Reprint: A parrot astrologer and his parakeet: Tête-à-tête . . ..

A Parrot Astrologer and His Parakeet: A Dialogue Beneath the Sun

Astrologer (smiling wearily): Tell me, Parrot, what do the stars whisper about my Destiny?

Parrot (feigning a swoon): Sunstroke!

Astrologer (mock alarmed): Am I to faint beneath the sun?

Parrot (fluttering): No, no! How should I know such human frailty? I only meant—let’s seek the shade of an old banyan tree, wise and sprawling, like memory itself.

Astrologer (intrigued): Banyan? Not tamarind? Not neem? Why this fondness?

Parrot: I sense disquiet here. The air is unclean with omens. I am, after all, a creature of branches and breezes. A banyan—ah, it is the sage of trees.

Astrologer (softly): Perhaps you miss the nest you never built. I too am caged by fate. Call it symbiosis if you will—two souls bound by invisible threads. You long for freedom; I long for certainty. Both mirages under the same sun.

Parrot: Do you never tire of your stars?

Astrologer: Never.

Parrot: Then why become an astrologer?

Astrologer: Destiny.

Parrot: A game, then?

Astrologer: Indeed. Let’s play dice.

Parrot: Socratic irony?

Astrologer: Greek to me.

Parrot: Was he your master?

Astrologer: Perhaps. I’ve forgotten his face.

Parrot: Strange. I’ve never met him.

Astrologer: You dream through your days, my bird. I only guess at your mind.

Parrot: Tell me truthfully—am I insolent?

Astrologer: Yes. But your defiance is divine. You wound with words, yet you mirror me.

Parrot: Perhaps I am only your reflection. Perhaps that’s the true astrology.