He stood still for a moment, unsure whether to grieve the grain that vanished or the dignity that was trampled under her feet without even a backward glance. He couldn't believe life could be this cruel—this quiet.
It was as if the universe conspired to show him this scene of defeat in slow motion: the mother hen lowering her beak, the grain disappearing, and he... just standing there, blinking.
A sigh escaped him, like the last shred of pride leaving his tiny body. He glanced around with eyes boiling with disappointment and thought:
'Got it. Message received. If the one you thought was your mother won't feed you… no one else will.'
But something inside him refused to believe. He didn't want to believe.
Maybe because he was hungry, or desperate, or maybe because he still clung to that very human stupidity called hope.
He shook his head with a forced resolve, dusted off imaginary dirt, and looked out at the crowded flock ahead of him:
'She's not the only one… Surely one of them has a softer heart—or an emptier stomach.'
And so, he tried again.
Not just once.
After being rejected by the hen he thought was his 'mother', Nair tried his luck with more hens in the flock. He approached one who looked less busy, then another with soft feathers and a calm voice. He acted pitiful, swayed with sadness, chirped short pleading peeps… but nothing changed.
Same looks. Same indifference. One glanced at him without interest, another nearly stepped on his tail before changing direction as if to say: 'I don't have time for sentimental chicks.'
At that point, after a series of silent humiliations, he gathered what was left of his pride and withdrew from the arena of disgrace with short, stumbling steps.
'The motherhood plan… has failed.'
Fine. Only one option left: feed himself.
He turned his head back to the food bowl.
Took a step closer.
Approached the low dish placed in the center of the yard.
He stood beside it, looking up. Its size… was insulting.
It looked like a giant barrel, its rim towering far above his head. Even if he jumped—and he didn't even know how to jump—he wouldn't reach it. Climbing it? Impossible. Not just because he lacked the ability, but because every hen passing by nearly kicked him without meaning to.
'The bowl is for grown-ups only.'
He looked down.
Luckily, some grains had spilled from the bowl. Scraps of the battle.
'Alright… let's begin.'
He moved carefully among the scattered grains. Some were huge. Some crushed. Some… unidentifiable.
And that's when he began to notice something...
The chickens around him didn't think. Didn't hesitate. Didn't pause. They pecked at anything, anytime, from anywhere. Pebble? Worm? Coconut shell? One peck, and done.
'No choices. No menus. No ingredient questions.'
A nearby hen lunged for something he didn't quite see. What he did see was the aftermath: a splash of mud flying onto his head.
'And that… is how I realized I'm not built to compete with these creatures.'
He couldn't hustle. Couldn't rapid-peck. Couldn't even walk steadily among all those feet.
'Fine… I won't eat like them. I'll choose.'
But the problem wasn't in choosing… it was in the act itself.
Because, quite simply, he didn't know how to eat.
Yes, it sounded simple in theory: Grain. Beak. Swallow.
But in reality? He had never used this beak before.
A regular chick would know… but he didn't.
'How can a creature who's never used his beak… suddenly try eating?'
He tried opening his mouth.
Nothing. The beak didn't work like a mouth.
He lunged for a grain? Missed it.
Tried again… and it rolled away.
'Oh… so that's how it is?'
He watched a hen nearby gently tap a grain, lift her head, and swallow.
He focused intently.
Peck. Lift. Swallow.
Sure! Here's the full English translation of the passage, preserving the tone and using italics for internal thoughts, marked with single quotes as you requested:
'I think I got it.'
He bowed his head, mimicking what he had seen.
Then… he pecked!
But the surprise?
No sound.
He thrust his head toward the grain, but missed the target—his beak hit the ground and his head snapped back in pain.
A sharp jolt, as if his skull had slammed into a wooden plank.
He rose, wobbling, stunned, blinking slowly.
'Oof… that hurts more than it looks.'
He shook his head, trying to shake off the dizziness, then stepped back and tried again.
This time, he made a faint peck… but his head rolled forward and he lost his balance.
He fell flat on his face.
'Good grief! I can't control my neck!'
He rolled onto his side, then pushed himself back up.
Sat down. Literally.
Decided this position was safer.
'Balance before appetite… one of life's new lessons.'
He spread his stubby wings to the sides as stabilizers, then scooted closer to a small broken grain.
He stared at it cautiously, as if it were some complex riddle.
He inched forward, stretched out his beak, opened his mouth slightly… and pulled in the grain.
It lifted!
The tip of his beak touched it. He pressed gently…
He felt it between his jaws.
He hesitated. He couldn't tell whether he was holding it or crushing it.
But it didn't fall.
'Now what… swallow?'
He raised his head like the hen had done.
He waited.
Something slid down.
Chewing? No. There was no chewing in this body.
Only direct swallowing.
But even that wasn't easy.
He paused.
No sound. No echo. No internal applause.
Just a moment of silence… followed by a slight sting in his throat.
Had he… eaten it?
He felt the grain scraping its way down his narrow gullet.
'I'm choking on a breadcrumb… wonderful.'
He coughed twice, then regained his balance.
Closed his eyes for a moment.
Then opened them again.
Two seconds passed.
Three.
He didn't choke. Didn't vomit. Didn't drop dead.
His body didn't reject it.
And… somewhere deep inside, something seemed to calm.
He had done it.
Tiny. Broken. Not enough for a sparrow.
But it was the first.
And it was enough to be 'a beginning.'
He looked back up at the dish.
The grains were still scattered around it, as if waiting for him.
The hens were still engaged in their chaotic pecking battles, leaving no chance for anyone else.
But Nair, now, wasn't trying to catch up with them.
He knew what he was looking for.
'If I hurry now, I might beat any objections.'
And again… he moved.
Not to devour, but to select.
Amid all the mud and feathers, he began his new path: to find the crumbs that suited him, even if just a few.
He knew what he didn't want:
Worms? Impossible. Even if one slid into his mouth on
its own, he'd spit it back out.
Straw? Tasteless and useless.
The yellow corn kernel? The size of a tennis ball. You'd have to be insane to swallow it whole.
He was looking for that small grain… the broken one…
the one that could be swallowed without a fight.
He rushed forward. Or rather… wobbled with unsteady speed, like a puffball on shaky legs.
Movement wasn't easy: the ground was paved with rough pebbles, interspersed with dry grass. Every step was an adventure.
But he didn't retreat.
His eyes were fixed on the grains as if they were buried treasure, the holy grail.
But that was the most dangerous arena.
Most of the hens had gathered around the dish, and their attention wasn't limited to what was inside. Their eyes spotted the scattered grains as well.
They were faster, stronger, more experienced.
And every time he saw a grain, a hen's beak would get to it a second before him.
The problem wasn't scarcity—it was suitability: most of the grains were too big for his tiny beak.
And he wasn't picky—he'd given up gourmet preferences hours ago—but choking to death wasn't worth it after all that struggle.
Then… one fell from a hen's beak.
It bounced gently onto the dirt and settled near him.
His eyes widened.
As if it were a sign from the heavens.
Or a final test from fate.
He approached slowly… like a war-weary hero.
Step by step, his eyes locked on the grain.
Closer… until it was just a beak's length away.
The food was there.
Right in front of him, scattered on the ground…
Within sight, not within reach.