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Twitter By Zhang Ruihe
image courtesy of Xi and Tan Wai Jia
The nightingale wanted to sing. She was made for singing, this she knew. All her friends and elders told her the same thing. And every time a song welled up in her throat and burst forth in joyous melodies upon her tongue, she became surer that this was what she was meant to do — for all of life, till death took her at last to that paradise where all is song and celebration, and darkness is no more.
But in this world, there was life apart from singing. And even if this life seemed less than abundant, it was pressing and real and near at hand — the daily routines of looking for early worms (or late ones — depending on what time she rose in the mornings), of feathering her nest so that its thorns and bristles would not scratch and scar. Then there were the other nightingales to look after — the ones who had been entrusted to her: brothers and sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, relatives without number, friends and even the young fledglings who came, sent by their parents who were themselves too busy to teach their darlings to sing. So much to do, so much love to give. How could her own love of song seem like anything other than the very least of all these various and important loves?
Soon, the nightingale found that it was all she could do to speak about singing to the fledglings who came seeking her counsel. They came from near and far, in the early dewfall of morning and in the soft leaf-fall of night, on a wing and a prayer, and they almost always went away inspired by her words, sure in their hearts, just as she was, that they were made for singing.
In the meantime, the nightingale dreamt about the songs that would soar unimpeded from the depths of her being, the songs that her soul was being prepared to sing by the loves and duties of her everyday life. She spoke to the fledglings of the songs they could bring to the world — good songs to cheer and encourage, challenge and convict; songs that would feed the deepest hungers of a wandering world and tell that world of love.
She talked about singing all the time, but found not the time to sing. By and by, she lost the exquisite mastery over her voice that had once been the envy of her fellow nightingales, and it slowly became old and hoarse. And in time, she lost her memory of all but her favourite songs, so that when she opened her mouth to sing, what came out of it seemed so far removed from what she remembered that she stopped altogether. Far easier to talk about the songs of old, and dream about the songs of the future — and after all, the urgencies of the now made all thoughts of song seem frivolous and unimportant.
And so it went.
Where is that nightingale now? Perhaps, if you open your window in the early evening and listen to the chatter of birdsong outside — perhaps somewhere in those myriad voices, you might hear the ecstatic carollings of those fledglings the nightingale had taken under her wing, their voices now grown strong and clear and true, ringing in the night. And if you listen even more carefully, you might even catch the whisper of an older, more subdued voice, speaking in quieter tones of the songs that could have been, and the songs that will soon never be again.
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