The Sparrows, the Storm, and the Semul Tree
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It was a grey, oppressive day, hot and humid with not a breath of air. Monsoon clouds hung low and heavy over the world, but so far not a drop of rain had fallen. The neem tree seemed to droop in the silent heat. Even the small grey squirrel that lived in a hollow in the tree trunk, had run out of energy and sat still upon a leafy branch.
The squirrel squinted up at the dark clouds. “When are you going to rain?” he grumbled. The clouds rumbled angrily as if in answer to his question, making the squirrel jump. “Ok, ok, take your time,” he said in alarm and went back to staring gloomily at the world.
The squirrel was also a little worried. He knew there was something he had to do, but for the life of him he could not remember what it was. He ran through his list of chores in his head. He had already visited the kitchen window of the house belonging to the neem tree and raided the jar of almonds, so it couldn’t be that. He had also done a thorough job of cleaning his fur of fleas and dust that morning. If only his friends the sparrows were around! He could have asked them, they were good at remembering. All those stories and stuff they were forever going on about! “I’m sure they’ve forgotten me,” he said dolefully.
But just then, with a great whirring and fluttering of wings as a flock of sparrows came flying through the still air. His friends! They were back! At last!
“Hello, hello, hello!” called the squirrel. “Welcome back!”
“Hello, hello, hello,” chirped the sparrows in reply, alighting one by one upon the neem tree. “We had the most wonderful adventures, but it’s good to be home again!”
“Adven…ahhhh, now I remember what I had to do! Your postcards! I quite forgot to collect them from the hollow tree!” cried the squirrel.
“Oh dear! We forgot to write them!” exclaimed the sparrows.
“Well, that’s alright then,” said the squirrel, relieved. “Tell me everything now! Where did you go? Did you meet the Great Cloud Bird?”
“We did, and it was the most amazing experience ever!” replied the sparrows. “He asked us so many questions about our stories!”
“Ooh! That must have been terrifying!” said the squirrel, with a wary glance at the looming clouds.
“We were so frightened! But you know, he isn’t as scary as he seems, he’s actually quite friendly once he begins chatting!” said the sparrows.
“So are you still the story birds then?”
“Yes! And we have many more stories to tell — including one about a helpful squirrel!” cried the sparrows all together.
“More helpful than me?” asked the squirrel, a little jealous. “Where did you meet him?”
“We rested on a semul tree in a forest on our way to see the Cloud Bird. A flock of sparrows had recently moved there. We met all their friends, and the squirrel was one of them.”
And this is the tale the sparrows told.
THE SPARROWS, THE STORM AND THE SEMUL TREE
By Shaiontoni Bose and Rohini Chowdhury
In the heart of the sal forest, by a winding stream, stood a pair of stately semul trees. Their trunks, buttressed by enormous roots, rose straight and tall into the sky. Their leafless branches were ablaze with red flowers that glowed above the forest canopy, even brighter against the dark and stormy sky. Fierce gusts of winds raced through the forest, shaking the branches and whipping the fallen leaves into a frenzy. Birds and small animals scurried for shelter, diving into holes and burrows, or clinging to swaying branches for dear life.
A flock of sparrows, lost in the storm, had taken shelter in the smaller of the two semul trees. They sat huddled tightly together on a low branch, as close to the straight, strong trunk as possible. Above them, in a small hollow in the trunk, a pair of coppersmith barbets had built their nest. The sparrows knew the barbets well.
“I am glad we got in before the wind began,” said the father barbet, peeping out.
“Do you think our chicks will be alright?” said the mother, peering anxiously over her mate’s shoulder.
“They will be fine,” replied the sparrows. “The storm can’t harm them in this giant tree.”
“We hope you’re right,” said the barbets.
A flash of lightning blinded the birds and thunder rolled across the forest canopy. The barbets retreated back into their hollow to their chicks.
“That was close!” shivered the sparrows and huddled closer to each other.
