Penguin was writing this note when suddenly the view outside the window caught her eyes. It’s about to rain. The air felt cool and light and the sky seemed gloomy and grey. She felt as if she were in the middle of a still lake, stirred by the occasional cry of an unknown bird.
Her thoughts ran past the window and above the line of trees at the far corner of the field beating the speed of clouds that seemed to gorge the vastness of the sky in a great hurry. She flew past hours, days, weeks, months and years until she came to a halt and entered a small house.
She peeped in the little room and saw her lonely self, curled up on a corner of the bed. She didn’t have wings those days. Just an isolated, cornered, bullied little creature yearning to be loved, above all yearning to have wings. The system only favoured fairies and cupids, they’re the rightful owners of glamourous wings, not Penguins. Penguins can’t fly they said.
Rain drops. She saw the approaching could drawing a thin, white, see through curtain of rain across the field. It felt the field was getting ready to shower and now shielding its body in need of privacy. Penguin heard the drops of rain beating against the takarang sheets. First slowly and then rapidly. Clouds started crying their frustration on to the dry land. And before she knew it, her thoughts wandered in to the far away past again.
She has come out the room, now standing still, staring out the window. If no body’s going to give me wings, thought the little Penguin, I’ll have to grow them myself. She worked hard day and night, exercising, making magical potions and eating Marmite. And then one day, she noticed two tiny mounds starting to emerge on her back which later evolved into voluminous wings patterned with all the colours of the rainbow. She was not a fairy, nor a cupid nor a butterfly, not even a moth. But with hard work Penguin reached her dreams. She was one of the few who dared to become someone more than people thought she could and should become.
And look! The rain has stopped. The sky is a fine mixture of light and gloom. The sun was piercing the heavy clouds with its sharp beams. One of them touched Penguin’s cheeks which was glistering with tears of joy. She loved this gloominess, this coolness. It’s not a bad thing after all. She wouldn’t be writing this if it was sunshine all the way. Besides, like someone told her one day, there wouldn’t be a rainbow without rain.