I was just a young boy helping my grandfather gather firewood when I first heard the story of the parrot who stayed behind. We were sitting under the shade of a sal tree, our hands dusty from the earth, when he began to speak in that quiet, steady voice of his—the voice that meant I should listen.
“This story,” he said, “is older than any kingdom you’ve read about. It happened when the animals still listened to the wind and when wisdom came from feathers, not scrolls.”
Long, long ago in a forest deep in India, there lived a parrot named Suva. He was no ordinary parrot. Suva was known far and wide for his beautiful green feathers that shimmered like morning light through fresh leaves, but more than his colors, Suva was known for his heart full of kindness.
Suva lived in a large forest filled with many creatures and trees that stood tall like temple pillars. Every day, Suva flew among the trees, eating sweet fruits and chirping songs of joy for all to hear. He loved his forest deeply, for every leaf, root, and bird was like family to him.
But one hot season, the rain stopped. The rivers dried up. The trees turned brown and brittle, and the animals grew thin and tired. Many creatures fled the parched forest in search of greener lands—birds flew, deer ran, monkeys leapt from branch to branch, further towards the mountains.
One of the birds said to Suva, “Come with us! There is nothing left for us here. This forest will die.”
But Suva looked around at the wilted trees, the cracked earth, the tiny worms struggling in the heat. “How can I leave?” he said. “This forest gave me life. I will stay with it, even in suffering.”
So Suva perched on the highest branch of the oldest tree and cried. Not for himself, but for the trees and the lives they once supported. His tears fell like light rain, gentle and warm. And as his tears touched the ground, something incredible happened.
A great spirit—some say it was a Bodhisattva, one on the path to Buddhahood—descended from the heavens in the form of a mighty bird. This wondrous being had seen Suva’s sorrow and was moved by his unselfish love.
“Why do you cry?” asked the divine bird.
“I cry for what is lost,” Suva whispered, “But also for what remains. Though the forest is dying, I will not abandon it.”
Touched by Suva’s compassion, the great spirit flapped its wings once—just once—and the forest began to change. Clouds gathered. Rain fell. The roots drank deeply. Leaves returned. Life bloomed again.
When my grandfather finished, I sat very still. The firewood forgotten beside me.
“That parrot,” he said, “didn't save the forest with power or anger. He saved it with compassion. He didn’t cling to what the forest had been, nor try to force it back. He simply stayed present—with love and mindfulness.”
Years later, I still remember that story. It taught me about impermanence—that everything changes. About non-self—that Suva didn’t think of himself first. And mindfulness—by staying, by witnessing, he became the change.
That’s what happened when the parrot who stayed behind changed everything.
I was just a young boy helping my grandfather gather firewood when I first heard the story of the parrot who stayed behind. We were sitting under the shade of a sal tree, our hands dusty from the earth, when he began to speak in that quiet, steady voice of his—the voice that meant I should listen.
“This story,” he said, “is older than any kingdom you’ve read about. It happened when the animals still listened to the wind and when wisdom came from feathers, not scrolls.”
Long, long ago in a forest deep in India, there lived a parrot named Suva. He was no ordinary parrot. Suva was known far and wide for his beautiful green feathers that shimmered like morning light through fresh leaves, but more than his colors, Suva was known for his heart full of kindness.
Suva lived in a large forest filled with many creatures and trees that stood tall like temple pillars. Every day, Suva flew among the trees, eating sweet fruits and chirping songs of joy for all to hear. He loved his forest deeply, for every leaf, root, and bird was like family to him.
But one hot season, the rain stopped. The rivers dried up. The trees turned brown and brittle, and the animals grew thin and tired. Many creatures fled the parched forest in search of greener lands—birds flew, deer ran, monkeys leapt from branch to branch, further towards the mountains.
One of the birds said to Suva, “Come with us! There is nothing left for us here. This forest will die.”
But Suva looked around at the wilted trees, the cracked earth, the tiny worms struggling in the heat. “How can I leave?” he said. “This forest gave me life. I will stay with it, even in suffering.”
So Suva perched on the highest branch of the oldest tree and cried. Not for himself, but for the trees and the lives they once supported. His tears fell like light rain, gentle and warm. And as his tears touched the ground, something incredible happened.
A great spirit—some say it was a Bodhisattva, one on the path to Buddhahood—descended from the heavens in the form of a mighty bird. This wondrous being had seen Suva’s sorrow and was moved by his unselfish love.
“Why do you cry?” asked the divine bird.
“I cry for what is lost,” Suva whispered, “But also for what remains. Though the forest is dying, I will not abandon it.”
Touched by Suva’s compassion, the great spirit flapped its wings once—just once—and the forest began to change. Clouds gathered. Rain fell. The roots drank deeply. Leaves returned. Life bloomed again.
When my grandfather finished, I sat very still. The firewood forgotten beside me.
“That parrot,” he said, “didn't save the forest with power or anger. He saved it with compassion. He didn’t cling to what the forest had been, nor try to force it back. He simply stayed present—with love and mindfulness.”
Years later, I still remember that story. It taught me about impermanence—that everything changes. About non-self—that Suva didn’t think of himself first. And mindfulness—by staying, by witnessing, he became the change.
That’s what happened when the parrot who stayed behind changed everything.
