Bat

There once lived a mammal. He liked to call himself a dreamer, thought he wasn’t the only one. He liked birds a lot. Loved the way they flew to distant lands. He looked at them with bewildered eyes when they took off for a flight. He dared to dream a dream. He wanted to fly too. Not all his friends laughed at him. Some were supportive, some nonplussed. No one thought he could fly though. They weren’t entirely wrong. It did seem impossible. He started trying. Started off with small rocks as launch pads. He tried imitating other birds, studied their way of flying. Sat under a bird’s nest to see how the young ones learn. Observed, tried, fell, got hurt, tried again, and again. The wait, he understood; was long. Longer than even he had assumed it would last. He had thought if he was courageous enough and tried with all his might, he would definitely succeed. Wasn’t a fool; our guy. He was aware of the differences between a bird’s body and his own. He knew there was bulk in his body that birds didn’t have. Feathers? Ah! Anybody could see those. Wings, small feet, aerodynamically adjusted bodies? He had noticed all that, even more so than other mammals who didn’t have outrageous ideas like flying running through their heads. He believed that he could really fly. And after a point, it became an obsession. The vision pulled him even when the body started faltering. Giving up wasn’t an option anymore. All he could do was try to fly. Climb up on a rock or a tree, jump and flap his arms, give it another shot, and another and another one just before sundown. He often got tired and slept on the same tree he was using for flight practice. Then the sun jolted him out of those dreams where he was scaling the clouds and brought him back to solid ground, literally. Then, on one of those days out of so many similar ones, he dropped and didn’t get up. Some of his friends were relieved as they realised only death could put him out of his misery. 

He died. The dream; it didn’t. Dreams have that quality of not dying. Cunning entities these dreams are. They probably skip the body just in time of death and inhabit the nearest one. Or they lie dormant for ages until they find another mind they can corrupt. This one did the same. It lived on through our dreamer’s progeny. One of his descendants got it. He had a day job this one, mouths to feed and all that accompanies it. He felt something amiss though, nothing he did seemed to fill this void inside of him. He often found himself looking at birds. His body was a little different from the rest of his siblings. He liked resting on tree branches.

One day, after hours, while returning from work, he made his first jump. He realised he stayed in the air a little longer than usual. It was definitely more than just a jump. Came back home elated, and slept on a tree. Made a bigger jump the next evening. Glided a bit the next time. Soon, his day became a fleeting memory; real living started after twilight. He started gilding from a tree branch to the ground. Then, slowly, from one tree to another. He had to flap his arms a little too much for a flight. Took a lot of energy out of him, but he was flying and he loved it. His body gradually got moulded into a flight-friendly shape. He made the tree his abode and the night his preferred time to be. 

Did he fly? Yes, he did. Was his flight as graceful as an eagle’s? Not at all. Not like any other bird either. But one thing was clear as the night he soared in. He was flying. A mammal that flew. In a league of his own. A dream that had traveled through generations finally found its end. That is how dreams die, they become reality. 

Well, that’s his story. A tale of exceptional hard work and a will of fire. And what do humans choose to call him? A bat. 

Disgraceful.