From Beak to Bond: Lessons Beyond

Profound Lessons from an Unlikely Teacher

Philipose Vaidyar

The humble crow is one of the animal kingdom's most remarkable and often overlooked teachers. We've all heard of the classic story of "The Thirsty Crow," learning early in school how this clever bird drops stones into a pitcher to raise the water level, satisfying its thirst. But my recent encounter with crows taught me a deeper, more profound lesson about love, community, and the bonds they share.

As a child, I often watched how two crows work together craftily and intelligently. I witnessed, firsthand, how one crow would snatch a chick while the mother hen flew after it, and the other crow would swoop in to grab the chick. I thought to myself, "How clever these birds are!" Their strategic coordination was a lesson in teamwork, intelligence, and, at times, mischief.

Nowadays, in most areas except rural landscapes, it’s rare to find water pots left out for the crows to scout. They’ve adapted to modern sources, knowing water is usually available from taps rather than open pots. When you switch on the motor pump, even if it’s not very noisy, a thirsty crow observes from a distance. It patiently waits for the tank to overflow, then perches conveniently on the overflow pipe to quench its thirst.

In the realm of nature, there are countless lessons to be learned—lessons in intelligence, perseverance, and even love. However, what I observed recently added a new dimension to my understanding of crows. It was a lesson not just in survival but in love and mourning. My most recent encounter with crows taught me a lesson far more profound. It was not a display of intelligence or mischief, but one of love, grief, and community.

It began one morning when I noticed two dead crows lying in our compound. From the looks of it, they had been electrocuted by the power lines running through the area. As I made plans to bury them after a short trip, I didn’t think much of it. But what I witnessed the following day left me in awe. Early in the morning, before the sun had even begun to rise, the sky was filled with crows. Hundreds of them, flying in large, tight circles, cawing loudly and persistently. Their calls echoed through the air with such intensity and emotion that it was impossible to ignore. The heaviness in their cawing spoke volumes. It wasn’t just noise—it was grief.

I had never known that crows, with all their wit and cunning, could also be so deeply social and emotional. As I stood there watching, I realized I was witnessing something extraordinary: a communal mourning ritual. Research has shown that crows, like many other social animals, have the capacity for grief. When one of their own dies, they gather in large groups, cawing in what seems like a farewell. This phenomenon is not just about survival; it’s a testament to the emotional intelligence and social bonds that these birds share.

Crows are known for their complex social structures and behaviors. They live in tight-knit groups and display remarkable problem-solving abilities. However, it is their mourning rituals that truly highlight their emotional depth. According to studies, crows are known to hold “funerals” for deceased members of their flock. They may call out, gather in a circle, and sometimes even stay near the body for hours as if paying their respects. The mourning behavior observed in crows is not a random act but a social necessity—reinforcing their bonds and ensuring the stability of the group. These rituals, much like human funerals, offer a form of closure and solidarity, strengthening the emotional fabric of the community.

What struck me most was that these birds, often dismissed as mere scavengers, embody an emotional depth that challenges the boundaries we draw between ourselves and the animal world. The crows’ display of mourning wasn’t just instinctive—it was a profound act of love, loyalty, and shared grief, a poignant reminder of the strength found in the community. They weren’t simply circling the sky but honoring their fallen fellow, uniting themselves in sorrow.

In that moment, I was struck by how love transcends boundaries, uniting humans and animals alike. The crows' vigil was a powerful reminder that relationships—simple or profound—sustain us, especially in times of loss.

Their mourning wasn’t just nature’s display; it reflected our humanity, challenging the belief that deep emotional bonds are uniquely ours. Community and empathy are universal truths—the very fabric of life. Watching the crows grieve, I was reminded that life’s meaning lies in the relationships we nurture. Their actions urged us to grieve, heal, and honor what matters most.

Ultimately, the lesson is clear: love and connection define existence. Like the crows circling their fallen, we too must gather around those we cherish, offering comfort and strength in life’s trials. It is in these acts of togetherness that we find life’s deepest meaning.

Here is Romans 12:9-16 (NIV), which beautifully reflects the themes of love, empathy, and community:

9 Love must be sincere. Hate what is evil; cling to what is good.
10 Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves.
11 Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervor, serving the Lord.
12 Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.
13 Share with the Lord’s people who are in need. Practice hospitality.
14 Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse.
15 Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.
16 Live in harmony with one another. Do not be proud, but be willing to associate with people of low position. Do not be conceited.

