The roar that fell

Once upon a time, long long ago, Kharak the tiger ruled the jungle with a heart full of pride and claws sharp as knives. All the animals respected him—except one. High above the trees, Sqwillo the parrot flapped and mocked, a loudmouth stain in the tiger’s kingdom. The most cunning carnivores knew to stay on Kharak’s good side, bringing him gifts, tributes for survival. But Sqwillo never bent a knee.

One day, Kharak had enough of the insolent bird. He stopped beneath Sqwillo’s perch and roared up at him.

“Sqwillo, you wretched featherbag, you glorified chicken you! I’ve heard your squawks about me, your king. One leap, and I’ll shred you to bits!”

Sqwillo looked down, his beak twitching with annoyance. “Leap all you like, you puffed-up puss! Up here, you’re no king—just a big cat with a loud mouth!”

Kharak’s blood boiled. He let out a roar that shook the leaves, but Sqwillo just flapped away, untouchable. “Roar away, it changes nothing!” the parrot called.

Time rolled on, and Kharak’s pride stayed as fierce as ever. Then, out of nowhere, hunters crashed into the jungle, looking for the Sultan’s newest prize. They captured Kharak and hauled him to a palace of stone and gold.

“Even these lowly humans see I’m a king,” Kharak growled, tearing into the piles of meat his keepers brought. He strutted proudly before the Sultan’s guests, telling himself a cage was just a throne with bars after all. The Sultan was enamored by his youthful beast, showing him off at every feast he hosted.

But years are not forgiving, not even for king Kharak. His fur dulled, his eyes grew heavy with the weight of iron bars. The Sultan grew tired of the old tiger and sent him off to the circus.

Life at the circus was no palace. The ringmaster’s whip stung, and starvation kept Kharak weak, and crowds laughed as he limped through silly tricks. The mighty king felt broken, abandoned by the cruel world.

One morning, a familiar squawk cut through the misery. Kharak’s ears perked up. It was Sqwillo, a voice from long ago, from a past life.

“Sqwillo… my friend… is that you?” Kharak shouted, scrambling up like a kitten. “Do you remember me?”

Sqwillo turned, peering at the faded cat—broken claws, missing fang, dull fur. “I remember you,” he said at last.

“Help me, Sqwillo!” Kharak pleaded. “I’m your king— you must obey me, help me get out of this wretched cage!”

Sqwillo hopped closer, voice low and steady. “This ain’t the jungle, Kharak. You’re no king here, and I’m no subject. We’re just two trapped creatures. Here we are truly equals, equals in chains.”

--

Afterword:

My sweet mother reminded me of where I learnt the story of the wise king. We used to have that book in our collection back in the day, and more than a book, it was a compilation of poetry by Khalil Gibran.

I found a page with the short poems and stories and found myself in love with the nostalgic flavors. There was one particular poem, I guess, that resonated with me.

Maybe because we are living in an era of Faux Kings, in my opinion, but I feel like the story could be more impactful if It had more depth in it's characters.

THE TWO CAGES

In my father's garden, there are two cages. In one, a lion is imprisoned, brought by my father's slaves from the desert of Nineveh; in the other lives a sparrow that does not sing. At dawn, every day, the sparrow says to the lion:

"Good morning, fellow prisoner."

For some reason these few lines, feel so important right now.

MenO