He saw it.
The plate.
Just a few steps away… but for his current size, it might as well be a cliff.
Inside it? Food. And in the plate beside it? Water.
The finish line of his existential race.
He approached with hesitant steps, wobbling as if walking a tightrope.
And when he sniffed, a faint scent reached him… one he couldn't quite place.
Not bad, but far from appetizing.
Like the memory of food from another world—familiar, yet foreign.
He looked at the mixture in the dish.
Scattered seeds. Unfamiliar grains. Something that resembled corn. And some
random crumbs.
All there, unorganized, uninviting.
'Where's the bread? The cheese? Even cake crumbs?'
He thought, not because he expected to find any… but because his mind hadn't yet accepted the idea that these grains were the meal.
And there it was—a crack in identity.
He knew these things. He'd seen them countless times. As a human, he'd toss them to birds.
But they were never his food.
They were something to scatter on the ground… not to touch. Not to eat.
Lowly. Base.
'Am I really going to eat this?'
He felt nauseated—not from the flavor, but from the thought.
He knew it was just grain, maybe raw corn. Harmless.
But he didn't eat corn like this. He saw it grilled, seasoned, served in fancy plates or as hot cobs held by hands.
But now?
He was contemplating eating it directly from the ground… from a low plate… with his beak.
To put something like that in his mouth, to swallow it, to let it become fuel for his new existence…
It all felt bizarre, rejected, somehow… degrading.
'I can't even taste it the way I used to… no lips, no chewing… just peck and swallow.'
He had no teeth.
No hands to pick up a grain and examine it.
Not even a mouth to taste food like a human.
Just a beak.
A small, fragile beak that had to peck to understand—no touching, no smelling.
And here he stood, in front of a dish, wondering:
'Is this really my new life?'
It wasn't disgust he felt… but strangeness.
A strangeness like something inside him was being reshaped—not just the body, but even the way of eating, the concepts, the habits.
He was transforming.
Slowly… and silently.
He remembered the difference between hunger… and craving.
In his human life, he chose food based on what he desired.
But now? He was hungry.
Just plain hungry.
No luxury of choice, no room for objection.
'Let's think about food quality later. First, I need to reach it.'
He stepped forward… then again. Raised his head.
'Great… an adult-sized dish.'
He tried to jump… but couldn't. Couldn't even come close.
He spread his wings and stretched his neck… barely touched air.
'Ah. Perfect.'
He looked at the plate, then his wings, then back at the plate.
He thought, staring at the dish, then at his wings… then at the dish again:
'I'm literally in a world that doesn't consider my size.'
He saw her.
The mother hen.
Standing near the plate, pecking at the food.
Grains. Crumbs. Tiny worms.
All going into her mouth and vanishing.
She didn't look at him. Didn't acknowledge him.
'Ah… the backup plan.'
Nair thought as he moved toward her.
Not out of longing, nor for a warm embrace of motherhood.
But simply… because she was the only creature here he knew. The only one who might help.
She stood in the yard, dipping her head into the plate one moment, pecking the ground the next.
Blowing at the dirt, picking up some invisible speck, swallowing it with grace.
'She's eating.' Nair thought, his eyes darting between her and the two large dishes he couldn't reach.
Food there. Water there. And he… here.
Close enough to see… far enough to be humiliated.
He looked at her again. She was a hen. And he… a chick.
So? Isn't this how it's supposed to work? Isn't she the one who should feed him?
That's what National Geographic said… that's what cartoons said… that's what instinct said.
He took a few uncertain steps closer, then stopped. Let out a tiny chirp. Waited.
Another chirp… softer, more pleading.
He glanced at her with a begging eye, almost whispering: "Please."
She raised her head, looked at him… for one second.
Then went back to pecking the ground.
'No, no, wait! This is my part now, right? You pick the food… then feed me. Come on, isn't that the unspoken contract between us?!'
He chirped again and moved closer, until he was nearly under her beak.
