Say good-bye before you go." He flew back to the gaggle without turning back. She stared in his direction for a while, and walked back.
It took her a while, but she slept that night. He swam around the pond all night. I don't know what he really thought, of course. But I'll bet it was something like this: "This could be it. True Love and all that. But there is, unfortunately, no way of knowing whether it is. The only way is to stay back and find out. It would seem so childish, of course. On the basis of just one evening. But what do I care for appearances? No, no. I am being too selfish. The right thing is to think of her. Now, she only thinks of me as a friend. If I stayed back, I'll give her hope. And if I get bored of it, I'll just fly off. What right do I have to mislead her and desert her? No, I should leave now, before it is too late. Wait. Maybe I'm just afraid of losing the security of my current life. Maybe this is all a cop-out. But I don't think so. There's no point blaming oneself just because one can. I'm not an impulsive sort, and that's the end of it. Some people can just live in the moment, whatever that means. I cannot. But why can't I? I mean, surely I care for love. Not just to mate with somebody out of instinct, merely for reproduction. But this is all silly. One can't convince oneself to be spontaneous. You either have it or you don't."
I don't know what he was thinking when it dawned. But at the crack of dawn, the birds got up and drank some water, and ate a little grass, and flew out. He flew with them.
She had woken up. In the morning light, she stood, looking at the birds flying away. The lurid bronze light of the morning shone off her white body.
An artist who was visiting the farm saw her looking at the receding birds. The scene touched him. His painting of it was displayed in the "Local Artists" section of the Denver museum of Art. Some people were quite moved by it, others thought it cheap and sensational. Most critics dismissed it.
"The age that went before ours," wrote one critic, "was the age of wars hot and Cold. It was an age of conflict, genocide and dictatorship. But it was, at the same time, an Age of Ideas. Communism, Fascism and post-colonial Nationalism vied with Capitalism and Democracy for global hegemony. And as ideologies clashed, they acquired intellectual depth, just to survive. In our age, free-market democracy has decisively triumped, arguably for the better of Mankind. Alas, we have bought this peace at the cost of intellectual depth. Where once Joyce spoke of a 'thought-tormented' age, what we have now is mere sentimentality masquerading as emotion. And nowhere is it more apparent than in our Art. Art holds the paradoxical position of being dependent on thought, while at the same time, seeking to transcend it. It is safe to say that the success of any work depends on how accurately it reflects that tension that lies at the very core of Art. On that count Born To Fly fails. In running away from thought, it has merely stumbled into vacuous sentimentality, like much else in our times."
You might have read the review. It is widely quoted.
Postscript: The hero of this story did not visit the farm again. Six years after the events described here, he was shot dead by a hunter during the fall migration, somewhere over Wisconsin. The heroine turned out to be a reliable egg-layer for the farmer. They never ate her, even when she was old. The farmer liked to joke that he wouldn't cut open the goose that lay the golden eggs. She died of old age one winter.
-------
Note: The story came from two striking shots in Winged Migration, a documentary I highly recommend to chaps who like nature and/or photography. Among other things, WM proves that the French rock. It also proves, alas, that the French can't speak English, and won't accept the fact.
Finally, if some readers of these pages will only stop giggling and listen for a second, Canada geese do eat grass. It is true that cows also eat grass. But if the geese themselves don't think it's a problem, I don't see why stupid, senile BITS-ians should.
It was spring again. Every evening for the last week, a new gaggle had descended on the pond. They rested, ate the grass, swam around, and flew again the next morning. They were migrating north.
She looked at the new gaggle with a dull half-interest. They were Canada geese, just like herself. Except they were free. One would think she had gotten used to having her wings clipped, but sometimes she wished she could fly away with them. Not that she had ever flown. She was hatched in the farm, and her wings had never been allowed to grow fully. But every spring, she felt a restlessness in her bones. She felt that if only she could get off the ground, she could float in the air indefinitely. She would know where to go. Sometimes she wondered where these free birds were going. If only she had wings, she felt, she would see these strange places clearly, even without having to fly over them. How else could these birds find their way anyway? It must be in the wings.
She smiled drily. It was absurd to feel sad about the wings, knowing she'd never have them. At any rate, she had talked to some of the free birds, and their lives seemed no happier than hers. One keeps chasing this and that, thinking it will bring happiness. And happiness, like the horizon, keeps receding as one moves towards it. But then again, maybe it's better to fly towards a receding horizon than just sit and stare at an unmoving one.
Some of the younger birds walked towards the farm. They were on the other side of the fence, talking among themselves. Some looked up at her slyly. She was not a beauty, but she knew she cut a graceful figure. The keeper took good care of the farm's birds. Her neck and feathers had the lambent glow of youth. She was rather proud of her snow-white throat patch, and how it shone bright against the inky black head.
Suddenly, one of the young birds flew over the fence and landed in the farm. He was young, probably even younger than her. He had what they call a striking personality. He was rather handsome, but what one noticed was his jaunty air. He was clearly used to being liked. He was probably rather vain, but somehow, it didn't seem like such a bad thing in him. At any rate, he seemed good-natured. But today she didn't care for admirers, even the handsome ones. She turned away and started walking.
"Hey, hey! Wait. Don't be so pricey. I'm not stalking you, you know? Just being friendly"
"Oh, yeah? How come you chose me to be friendly with?"
"Because you are the prettiest one around, of course. Why else?"
