Almost a decade ago, I was a bird who had just escaped a cage and flown for the first time – https://rishikeshu.wordpress.com/2017/06/22/hey-i-am-a-bird/. I had just learned how to fly. Or should I say, the moment the cage disappeared, I left the ground. It was as if the sky had been waiting longer than I had.

The sky was simple then. Clear blue, vast, open, and welcoming, asking for nothing in return. My feathers felt light, as if they carried an ocean of freedom inside them. I had met cloud for the first time. We danced, drifted without destination. Sometimes he sang, sometimes he howled, sometimes I saw him doing both together, forming rain that I followed till it dropped on the leaf of the tree. Trees were tall, patient listeners. They never interrupted my stories. I also met sun. Although he was not as welcoming as the sky or cloud, his warmth soaked into my feathers like something earned. And then the meadows. That’s where I met other birds, entire flocks. Their presence felt like a hug delayed for centuries. I don’t remember being as happy or excited as I was then.

I continued flying after that. Countless times. Days folded into months, months into seasons, seasons quietly turned into years. The sky remained vast, clouds stayed playful, trees kept listening as if they had nowhere else to go. I flew farther. Over the places I hadn’t seen before. I befriended mountains carrying snow like old crowns, meadows that stretched so wide my eyes forgot every color except green, forests dense with secrets, oceans so smooth they returned my reflection without distortion.

Everything looked the same. Yet something in me began to carry weight. My wings were still light. They never hesitated. They knew when to open, when to tilt, and when to rest. But somewhere quieter, somewhere deeper, a small presence appeared, tapping gently, dictating me what to do. It showed me paths. It drew invisible lines across the sky. It whispered about later. Flying started to feel measured. As if the wind had rules now. As if the air expected something from me.

One afternoon, I landed near a river where a rabbit sat absolutely still. Her ears twitched. ‘Where are you headed?’ I asked because suddenly that felt like a normal thing to ask. She didn’t answer. She simply hopped away. I watched the river continue its journey, wrapping itself around the rock effortlessly. It felt foolish. I still met Cloud. I still met Sun. But now, even while dancing with them, a part of me seemed to stand aside, watching the dance instead of being in it, counting the steps, wondering where it would lead.

I noticed that my breath arrived perfectly without instruction. My heart kept its rhythm without consulting me. My wings folded and unfolded with ancient certainty. So much was happening without me knowing. Yet I spent entire flights wondering where I should land next. At dusk one evening, flying alongside other birds, I passed over a quiet lake. I saw reflections of us in perfect synchrony, all of us same shape, same shadow, same wings. I wondered briefly what separated me from them.

Sometimes I miss that first flight. The kind that didn’t know it was a first. Sometimes I imagine loosening whatever it is that tightened along the way, letting the sky feel wide again, and stopping measuring it. I don’t know if what perched inside of me was a gift or just something that took the freedom away. It brought maps, mirrors, direction, but it took away something.

But even now, when clouds grow heavy, when mountains stand unmoved, when rivers continue their quiet insistence, my wings are still open, flying high above the mountains. Maybe that’s enough. After all, I am still a bird.