He stepped back two steps, then suddenly leaned forward, opening his tiny mouth, raising his head toward her.
'Come on, I'm ready! Feed me, you artificial mother!'
She raised her head… and stared at him. A moment of silence. Then… pecked at the food for herself, and swallowed a large grain with an audible gulp.
Nair froze.
'She ate it?! I was waiting for that bite!'
He waited.
She pecked at the dish. Pulled out a grain. Immediate consumption. No mercy.
'No problem… I'm still on the waiting list.'
He let out a soft chirp, as if to say, "Hello…?"
No response.
He tried again. Moved closer. Opened his beak. Let out a long chirp this time,
with a tone that nearly said: "Lift me up!"
To his surprise, she looked at him… then casually shook her feathers and walked to the other side of the dish.
He stepped back. Then thought,
'What if… I stand in her way?'
He charged forward with desperate confidence and stood directly in front of her, blocking her path.
She spread her wings slightly, as if to silently say: "Move."
Then pecked him lightly on the head.
'Ouch.'
It didn't hurt… but the message was clear.
'Alright… alright, I'm sorry...'
'Got it. The waiting list… is closed today.'
He stepped back, pondering his fate.
'This hen has nothing to do with me, right? Or at least… she hasn't signed the custody agreement yet.'
Harsh. Truly harsh.
She tapped the ground, pulled out a worm, and swallowed it without even moistening her beak.
'That's a clear message.'
He stepped closer. Chirped softly.
As if to say: "I'm here… you're there… and the food is in between."
Nothing.
A minute. Two.
She leaned down, pecked the ground, then lifted her foot absentmindedly… and stepped on his wing.
He let out a muffled chirp and jumped back.
She looked at him indifferently. A look that said: I didn't see you. I don't plan to.
He froze in place.
'Is this maternal instinct among poultry? Crushed in silence!'
He moved away slightly. Stood. Thought.
'The food is there. The water is there. And me? On the ground.'
Nair felt genuine betrayal.
'You're a hen with no sense of responsibility! Where's your instinct? Your feelings?! I am literally asking to be fed!'
He raised his wings in despair and shouted in his mind:
'If you were my real mom, you'd feed me without me asking…'
The reality was simple… and cruel:
He couldn't reach the dish.
So? Either the hen feeds him… or he finds scattered food on the ground.
Option one? Tried… and denied.
Option two? More tiring, more dangerous.
He barely knew how to walk, his energy drained, and everything he'd done so far amounted to a begging chick.
Then there was the bigger issue: food type.
Worms? Off the menu. Completely off his radar.
What remained? Grains.
Of all the options, the least horrifying.
But even the idea of reaching the food was exhausting:
How would he find it? How would he snatch it from the hens' mouths?
And most of all…
How would he eat it?
It was his first time.
He didn't even know how to begin.
'Let's postpone that option for now… and try again with this heartless hen.'
He took two pecks forward. Then stood firm.
He looked up at the mother hen—or rather, stood at her feet—lifting his head as high as he could, staring at her with unusual seriousness for such a tiny creature.
Nair stood before her,
his round eyes filled with a gravity that didn't match his fluffy form.
'O mother hen… I know we've had our differences, but I've grown now, and it's time we face the truth… am I really your child?'
She was silent, picking up a corn kernel.
'Did you find me in a trash bin? Is my father a stray rooster? Are you ashamed of me?!'
She looked at him for a moment… then went back to eating.
'So that's it… denial! Fine… don't blame the chick if he rebels!'
She kept eating without so much as a twitch.
Nair sighed long… as if his heart had just broken.
She didn't flinch a feather.
He sighed again… the heartbreak even deeper.
Then he decided to try his first trick.
He walked up slowly… then tilted his head and said:
'You look… stunning today. I don't know if it's the lighting or I'm starting to appreciate real beauty… but if I were a grown rooster, I'd crow just for you.'
Of course, what actually came out was a faint, barely audible chirp.
The hen didn't even look his way.