“I’ve lived in this tree for years and never felt it shake like this,” squeaked a voice. It was a large fruit bat, hanging upside down from a branch above.
The rain was coming down in sheets and showed no signs of abating. A family of mice, flooded out of their burrow beneath the roots, came desperately scurrying out.
A squirrel peeped out nervously from another hollow. A large, red flower came tumbling down and fell upon his head like a big hat, covering his eyes. “The sky has fallen, the sky has fallen!” shrieked the squirrel, diving back into his hollow in a panic. “And I am quite dead!” he announced calmly, from inside.
“Unfortunately, you’re quite alive,” grunted a voice from the bottom of the tree. It was a porcupine, looking extremely prickly and very displeased. “Though the squirrel isn’t wrong,“ he added morosely. “The tree is shaking at the roots, where I live. Better get out while we can.” He plodded out into the rain and disappeared into the bushes.
“That porcupine is the voice of doom,” grumbled an owl woken up by the storm.
The words were hardly out of his mouth when a loud crash resounded through the forest over the shrieking of the storm and the whole world tilted. The semul, uprooted by the furious winds, fell against the older semul. The branches of the larger tree caught it as it fell and the two trees stood as one.
The owl, jolted off his perch, screeched in terror. The bat clung even tighter to his swaying branch. The sparrows, fortunately, tumbled into the squirrel’s hole, or else they would have been blown away by the wind. The sparrows fell, chittering and flapping, onto the squirrel’s head. The squirrel still sat there, the flower on his head, now more certain than ever that he was dead. “Welcome to the afterlife,” he said sonorously.
“Don’t be silly,” said a sparrow impatiently, and knocked the flower off his head. “Our tree has fallen! Do something!”
“Stripes and tails! What can I do! What can I do! I was better off dead!” cried the squirrel, jamming the wilting flower back onto his head.
“There, there,” said an old sparrow, taking charge. “Let’s all stay calm.”
“We’ll feel better if only we could eat something,” said a small one, wistfully.
“Oye squirrel, where’s your store then?” asked the first sparrow. He really had no time for the squirrel’s drama.
The squirrel peeped out from beneath his flower and reluctantly pointed to a corner of his hollow. There, stashed beneath some twigs and grass, was a pile of juicy seeds and nuts.
“Let’s not eat all of it,” said the old sparrow. “Who knows how long this storm will last!”
The squirrel looked dismayed. Not that he minded the sparrows, but this wholescale invasion of his home was a bit daunting. He plucked up his courage and clambered to the opening of the hollow. “The storm is dying down already,” he called, cheering up. “Maybe you could take some of these seeds to the barbets?” he suggested cleverly, hoping the sparrows would leave. “They have chicks to feed! I’ll help.”
“That’s very generous of you, squirrel,” said the sparrows admiringly. Maybe the squirrel wasn’t quite that silly after all.
The squirrel looked modest. It hurt to give away his store of seeds, but anything to have his home to himself again!
The sparrows hopped out of the hollow. The world looked different. Enormous, tangled roots rose up into the sky, and the tall straight trunk of the semul now lay at an angle against the other tree. The ground was littered with broken branches, and covered with green sal leaves and the red petals of semul blossoms.
The barbets’ hollow was now tilted towards the sky, but the chicks were still snug and warm inside. The parents were busy pulling twigs across the opening, to hide their home from predators as best they could. The owl and the bat came flapping up, much to the alarm of the barbet parents.
“Don’t you worry, we’ll stand guard over your babies,” reassured the owl.
“In a crisis, we must all pull together for the good of our home,” squeaked the bat.
The porcupine organised the mice into orderly troops gathering the storm’s gift of fallen fruit and nuts and seeds into neat piles.
“What a windfall!” cried the sparrows, their feathers ruffled by little flurries of wind that still blew.
“Help yourselves,” called the porcupine. “There’s plenty here for everyone!”
