The Myna bird's prophecy
I still remember that childhood belief we shared about myna birds. Two meant joy; one predicted sorrow. When we were young, living in neighboring houses, Maya would always spot them first.
"Look! A lone myna," she'd call from her balcony, voice tinged with worry.
I'd rush outside, heart racing not from superstition but from the chance to see her. "I see it too!" I'd shout back. "Now it counts as two—no sorrow today!"
Her laughter would cascade like wind chimes. "That's exactly right!"
It became our ritual. One of us would spot a solitary myna and immediately summon the other. We believed, with childish certainty, that we were cleverly outmaneuvering fate.
Maya always had a thing with scents. If she couldn't get her hands on perfume, she would smear mint tulsi leaves on her wrists or carry jasmine buds tucked in her hair. She always smelled like heaven—a fragrance uniquely hers that followed her like an invisible signature.
Then came college—four years away studying, with only occasional visits home. Our lives diverged like branches from the same tree, growing in different directions but from the same roots.
When I finally returned home, exhaustion clung to me like a second skin. The familiar scent of home—mother's cooking, father's books—offered some comfort, but something was missing. I fell into bed without even unpacking.
Morning arrived with a persistent knocking. Half-awake, hair still damp from the shower, I fumbled with the lock.
There stood Maya.
Four years had transformed her from the girl next door into someone both familiar and new. Her eyes—the same warm amber I remembered—crinkled with delight. Her hair, longer now, cascaded over shoulders that had once been bony but were now gracefully defined. The scent of jasmine followed her like a memory.
"Come quickly!" she said, not bothering with hello.
Before I could process what was happening, her hand was wrapped around my wrist, her touch sending a current through me that jolted away any remaining sleepiness.
"Maya, what—"
"No time!" She pulled me through her garden, now overflowing with flowers I couldn't name.
Then she stopped abruptly and pointed upward.
"Look," she whispered. "A single myna."
The bird perched on her fence, black feathers glossy in the morning light. It cocked its head, studying us with one bright eye.
"You remembered," I said, my voice catching.
"Of course." Maya's smile was shy now. "Some traditions are worth keeping."
Standing there in my rumpled clothes, her hand still holding mine, I realized something. I didn't know if watching a single myna together truly brought joy instead of sorrow. But watching her—the sunlight playing across her face, the gentle curve of her lips as she smiled—filled me with a happiness so profound it made my chest ache.
"I missed this," I admitted.
"Just this?" Her eyes held a question.
"No," I said, finding courage. "I missed you."
The myna bird called once, twice, then flew away. But we remained, hands intertwined, as the morning light strengthened around us.
Perhaps the old myth was wrong. Perhaps joy wasn't found in the number of birds, but in the hearts beating together, watching them fly.
I didn't know what this summer will bring, but as her fingers intertwined with mine, I knew whatever path lay ahead would be perfumed with roses and jasmine.
"Look! A lone myna," she'd call from her balcony, voice tinged with worry.
I'd rush outside, heart racing not from superstition but from the chance to see her. "I see it too!" I'd shout back. "Now it counts as two—no sorrow today!"
Her laughter would cascade like wind chimes. "That's exactly right!"
It became our ritual. One of us would spot a solitary myna and immediately summon the other. We believed, with childish certainty, that we were cleverly outmaneuvering fate.
Maya always had a thing with scents. If she couldn't get her hands on perfume, she would smear mint tulsi leaves on her wrists or carry jasmine buds tucked in her hair. She always smelled like heaven—a fragrance uniquely hers that followed her like an invisible signature.
Then came college—four years away studying, with only occasional visits home. Our lives diverged like branches from the same tree, growing in different directions but from the same roots.
When I finally returned home, exhaustion clung to me like a second skin. The familiar scent of home—mother's cooking, father's books—offered some comfort, but something was missing. I fell into bed without even unpacking.
Morning arrived with a persistent knocking. Half-awake, hair still damp from the shower, I fumbled with the lock.
There stood Maya.
Four years had transformed her from the girl next door into someone both familiar and new. Her eyes—the same warm amber I remembered—crinkled with delight. Her hair, longer now, cascaded over shoulders that had once been bony but were now gracefully defined. The scent of jasmine followed her like a memory.
"Come quickly!" she said, not bothering with hello.
Before I could process what was happening, her hand was wrapped around my wrist, her touch sending a current through me that jolted away any remaining sleepiness.
"Maya, what—"
"No time!" She pulled me through her garden, now overflowing with flowers I couldn't name.
Then she stopped abruptly and pointed upward.
"Look," she whispered. "A single myna."
The bird perched on her fence, black feathers glossy in the morning light. It cocked its head, studying us with one bright eye.
"You remembered," I said, my voice catching.
"Of course." Maya's smile was shy now. "Some traditions are worth keeping."
Standing there in my rumpled clothes, her hand still holding mine, I realized something. I didn't know if watching a single myna together truly brought joy instead of sorrow. But watching her—the sunlight playing across her face, the gentle curve of her lips as she smiled—filled me with a happiness so profound it made my chest ache.
"I missed this," I admitted.
"Just this?" Her eyes held a question.
"No," I said, finding courage. "I missed you."
The myna bird called once, twice, then flew away. But we remained, hands intertwined, as the morning light strengthened around us.
Perhaps the old myth was wrong. Perhaps joy wasn't found in the number of birds, but in the hearts beating together, watching them fly.
I didn't know what this summer will bring, but as her fingers intertwined with mine, I knew whatever path lay ahead would be perfumed with roses and jasmine.