He sighed again.
'Alright… the romantic approach doesn't always work… time for acting.'
He sat a step away from her, slowly opened his beak.
Then closed it.
Then opened it again.
Staring at her the whole time.
Then he tilted his head slowly to the right… then to the left… eyes glistening with imaginary tears.
'I'm hungry… small and weak… will you let me die?'
He stepped back a little, then rolled on the ground.
Lay on his side, eyes closed.
'Ah… hunger… it gnaws at my bones… the end is near… farewell, short life…'
He opened one eye.
No reaction.
Closed it again, and slowly moved his leg in a dramatic gesture.
Another hen glanced at him from afar, tilted her head… then went back to digging in the straw.
He suddenly dropped onto his side, stretched out his tiny legs, and laid his head on the ground like one who had lost the will to live.
He kept breathing slowly… then paused, hoping she'd notice his fake death… rush to him in panic… and feed him.
Nothing.
He opened one eye, looked at her.
She was still eating… with the calmness of serial killers.
'Wonderful… maternal instincts: zero.'
He got up slowly.
After the fake-death attempt failed, he took a deep breath and muttered to himself:
'Alright… emotional maturity phase is over. Time for blackmail.'
He walked toward her slowly, then stood directly in front of her, raised his tiny wings, pretending to shiver.
'If you don't feed me… I'll start chirping. In front of everyone. I'll expose you. I'll tell them you neglect your children! No—I'll say you're not even a real hen. You're half duck!'
And he chirped. A loud peep.
Then a louder one.
Then a third that echoed in his ears.
She didn't look at him.
Another hen gave him a sideways glance… as if considering reporting him.
**
He kept watching her mouth move. Then, very simply… opened his own beak and began imitating her.
Puffed his chest, stretched his neck forward, moved his beak in the air. No grains. No food. A live performance.
'See? This is how chicks are raised! I'm a perfect child… give me the lead role!'
**
Suddenly, a bold idea struck him.
He snuck up behind her, then raised his little foot and pushed her leg gently.
She stopped, glanced back at him for a moment, then resumed eating.
He pushed again—harder.
Suddenly she turned and pecked his beak.
He screamed inside:
'Oh! Domestic violence! She's attacking her child! Where is the law?! Where is child protection?!'
**
At last, he tried climbing.
He approached her as she leaned forward… then jumped—or rather, tried to—
trying to mount her wing.
But he slipped… and landed on her head.
She pecked the air twice, then flung him off with her wing.
He flew a little… then landed on his backside.
He sat on the ground, staring blankly ahead.
'Maybe… this isn't my place. Maybe I should search for a kind-hearted duck…'
He approached the mother hen:
'Oh mother hen… or who I thought you were… if you won't feed me, I'll run away. I'll race through the farms… searching for myself… or at least for bread crumbs!'
Then suddenly, he saw a corn kernel drop from her beak.
He rushed toward it like a soul chasing salvation—
But another hen darted in, snatched it, and swallowed it without a care.
He froze in place, stunned.
Then turned to the mother hen with a look full of betrayal and accusation:
'Even the crumbs… won't be thrown my way? Where is justice? Is there even a court in this world?!'
And at the height of his despair, he saw a small piece fall from her mouth onto the ground.
It gleamed in the sun like a diamond.
An open opportunity… or a sparkling mockery.
He looked at it… then at her… then back at the ground.
He sighed and said:
'Fine… if the meal is yours, then the crumbs are mine.'
And he dashed toward it with the bravery of one who had no choice.
But just as he stepped forward with confidence, he saw another kernel—bigger, more golden, waiting for him.
A raw corn kernel… nothing like the meals of his old life.
And yet, there it was… calling him.
He walked toward it, as if approaching paradise…
Then suddenly—it vanished.
Just like that… swallowed by the mother hen before his eyes.
He froze, felt the air leave his world.
And let out a silent scream within:
'If you want to kill me… then just do it. But what is this slow, torturous death?!'