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Riding Through Time

The Curious Chronicles of Cycles

Philipose Vaidyar

In a small hillside town in Kerala, fifty years ago, bicycles were the unsung heroes of daily life. They were more than just a means of transport—they were symbols of freedom and independence, carrying dreams and responsibilities alike over dirt paths and winding lanes. For many, owning a bicycle was a mark of pride, a modest luxury not every household could afford, yet an essential companion for those who did. These two-wheeled marvels were the common man’s faithful steed, tirelessly bridging distances, connecting lives, and simplifying daily struggles.

As a child, I would often stop at the sound of a metallic clink from a passing bicycle bell. It wasn’t just a sound but a melody that spoke of motion and possibility, a promise of journeys yet to be taken. The rhythmic squeak of the wheels, the occasional skid on a dusty road—all seemed to tell a story of freedom I could only imagine, a world of adventure just out of reach but irresistibly inviting. It was a simpler time, where even the hum of a bicycle chain carried the charm of a song unsung, weaving itself into the fabric of everyday life.

The Cycles of Life

My father owned a full-sized bicycle, a giant to my eight-year-old self. When he is not out, it rested regally on the veranda, its black frame gleaming in the midday sun, a tax tag from the Panchayat, a fixed yellow tin tag with black letters and a number, secured to any visible nut on the body. That tag, renewed every six months, was a ticket to legitimacy. Cycle inspectors emerged at times on roads, ready to pounce on anyone riding without a license. The fines they levied could buy a week’s worth of groceries, and yet the bicycle was worth the risk.

I was too short to ride it properly, but the pull of its allure was too strong to resist. Baby, one of my elder cousins, who visited our home, once, became my mentor at least for that day. He told me the art of one-sided pedaling—perching on the left, one leg on the pedal, and the other skimming the ground for balance. My classroom was our fine, cow-dung-plastered courtyard, and the compound, a maze of tree roots and loose stones that added layers of challenge to the learning process.

When my father wasn’t home, I would sneak the bicycle out. With the seat under my arm and my little legs spinning the pedals, I’d wobble my way around the yard. The crashes were inevitable, and the scars on my knees became a badge of honor among my friends. I felt triumphant the first time I cycled down the mud path, to the panchayat road to our paddy fields. A kilometer felt like a grand journey, the wind against my face like applause from an unseen audience.

But cycling was more than a skill—it became my companion in life’s journeys. I carried groceries from the market, bundles of gatherings from the fields, and even messages between neighbors. Yet, ironically, I never cycled to school. Back then, the sight of a student on a bicycle was almost unheard of; bicycles were for trips for tasks and work, not education.

As years passed, my connection to the bicycle deepened. I learned to fix its chain when it slipped off the crank wheels, patch up punctures with tools my father kept, and even dismantle and repaint it when the frame grew dull. By the time I was a teenager, the cycle was an extension of myself—a symbol of resilience, resourcefulness, and the joys of simple living. During the Christmas season, I even tried fixing tiny stars and lighting them up using the cycle's dynamo.

Mr. Bicycle

Decades later, bicycles continued to weave stories, like the one involving a missionary in a remote Maharashtrian village. In those days, motorbikes were coveted treasures, but for most missionaries, bicycles were the lifeline. This particular couple had a faithful companion in their eight-year-old cycle, which they used tirelessly to travel miles for their ministry. They visited families, shared the gospel in the local dialect, and fostered unity among their small community.

When the cycle started demanding frequent repairs, the missionary wrote to the organization for permission to buy a new one. A few letters and replies went back and forth, with carbon copies duly sent, and weeks passed in patient waiting. Finally, the reply came—a curt refusal.

“I’ve used a cycle for 15 years at home,” the administrator wrote. “You can maintain yours longer.”

Disheartened but undeterred, the missionary and his wife devised a clever solution. They applied for a new cycle in her name, reasoning that it would sidestep bureaucratic hurdles. Two weeks later, a check arrived, and the village welcomed a shiny new bicycle. The old one, meanwhile, leaned against the wall of their hut, gathering rust and stories.

