One flew over a cuckoo's nest..

One flew over a cuckoo's nest..One still does fly over the cuckoo's nest..But..

Rewind 20 years.

It is 8 am. You have been pushed out of bed, so you don't miss your school bus. You drag yourself out of bed and get ready, cursing the schooling system, but run through the gates, just in time for the prayer. You squeeze into your class line, not really bothering if you're the shortest one, but at the end of the line (Heck, you still got there!). The crowd drawls, while you gaze at the clear skies above. And there it is , the providence of nature, the birds and the proof of their washroom routines clearly not in place as a splat on your shirt. You get home by 4 pm, to be cursed by your poor mother who will have to scrub off the stains from your shirt and get out to play. 6:30 pm and its time for you to get to homework, while you see them going home, ask your mom innocent ingenuous questions about their nests, their nestlings, are told some flimsy fables, to shut you up. You go to bed, reading fairy tales and parables containing parrots, crows and pitchers and if you belong to a religiously inclined household, Jatayu's tales of his attempts to rescue Sita.

And today..

It is 8 am. You are rushing to office, scrambling to find your bus or busy answering the driver's call just so you do not miss your cab and are forced to go to office on your own. You reach work, go about your day and leave office at around 6:30 pm, again the same rigmarole, the same routine with the buses and the cabs. And then, the TV, the couch and the comfort of your pillow.

Have you ever taken out a moment and thought? You are at a place now, where you don’t see a bird, or do not want to. Too busy in your schedule to even notice whether they still fly overhead or are flying saucers orbiting the planet. You are too old to admire those little flying creatures, those species we learnt about once at school, learning how to distinguish one from the other, from the way their beaks look, or the color of their feathers, or their peculiar flight. Too old to admire what once fascinated us and kept us hooked for hours, finding place on our canvasses and drawing boards.

But they, on their part still do exist, still do go about their reckless ways, still fiercely protect their little ones. But from who?

Our children are too busy deciphering the new windows interface, exploring (flaunting) their playstations, Wiis and Xboxes, studying hard with thick spectacles to beat that kid at school who might just come first this time. They're too busy trying to get ahead, or trying to stay where they are, to notice what lies above. They don’t bring home feathers that they almost stepped on and ask their Mom, just what bird it might be, but bring home pamphlets of animation or computer language courses. They don't complain about a bird dirtying their shirt, but complain about an OS crashing, a speaker not working, an internet connection not streaming fast enough or a new pair of Reebok zigs they are not able to find in a red color.

We on our part have too much in the day to tend to, to be able to see an injured broken wing lying by the road, simply because you have an important discussion in the cab with the other equally frustrated employees on how Bangalore traffic is out of bounds and how the city is bursting at its seams. In the late afternoon, you get out for a fag, but are too busy finding out who said what on the floor and who's rating is definitely a 'Poor', to notice a pair of eyes perched a few steps away staring wantingly at the fountain by which you are sitting.

If you took a moment and looked up in the sky, you'd still see them as you once admired them in flight, as sparrows you once nursed back to health, as your once-upon-a-time friends, as playmates, as fellow-earthlings. Yes, something has changed for us, in us, but the world around perhaps has not. Its stood witness to mankind's progress, gently smiling at the fact that he does not really care enough about whether all wings reach home safe in a storm, or whether all nests have safe branches.

If only we cared enough to remember…to relive…to notice...