I’m a migrant bird. I fly under the shade of the massive trees of Bangalore. I see myself in the ripples of the lakes. I perch in the restaurants.

Recently, I used some engine power to soar through the traffic jam. I was in search of fresh air and some wonder.

Rocks as old as 3 billion years caught my attention. I quickly googled for the place. I set my pace with a Google map and flapped my wings to go.

Why is the old as fascinating as the new? My thoughts surpassed the honking noises that day.

Old movies, Old values, Old clothes, Old relationships. There’s a fondness.

Fondness to see how far we have come.

The tingling sensation from grass blades, the chirpings of birds in my ears, and the elephantine space that I’m going to cherish at the Rock garden thrilled my sunken heart. My heart sang melodies.

Kannada, Telugu, Malayalam, Tamil, Punjabi, Haryanvi, Assamese, Nepali? I asked the cab driver. He pulled out his phone and showed me a number, 256. He was nothing but a boring human, I thought.

Then I found the most interesting rocks. Rocks that were big for my feet. They were tall, black, and full of life.  If the rock could see me, it would see a grain of sand, nay? It would call me just born. If it could troll me, it would say, “Seen nothing yet, girl.”

I walked around on her. Clicked pictures with her. She posed her valiance. The winds, water, heat, and time, nothing could wither her for three billion years.

She will now carry the fossils and my footprints to show the future generations that I lived. I’m part of the history. My spine straightened up. I came back home feeling old, small, new, and full. 

Sunlight nudged my dreams. I woke myself up to new information about a hidden tunnel that’s in the plan. Environmentalists say it might shake the old rock. We might lose her forever.

What did grains of sand do in history then? I researched. They came together to form a coastline. They stopped water from destroying the fields, farms, huts, and rocks. I’m writing to do the same today.

Rock Garden