Years later, when I saw that rusted bicycle during a visit, it spoke volumes. It was more than a discarded vehicle—it was a testament to perseverance, leadership, and the unspoken hierarchies that often define human interactions. I pondered the questions it raised:

• Do we truly hear the needs of those we lead?
• Is leadership about wielding authority, or is it about service?
• What impressions do we leave on the hearts of those around us?

 

The Bell That Rang in Wayanad

The hills of Wayanad have their own rhythm, a mix of misty mornings and bustling markets. It was here that I met Biju, the leader of a small NGO dedicated to empowering marginalized communities. In fact, I had been invited by Biju to create a video documentary on his work in Wayanad. I went for a location scout and our initial meeting. 

During an informal team discussion, one of his staff shared a heartfelt story about Babu, the high school-aged son of a local staff member named Kunjumon. Babu walked five miles each way to school, his feet weary by the time he returned home. Biju encouraged the boy to pray for a bicycle, promising to raise funds for a second-hand one. The bell of that bicycle began ringing in my ears.

Though my financial situation was insecure without a regular work in hand, I felt a nudge to help. I shared Babu’s story with a friend over the phone, and to my surprise, instantly he offered to gift the cost of a new bicycle. I enquired, George whose contact I had, to get a quote for a regular cycle. Within days, the funds were sent, as I insisted to George's account, and Babu had a gleaming new ride to conquer the hills.

But the story didn’t end with Babu’s joy. Biju, instead of celebrating the solution, was upset. He felt bypassed, his authority undermined. George, the staff member who facilitated the purchase, was fired.

I was stunned. Wasn’t the boy’s need the priority? Why did egos overshadow generosity? The incident left a bitter taste, but it also illuminated a harsh truth: sometimes, even acts of kindness are entangled in human weakness.

 

The Climax: A Cycle of Reflections

These stories—of my childhood bicycle, the missionary’s rusting companion, and Babu’s new ride—are linked by more than spokes and wheels. They are tales of humanity’s relationship with humility, authority, and service.

The bicycle, simple as it is, becomes a mirror. It reflects the dreams of an eight-year-old child, the resilience of a missionary couple, and the struggles of a boy in Wayanad. It also exposes the flaws in systems, the pettiness in leadership, and the power of small acts of kindness.

As I sat on my newer veranda, watching a child pedal past on a bright blue cycle, I thought about the journey of life itself. Like learning to ride, it’s a balance of falls and triumphs, of effort and grace. And in the end, the question isn’t about how far we traveled or how fast we went—but whom we carried along the way.

Wouldn’t you agree? (Your comments are invited)

Here is one from our son, Joash, that I captured once from the balcony in Chennai, enjoy yet another experience of his post on his cycling experience in Chennai and beyond!!! 

Read on

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The Trumpet Sounds

Will Trump Sound the Trumpet?

Philipose Vaidyar

May we neither be politicians nor prophets, yet God’s Word offers us insight into the times. Observing this U.S. election from a place of faith may be a moment of profound change.

Throughout history, God has raised leaders—not for their flawless personalities or ideal families, but to accomplish His purpose. He has used kings and rulers, sometimes from foreign lands, as His instruments of correction or restoration. The Scriptures remind us that even those we might not expect can be called "My servant" and used to bring about His will.

As we consider this election, we reflect on the significance of the fig tree blossoming, a sign that God’s plan is unfolding. Democracy may often be preferred to authoritarianism, yet we must also consider where our democratic leadership is leading. God’s purposes are not bound to any single system, and He may lift up His name through leaders and events far beyond our expectations.

So, we ask: Will Trump sound the trumpet this time? Could this election spark shifts that ultimately lift up God’s will, even echoing through the lands of ancient history? As we watch prayerfully, may we remember that God’s plans often unfold surprisingly, reminding us of His sovereignty across all nations and times.

Tailpiece:

The trumpet in Scripture is a powerful symbol of divine action and spiritual awakening. It signals God’s presence, calls people to worship and repentance, and often precedes battle or divine intervention. In prophecy, especially Revelation, trumpets announce key end-time events, symbolizing judgment and the fulfillment of God’s plans. The “last trumpet” also represents resurrection and renewal, where God’s people are called into His eternal presence. Ultimately, the trumpet is a call to be alert, reminding us that God’s purposes are unfolding.

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