He approached with hesitant, tilted steps—a wobble born of a body that didn't yet know balance.
He stared at the grain… as if it held all the meaning in the world.
'Don't fall. Don't fly. Don't dissolve. Just… stay here.'
Every muscle in his body tensed for the moment of capture.
Then—with all the focus a two-day-old chick could muster—he extended his head, opened his beak, and lunged.
But the grain didn't disappear.
He lifted his head, looked ahead, then to the right…
An empty beak. A hollow mouth.
And the grain? Still there.
Worse—it had stuck to the edge of his spit! When he raised his head, it lifted slightly with him, smacked against his temple, and dropped again.
He stood still for a moment, processing.
'Really? Even gravity is mocking me?'
He tried again.
This time slowly—like someone trying to catch a soap bubble without popping it.
He approached… opened his beak… closed it.
Swallowed.
Success.
He waited for his tiny stomach's reaction.
'…Alright.'
It wasn't delicious.
But it went in.
It passed.
He stared forward in silence, then:
'I don't need you anymore, Mother Hen… I'm starting to fend for myself.'
He felt a quiet satisfaction. Not victory—something gentler. A new understanding of life.
And so… he began picking up grains. One by one. But on his own terms.
He wouldn't eat what he didn't understand.
He wouldn't fight those who showed no mercy.
And under no circumstances would he go near a moving worm.
And with that first bite settling into his belly, something inside him whispered a kind of reflection:
'How things have changed… I used to eat buttered popcorn in air-conditioned cinemas… and now? I chase after half a corn kernel in a field covered in chicken poop.'
He smiled inwardly. Then resumed his search—with humility, and just the right amount of disdain for reality.
But the truth?
He didn't have much luck.
The suitable grains were rare. The small ones were broken and unsatisfying.
Any long bend of the neck ended with a stiff cramp.
One grain stuck to the roof of his mouth—he nearly choked.
Another was so hard it almost knocked his beak off.
'Clearly… I'm not cut out to eat like a chicken.'
Then… he saw it.
A broken grain.
Small enough to enter his mouth without resistance.
He stared at it a moment, then whispered:
'I don't need you anymore, Mom… I'm starting to fend for myself.'
He waited for his tiny stomach's reply.
'…Alright.'
It wasn't delicious.
But it went in.
It passed.
He felt a quiet contentment. Not a triumph, but a new truce with life.
So… he kept going. Picking up grains, one by one, but only on his own terms.
He wouldn't eat what he didn't understand.
Wouldn't push against those stronger than him.
And would absolutely never, ever, go near a moving worm.
With that first morsel nestled in his stomach, a quiet thought echoed within:
'How things have changed… I used to eat buttered corn in an air-conditioned cinema… and now? I'm chasing half a corn grain in a field covered in chicken droppings.'
He smiled to himself, then resumed his search—humbly, with a healthy dose of contempt for reality.
But really?
He didn't do that well.
Good grains were scarce.
The small ones were broken and not filling.
Every time he bent down too long, his neck ached.
One grain got stuck to the roof of his mouth, nearly choking him.
Another was so tough it almost dislodged his beak.
'Clearly… I'm just not built to eat like a chicken.'
And just then, as he slowly stepped toward another grain, a giant wing shoved him from behind.
He lost his balance and tumbled to the side, a wobbling ball of fluff.
He raised his head, stunned.
The hen didn't even look back.
She was busy pecking at the ground as if nothing happened.
'Rude…' he muttered inwardly, stepping back and trying to catch his breath.
But before he could steady himself, another beak landed next to his face.
Not a threat—
But a warning.
'Are you telling me to back off? Alright… got it.
He stepped back two paces, then stood still, gazing at the grains the way a small child looks at toys behind a store window.
Suddenly, he coughed. A previous grain hadn't gone down well, stuck in the corner of his throat. He raised his head slightly, trying to swallow it.
No death here—but no comfort either.
'Even breathing has become a challenge.'
His stomach squirmed with a faint complaint… this wasn't the battle he had expected.
Then, amid this dark comedy, he saw her approaching.
The girl.
She was still under the palm tree, but her head suddenly turned toward him, as if something had caught her attention.
She stared for a few seconds, with slanted eyes full of quiet surprise… then stood up.
Her steps were softer than before, as if she didn't want to scare him.
Nair froze in place.
Not out of fear—but from a strange kind of embarrassment.
He didn't like being seen when he failed.
And he didn't want to experience that feeling again.
She reached him, then crouched gently.
She said something in her usual language—one he couldn't understand—but her tone was calm… reassuring.
And she smiled.
A small smile, carrying neither mockery nor pity. Just… presence.
Then she lifted him off the ground.
But this time… he wasn't afraid.
With her other hand, she reached into the grain dish, took a handful, and sat back down.
She placed him beside her, on the ground, right next to her hip. Then she sprinkled a few small grains nearby, as if preparing a special meal just for him.
After a moment, she placed an upturned wooden lid beside him, filled with a bit of water.
She didn't speak much. She didn't move much. But she did enough.
Nair remained where he was, staring at the new scene.
The grains… were for him. Just him. And the water was within reach.
Slowly, he approached the first grain—and swallowed it.
It went down smoothly.
'That's how food is supposed to be.'
He lifted his eyes to the girl, who had returned to weaving her basket, sitting beside him, glancing his way now and then.
'She's a good girl.'
He took a sip of water, and mentally gave her the "good person card":
'How things have changed… I used to order meals from a menu in three languages… and now? A girl lays grains for me like I'm a pampered bird.'
He sighed inwardly.
'Maybe life isn't as bad as I thought… as long as someone's feeding you.'
Then, suddenly, he remembered himself from just days ago.
He was human. Standing tall, using hands, eating when and how he pleased.
His hand would reach, grasp, choose.
Now? A beak.
Not a complex tool, nor a precise machine—just a bony protrusion that made a "clack" sound when it missed.
'I'm a chick… incapable of pecking.'
He sighed.
Or tried to—because chicks, simply, don't sigh.
So the feeling stayed trapped in his chest, like a small bubble trembling inside him… then vanished.
And yet, he managed to swallow four grains.
A true accomplishment, by his new standards.
He raised his head and stared at the bowl towering two meters above him, like a wooden mountain.
'I wouldn't climb it… even if I were a proud ant.'
Then he looked at the rest of the chickens, tearing into the food violently, without order… without shame.
'I don't have a steel stomach like you do.'
He lowered his head again.
Approached a fifth grain. It was smaller than the previous ones, almost like a crushed pomegranate seed.
'This one… is within reach.'
Then he pecked. And hit the mark.
But he hadn't swallowed it yet when a large shadow approached him.
He lifted his head cautiously.
And in that very moment, a massive chicken lunged toward him, digging at the ground beneath him, as if she hadn't seen him at all.
Or had seen him… and didn't care.
He froze. She was about to trample him.
Then suddenly, a human hand swooped down from above—swift, decisive.
"Shhh…"
The sound was soft… familiar.
He was lifted off the ground again. Gently this time. Without panic, without shaking.
Then placed on a small woven mat, a bit away from the chaotic arena once called "meal".
And he saw her.
The girl.
Sitting calmly, eyes half-closed, as if she had been watching him the whole time.
She slowly extended her hand and scattered a small handful of grains in front of him—crushed, broken, understandable.
Then placed her finger over her lips, that universal sign that says: "Calm down."
He looked at the grains.
Closer.
Smaller.
More… human.
He blinked, with a kind of gratitude that had no words.
And then… began eating again.