"Voices in the Wind"

In the heart of a sun-dappled grove, where the earth hummed with life and the trees whispered ancient stories to the breeze, lived two common mynas named Mira and Raju. They were anything but ordinary in spirit.

Perched on the edge of an old, weathered stump that overlooked the green meadows, Mira and Raju spent each morning singing into the wind. Their songs were not just calls or declarations of territory, but intricate conversations filled with laughter, longing, and love. Their notes twined like vines through the warm air, harmonizing with the rustle of leaves and the distant rush of a stream.

The stump they claimed as their throne was once the base of a mighty sal tree, felled long ago by a lightning strike. Now it stood as a silent monument—scarred, yet strong—much like the pair that ruled it. Mira, sharp-eyed and confident, was the first to explore beyond the nest. Raju, thoughtful and loyal, had been captivated by her from the beginning. Together, they had built more than a home—they had built a world.

Their days were filled with routine and rhythm. At dawn, they greeted the day with a duet that startled squirrels from their sleep and made butterflies pause mid-flight. Mira would tilt her head, observing the world below, while Raju searched for food or soft fibers to line their nest.

But one day, the rhythm faltered.

The grove had grown quieter in recent weeks. The air was heavy with a kind of stillness that made the bees fly slower and the trees creak a little louder. Humans had started visiting the outskirts more frequently, leaving behind plastic trails and strange smells. A new danger crept in—the sound of machines, the scent of burning wood. One afternoon, as Mira returned with a beak full of twigs, she found Raju sitting silently on the stump, his eyes fixed on a line of smoke rising in the distance.

“They’re cutting the trees,” he said quietly. “Down near the stream.”

Mira dropped the twigs. “The stream? But that’s where the old fig trees grow.”

Raju nodded. “And where the koel nests.”

They both knew what this meant. The fig trees fed the entire grove, not just the birds. Their fruit brought hornbills, barbets, and fruit bats, and their shade gave life to countless creatures. If they fell, the grove would change—and not for the better.

That night, they did not sing. Instead, they listened. To the distant rumble of machines. To the cries of displaced birds. To the groan of nature trying to resist.

Mira couldn’t sleep. She perched next to Raju and whispered, “We have to do something.”

“But what can two birds do?”

“We have wings. And a voice.”

Mira’s plan was wild. Raju knew it the moment she said it. But her eyes blazed with that fire he had always loved. She wanted to fly beyond the grove—to the villages, to the schools, to the temples—anywhere people still listened to the sounds of the earth. She believed that if they could draw attention, if their song could become a cry for help, maybe someone would listen.

So they flew.

Each morning, Mira and Raju soared above the trees, venturing farther and farther from their home. They called, not with the gentle melodies of affection, but with urgent, piercing cries. They mimicked the calls of other birds, the shrieks of monkeys, even the growl of machines. People began to notice. Children pointed. An old farmer stopped plowing and watched them in awe. A teacher asked her students to listen and write poems about the strange, bold birds.

One day, a wildlife photographer captured their duet against the smoky sky. The photo spread online. Activists began tracing the image, curious about the location. Conservationists visited. Questions were asked. And slowly, a pause began in the destruction.

The grove, battered and bruised, waited. And so did Mira and Raju, perched on their stump like sentinels.

Weeks passed.

One morning, the machines did not return. Instead, humans came bearing signs and survey tools. A new board was nailed to a tree: Protected Area—No Cutting Beyond This Point.

Mira landed beside Raju, their wings brushing. “We did it,” she whispered.

He smiled. “No. You did it.”

They sang that morning, and their song had changed. It was no longer a cry, but a hymn—of survival, of unity, of hope. Other birds joined in, and the grove seemed to breathe again. Shoots sprouted where trees had fallen. Squirrels scurried. Even the koel returned to the fig trees, their haunting song weaving back into the forest's voice.

But time does not stand still.

As seasons passed, Mira and Raju grew older. Their flights grew shorter, their perch more sacred. They watched their young explore the skies they had once mapped. And on one particularly golden morning, Mira turned to Raju and said, “Promise me, when we’re gone, they’ll remember.”

“They will,” he said. “Because we left more than feathers behind.”

Years later, children still visited the grove to see the birds that had sung change into existence. Though Mira and Raju were long gone, their story lived on in tales, in songs, and in the photo still framed in a dusty school corridor—two birds, side by side, perched on a stump against the wind.

And if one listened closely, when the breeze rustled through the leaves just right, one could still hear the echo of their song—soft, strong, and eternal.