The enigmatic bird

Rubel was an ordinary boy from a small village. He was playful, curious, and awestruck when he was in sixth grade. However, Rubel possessed a unique kind of curiosity, in contrast to the majority of children. He didn’t just ask questions—he needed to find answers. He loved stories, but not just to hear them—he wanted to live them.

His village was surrounded by a dense forest. Everyone said it was home to many animals, but the most talked-about was the Golden Bird. It was said to have rainbow-colored feathers and that its song could make people laugh or cry without reason. Some whispered that it could actually talk, not just mimic. The majority of adults thought it was absurd. “Just an old village tale,” they’d say. But Rubel believed otherwise. He believed stories always carried some shadow of truth.

Rubel made the decision that he would find the bird on a sunny vacation. While his mother napped in the afternoon, he packed a small bag—a camera, a bottle of water, some biscuits, and a notebook. He wasn’t sure what he would find, but he knew he had to go.

The forest trail wasn’t easy. Sunlight filtered through the thick canopy above. Birdsong and insect calls filled the air. At one point, a deer ran across the path. At another, he saw a snake slither into a bush. Still, he pressed on.

Then, suddenly, he heard it—a song. But it wasn’t an ordinary bird song. It felt like it was coming from inside him, echoing in his chest. Soft, haunting, beautiful.

Rubel followed the sound silently. He parted a bush and saw it—a bird, sitting on a low branch. Its feathers shimmered like gold and rainbows combined. Its eyes glowed with quiet wisdom.

He slowly raised his camera to take a photo, but just as he pressed the button, the bird looked directly at him and said,

—“Are you here to take my picture?”

Rubel froze.

“You… can talk?” He stammered.

The bird smiled (somehow, it did), and replied, “I speak only to those whose hearts are still pure—like an unwritten page.”

Rubel slowly lowered the camera.

The bird continued, “Do you know what happens when someone hears my song?”

Rubel shook his head.

“It makes people face their truest selves,” said the bird. “Some cry, some laugh, some run away. Are you ready?”

Rubel hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

The bird closed its eyes and began to sing.

Rubel had never heard anything quite like it before. It wasn’t just beautiful—it was truthful. The melody brought memories flooding into Rubel’s mind—his mother’s embrace, his father’s laughter, his first day of school, a tearful moment comforting a friend…

Tears rolled down his cheeks. He wasn't down. He was overwhelmed. He suddenly understood himself in a way he never had before.

The song stopped.

“You were ready,” said the bird softly.

Rubel raised an eyebrow and asked, "Who... what are you?" The bird declared, "I am your imagination." "I am your terror, bravery, and wonder. All together. I came because you believed.”

“So you’re not real?” Rubel asked, still confused.

The bird chuckled. “What is real? That which the eyes see? Or that which the heart feels?”

Then it flapped its wings gently, and a feather drifted down into Rubel’s hands. It shimmered with rainbow light.

“Keep this,” said the bird. “Whenever you feel lost, this will remind you who you really are.”

Rubel stared at the feather.

Suddenly, a mist surrounded him. Everything went blurry.

When he opened his eyes again, he was standing on a familiar trail, near the forest’s edge. The bird was gone. The song had stopped. The camera had no picture. The feather remained in his hand. He quietly left for home. His mother scolded him for wandering off, but he didn’t mind. He was aware that he had witnessed an uncommon sight. Years have passed. Rubel grew up. He left the villand age for school, college, a job. Life became busy and complicated. But he always kept the feather, hidden in a special box. Whenever life seemed too confusing, he would take it out, look at it, and remember.

Rubel returned to the village with his own son, now an adult, many years later. They walked by the old pond. Rubel sat under a banyan tree and told the story of the golden bird.

His son laughed, “Dad, you make up the wildest stories!”

Rubel smiled. “Maybe. But you know, I used to think the same. Until I saw it.”

He drew nearer and whispered to his son: — "You'll have to go into that forest yourself one day if you want to know what happened next." His son gave him a wide-eyed look. Rubel just smiled. He still had the old feather in his hand; its colors shone softly in the sun, as if it had a secret it wasn't quite ready to reveal.