I was no more than a boy, barely ten summers, when I first heard the tale of Nira—the fish who wanted to fly—from Venerable Sona, an old monk who had walked the earth longer than most trees in our village. We sat at his feet beside the river that curled through our valley, where the water reflected the orange robes of the monks like petals floating on the surface.
"Fish were never meant to fly,” he began, the lines around his eyes folding like parchment. “But sometimes, what we are teaches us what we are not. And that is no small lesson.”
In the clear waters of the Megha Lake lived a young fish named Nira. She was lively and curious, darting through lily stems and swirling eddies just to feel the rush of current on her fins. But her eyes always drifted upward.
High above the surface, birds soared toward the sun, their wings slicing through the clouds like poems in motion. Nira’s heart fluttered every time they passed. She believed, deep down, that her true life was meant to be among them.
She often asked the elder fish, “Why must we swim below when the sky sings above?”
Old Ghasa, the biggest catfish in the lake, always replied: “We are bound by our karma, child. What is meant to be cannot be forced.”
Nira would scoff gently and return to practicing leaping out of the water. Her jumps grew stronger each day, and with each splash she was certain her wings were just waiting to reveal themselves. But they never did.
One afternoon, driven by hope, Nira leapt higher than ever before—so high that she landed not back in water, but in a bird’s nest by the lake. A startled myna, whose eggs Nira had narrowly missed crushing, peered painfully at her.
"I didn’t mean to land here!” Nira gasped. “I only wanted to fly.”
The myna blinked, her feathers fluffed. “Little fish, flying isn't just about rising into the air. It’s about knowing the air is your place. That’s not something leaping alone can change.”
Nira’s gills ached in the dry air, her body twisted and gasping. The myna, filled with compassion, fluttered low and gently pushed her back over the edge of the nest—back into the cool waters below.
She survived. Her scales were bruised, but her understanding was deeper.
From that day, Nira no longer chased the sky. Instead, she taught younger fish the beauty of swimming with grace, the courage of asking questions, and the wisdom of knowing one's nature.
“Master,” I asked Venerable Sona, “why didn’t Nira ever grow wings?”
He smiled softly. “Because wings weren’t her path. But the courage to leap—and the humility to return—that was her enlightenment.”
As the sky rippled with evening clouds and river sounds cradled us once again, I finally understood what the fish could not: We are not what we wish to become. We are what we learn from the journey.
And sometimes, that is enough to change everything.
I was no more than a boy, barely ten summers, when I first heard the tale of Nira—the fish who wanted to fly—from Venerable Sona, an old monk who had walked the earth longer than most trees in our village. We sat at his feet beside the river that curled through our valley, where the water reflected the orange robes of the monks like petals floating on the surface.
"Fish were never meant to fly,” he began, the lines around his eyes folding like parchment. “But sometimes, what we are teaches us what we are not. And that is no small lesson.”
In the clear waters of the Megha Lake lived a young fish named Nira. She was lively and curious, darting through lily stems and swirling eddies just to feel the rush of current on her fins. But her eyes always drifted upward.
High above the surface, birds soared toward the sun, their wings slicing through the clouds like poems in motion. Nira’s heart fluttered every time they passed. She believed, deep down, that her true life was meant to be among them.
She often asked the elder fish, “Why must we swim below when the sky sings above?”
Old Ghasa, the biggest catfish in the lake, always replied: “We are bound by our karma, child. What is meant to be cannot be forced.”
Nira would scoff gently and return to practicing leaping out of the water. Her jumps grew stronger each day, and with each splash she was certain her wings were just waiting to reveal themselves. But they never did.
One afternoon, driven by hope, Nira leapt higher than ever before—so high that she landed not back in water, but in a bird’s nest by the lake. A startled myna, whose eggs Nira had narrowly missed crushing, peered painfully at her.
"I didn’t mean to land here!” Nira gasped. “I only wanted to fly.”
The myna blinked, her feathers fluffed. “Little fish, flying isn't just about rising into the air. It’s about knowing the air is your place. That’s not something leaping alone can change.”
Nira’s gills ached in the dry air, her body twisted and gasping. The myna, filled with compassion, fluttered low and gently pushed her back over the edge of the nest—back into the cool waters below.
She survived. Her scales were bruised, but her understanding was deeper.
From that day, Nira no longer chased the sky. Instead, she taught younger fish the beauty of swimming with grace, the courage of asking questions, and the wisdom of knowing one's nature.
“Master,” I asked Venerable Sona, “why didn’t Nira ever grow wings?”
He smiled softly. “Because wings weren’t her path. But the courage to leap—and the humility to return—that was her enlightenment.”
As the sky rippled with evening clouds and river sounds cradled us once again, I finally understood what the fish could not: We are not what we wish to become. We are what we learn from the journey.
And sometimes, that is enough to change everything.
