The Clever Crow in a Sea of Peacocks

Ha Ha Ha.. Call me a crow—sleek, black, and a tad too clever for my own good. In a world of preening peacocks flashing their traditions, I’m the bird who’d rather solve a puzzle than strut for applause. But on May 2, a Friday puffed up as luckier than a lottery win, I found myself flapping through a jasmine-scented storm called Upanayanam, a sacred threading ceremony that had my feathers in a ruffle. This isn’t a tale of woe, but a caw-caw comedy of a crow trying to keep his wits amid a flock of fervent ritualists.

It all began when a wise old owl, draped in guru-grade pomp, swooped into my in-laws’ nest with a prophecy: my son Kiran, a sprightly seventeen, was perched at the cosmic crossroads of Gurubalam. One Upanayanam, he hooted, and Kiran would soar into responsible manhood. My in-laws, who treat tradition like a shiny bauble, gobbled it up faster than a crow snatches a shiny coin. Me? I’m the sort who thinks every day’s a chance to crack life’s code, no star charts needed. But their zeal was a whirlwind, and I was just a lone crow, dodging gusts of expectation.

Kiran, my bright-eyed fledgling, got caught in their talons first, nudged by his mum’s coos and his grandparents’ sly pecks. When I heard he’d chirped a reluctant “yes,” I cawed, “No way!”—but it was like squawking into a gale. “It’s your choice,” they cooed, their smiles sharper than a hawk’s beak. “It’s for Kiran’s future,” they pressed, as if I didn’t know my own chick’s wingspan. My in-laws planned the big day with the glee of magpies hoarding glitter, my mother-in-law preening like she’d nabbed the golden egg of Brahmin bragging rights. To them, life’s a parade of ceremonies—naming, haircuts, Upanayanam, marriage—each a feather in their cap. To me, it’s a gilded nest, pretty but confining, keeping us chirping the same old tune.

I flapped my wings, my crow’s brain buzzing. What’s freedom if it’s just parroting the flock? What’s progress if we’re stuck pecking at yesterday’s crumbs? But family’s a tricky roost, and I didn’t want to ruffle too many feathers. Then, as if to test my grit, my body caught a Mumbai bug—a fever that turned my throat to gravel and my temperature to a sizzling 106°F. My wife, bless her, half-joked I’d caught it to skip the ritual. “You sneaky crow!” she teased. I croaked a laugh, swallowed some pills, and vowed to perch through it, even if my heart was plotting a getaway.

My chicks, Kiran and his younger brother, were my nest of solace. At seventeen and thirteen, they’re sharp as crow’s eyes, spotting nonsense faster than I spot a shiny trinket. “Your health trumps rituals, Papa,” they chirped, their words a cool gust under my wings. I puffed up, prouder than a crow with a solved riddle, knowing they’d inherited my knack for cracking life’s tricks. But Kiran was already on the guest list, and I couldn’t untie that knot.

The night before was a feverish haze, my body creaking like a rusty weathervane. Sleep was a fleeting worm, snatched by the clatter of preparations. At 5 a.m., my wife nudged me for a “holy dip,” as if a splash could polish a crow’s already gleaming soul. Fumbling with my dhoti, I thought of Kalpana, an old crow pal who’d have cackled at this fuss. “You’re too smart for this,” her memory winked. I sighed, wishing for her quips to lift my spirits. Downstairs, my dog Kaala fixed me with a soulful stare, curling up like he knew I’d rather be scavenging ideas than chanting mantras. I nabbed a banana from the gods’ stash, earning a tsk-tsk. “If I’m not cawing, who’s praying?” I shot back, coaxing a grin.

The ride to the venue was like flying into a headwind. Dawn painted the sky in hopeful hues, but the empty roads stretched like a trap, luring me to a roost I didn’t fit. Birds sang, free as only the clueless can be, while I felt like a crow in a canary cage. The hall was aflutter with posters and a saffron-clad crew, organizing with the zeal of ants at a picnic. Their knack for collecting phone numbers hinted at a bigger nest egg than just event planning. I took my spot, first in a row of twenty-two families, feeling like the only crow in a peacock pageant.

Fledglings as young as nine perched there, blinking like they’d stumbled into a pop quiz. One, my niece’s chick, was more curious about a hand fan than the chants, until his elders clipped his wings. I sighed for him, for Kiran, for every spark dimmed by “because we said so.” The ceremony kicked off with mantras and incense, but my fever stole the show, turning me into a wobbly perch. A volunteer squawked, “Chant louder!” I glared, thinking, “Buddy, I’m barely aloft.” My mother-in-law swooped in, “He’s under the weather,” and my co-brother tossed me glucose, a lifeline in a squawking storm.

The priest chirped about soul-cleansing, but I bet the flock missed the metaphor, too busy chasing social shiny bits. I mumbled the Gayatri mantra in Kiran’s right ear, wondering why the left got no love. Tradition’s a picky bird, isn’t it? Then, the organizer, strutting like a puffed-up rooster, dropped a clanger: “Obey the Guru without question, even if he’s off his perch.” My feathers bristled, my fever spiking with a caw of disbelief. Blind loyalty? That’s not wisdom; it’s a one-way flight to Flocksville. I hissed to my wife, “Is this guy for real?” She winked, murmuring, “Just nod along.” I swallowed my squawk, but my crow’s brain was already picking that nonsense apart.

Amid the flap, I spotted a flower cradling a tiny worm, wriggling like it had crash-landed in the wrong nest. I showed Kiran. “This little bug’s clueless,” I said. “Doesn’t know the chants, the politics, or this Guru fan club. Just trying to crawl on.” Kiran nodded, his eyes glinting with crow-like savvy. That worm was us, bumbling through a pageant we didn’t audition for.

The sun peeked in, winking like it knew I was out of my flock. “You’re just a speck in the sky,” it teased. I tipped my beak, grateful for the earth’s knack for weathering bigger squabbles than mine. I tapped my brother-in-law for a lift home, my body begging for a roost. The post-ritual chatter was too much for my frazzled feathers. At home, a neighbor’s drill screeched like a hawk, but I nested in sleep, dreaming of open skies.

When my wife asked my take, I played sly crow. “Quite the feather-fest,” I said, dodging her real question. But when she pressed, “Happy?” I grinned, “Not my kind of shiny, but I’m still a crow—happy by nature.” The fruit baskets—bananas, mangoes, coconuts—sat pretty for the gods, while some nabbed pride, others promises. A local bigwig tossed in a building pledge for the organizers, because why not mix politics with plumage? A colleague’s seven-year-old, dubbed a “mini-guru” for chirping mantras, stole hearts, though I bet he’d rather be chasing worms.

In the end, my chicks kept me aloft, their sharp minds my proudest hoard. Kaala, my furry sage, knew I needed quiet. That worm, bless its bumbling heart, reminded me life’s bigger than rituals. And Kalpanas’s memory? A caw to keep puzzling, even when I’m the odd bird out. I’m no martyr—just a crow who’d rather untangle life’s riddles with a wink than a wail, hoping the flock learns to think like me someday.

Final as a smart crow, I drank ( rather I was made to drink :) "cow urine" along with many today, and I am a thinking crow in this modern world.. :) :) :)