"And you aren't ashamed to admit it?"
"Why should I be? I'm new here. All I know is what I see. Why wouldn't I go by looks?"
[shaking her neck] "Suit yourself. I have a headache. I am going."
"Oh, come on! Don't be so stern. I am good company, even if I say so myself."
"Maybe, but I'm not a flirt."
"Really? How sad! I suppose you are a very deep thoughtful sort."
"And I suppose you consider yourself fun-loving, and laugh at everything you don't understand."
"Of course I do. But I am only amused by your intelligence, while you are repelled by my frivolity. Which of us is narrow-minded, you think?"
"Hmm. You sure can talk."
"I told you so", and he chuckled.
She smiled, despite herself. She stayed. They got talking, and went on and on. I don't know what they talked about. It must have been something quite witty and very profound. Bright young things are almost always brilliant when they are with someone they fancy. The moon was out now. The night was bright and tender.
"Let's go swim in the pond," he said.
"I can't. I mean, it is too cold."
He smiled. "Don't be silly. I know you can't fly. I have been to other farms, you know? Just climb up the fence pole-by-pole. You can climb on my back." They went out. It was slow. She fell off every now and then. Everytime she fell, they giggled their heads off. They finally got to the pond, and swam quietly. Every now and then, they raced a few yards. He was the faster swimmer, of course. She was new to it. He made it a point to not slow down for her. Somehow, he knew she wouldn't like it. She had never looked more beautiful than she did that night, with the moonlight on her face, and the breeding frogs croaking madly all around them, and the scent of the spring night hanging in the air.
"I can't come with you tomorrow. I can't fly," she said, abruptly. He started to say, "Well, I haven't asked you yet, if you didn't notice." He checked himself. He couldn't get himself to joke about it. A sharp stab of pity for her ran through him, like a butcher's knife. He was silent for a while, and then he said drily, "Maybe I should go and sleep. We fly out early tomorrow." She nodded and started walking. With her new meekness, she followed him back to the farm. She whispered, "Good-night. I'm generally up early. Say good-bye before you go." He flew back to the gaggle without turning back. She stared in his direction for a while, and walked back.
It took her a while, but she slept that night. He swam around the pond all night. I don't know what he really thought, of course. But I'll bet it was something like this: "This could be it. True Love and all that. But there is, unfortunately, no way of knowing whether it is. The only way is to stay back and find out. It would seem so childish, of course. On the basis of just one evening. But what do I care for appearances? No, no. I am being too selfish. The right thing is to think of her. Now, she only thinks of me as a friend. If I stayed back, I'll give her hope. And if I get bored of it, I'll just fly off. What right do I have to mislead her and desert her? No, I should leave now, before it is too late. Wait. Maybe I'm just afraid of losing the security of my current life. Maybe this is all a cop-out. But I don't think so. There's no point blaming oneself just because one can. I'm not an impulsive sort, and that's the end of it. Some people can just live in the moment, whatever that means. I cannot. But why can't I? I mean, surely I care for love. Not just to mate with somebody out of instinct, merely for reproduction. But this is all silly. One can't convince oneself to be spontaneous. You either have it or you don't."
I don't know what he was thinking when it dawned. But at the crack of dawn, the birds got up and drank some water, and ate a little grass, and flew out. He flew with them.
She had woken up. In the morning light, she stood, looking at the birds flying away. The lurid bronze light of the morning shone off her white body.
An artist who was visiting the farm saw her looking at the receding birds. The scene touched him. His painting of it was displayed in the "Local Artists" section of the Denver museum of Art. Some people were quite moved by it, others thought it cheap and sensational. Most critics dismissed it.
"The age that went before ours," wrote one critic, "was the age of wars hot and Cold. It was an age of conflict, genocide and dictatorship. But it was, at the same time, an Age of Ideas. Communism, Fascism and post-colonial Nationalism vied with Capitalism and Democracy for global hegemony. And as ideologies clashed, they acquired intellectual depth, just to survive. In our age, free-market democracy has decisively triumped, arguably for the better of Mankind. Alas, we have bought this peace at the cost of intellectual depth. Where once Joyce spoke of a 'thought-tormented' age, what we have now is mere sentimentality masquerading as emotion. And nowhere is it more apparent than in our Art. Art holds the paradoxical position of being dependent on thought, while at the same time, seeking to transcend it. It is safe to say that the success of any work depends on how accurately it reflects that tension that lies at the very core of Art. On that count Born To Fly fails. In running away from thought, it has merely stumbled into vacuous sentimentality, like much else in our times."
You might have read the review. It is widely quoted.
Postscript: The hero of this story did not visit the farm again. Six years after the events described here, he was shot dead by a hunter during the fall migration, somewhere over Wisconsin. The heroine turned out to be a reliable egg-layer for the farmer. They never ate her, even when she was old. The farmer liked to joke that he wouldn't cut open the goose that lay the golden eggs. She died of old age one winter.
-------
Note: The story came from two striking shots in Winged Migration, a documentary I highly recommend to chaps who like nature and/or photography. Among other things, WM proves that the French rock. It also proves, alas, that the French can't speak English, and won't accept the fact.
Finally, if some readers of these pages will only stop giggling and listen for a second, Canada geese do eat grass. It is true that cows also eat grass. But if the geese themselves don't think it's a problem, I don't see why stupid, senile BITS-ians should.