The sparrows were delighted. “It’s a feast!” they chirruped, falling upon the gathered nuts and seeds. But for once, they did not think of gobbling it all up. They flew back and forth, their beaks full, carrying the food to the squirrel, who in turn scurried with it to the barbets, his cheeks stuffed to bursting. The barbets watched nervously. Usually, they had to protect their nests from the squirrel and his friends for whom birds’ eggs were a tasty snack.
“Don’t worry,” called the sparrows. “He’s promised to help, he won’t hurt anyone.”
Soon, the barbets had plenty of food for their chicks, enough to last the season.
The sparrows now replenished the delighted squirrel’s store. “It’s better to be alive after all,” cried the squirrel, as he put the semul flower jauntily upon his head.
“The storm is over. Should we fly on?” asked a sparrow.
“But why? We’ve made so many friends!” protested a couple of young ones. “Can’t we just stay here?”
“Yes, why not?” said the old sparrow, looking thoughtful. “We have food, shelter, and friends here. What more do we need?”
“The more the merrier!” called the barbets.
“We make a great team,” said the owl.
“Come on, come on, there’s plenty still to do! We have our home to save!” called the porcupine. He had already organised the mice and the ants, who were piling soil around the semul’s exposed roots. He knew that the other trees had sensed the semul’s distress and would send it help. “The semul needs our care till the forest takes over its healing!” he called.
The sparrows joined in enthusiastically. They had found their home.
The squirrel had secretly enjoyed the sparrows’ story, especially the bits about the other squirrel. “I think your new squirrel friend was quite silly,” he said loftily. “Imagine thinking he was dead only because a flower fell on his head!”
The dark monsoon clouds had been listening too, and as the sparrows’ story drew to a close, they relented, to release the rain in slow, heavy drops. A big fat raindrop splashed into the squirrel’s eye. “I can’t see, I can’t see, I’m blind,” he shrieked in panic.
“It’s only a little bit of rain, silly,” said the sparrows with a laugh. One of them gently brushed the water out of his eye with a soft wing.
“Well, anyway, your squirrel friend in the semul tree was much sillier,” declared the squirrel, recovering and fluffing up his tail.
“Aww yes, MUCH sillier,” agreed the sparrows. “But look, see what we’ve brought you,” they chirped as they laid out an array of nuts and berries they had collected for their friend.
The squirrel sighed happily. It was good to have the sparrows home again. It had been much too quiet without the busy, chatty little birds.
Story copyright © Shaiontoni Bose and Rohini Chowdhury 2022.
This story was first published in Finding Home, June 16, 2022.
The Indian palm squirrel is an ubiquitous and endearing animal found widely across the Indian subcontinent. It is a small, grey rodent, with soft fur and three white stripes down its back. According to Indian tradition, the little squirrel helped Ram build the bridge to Lanka, where his beloved Sita had been imprisoned by the rakshasa Ravana. Ram stroked the squirrel’s back in affectionate gratitude, and, it is believed, the stripes on the squirrel’s back are the marks left by his fingers.
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AUTHORS’ NOTE
We created this story specially for Jan Peppler who runs the Substack newsletter Finding Home. She very graciously invited us to write as guest contributors on the meaning of home.
The Story Birds were delighted at her invitation, and sent this story to her in June.
We have returned with a clutch of new stories and can’t wait to share them with you. But, to do better justice to the stories and the research needed, we will now send out our stories once every fortnight instead of once a week. Some of our stories require us to travel. When we are lucky we are able to meet the people to whom these stories belong. Travelling thus helps us to authenticate our sources and our settings. We know our readers value the research, and will bear with our new schedule.
From The Story Birds ARCHIVE, the tale the coppersmith barbets told:
THE SHELL NECKLACE
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Welcome back !. Today is International friendship day and our bird friends are back. Loved the story.
Love this story! I adore the illustration!