A Penguin’s Story

By Sreelekha Chatterjee

Along with a colony of huddling youngsters—at the threshold of adolescence—I gather at the edge of a giant ice cliff, from where the sea below appears like a distant dream. A prolonged weakening, retreat of the ice shelf has suddenly realised into the shape of water, as if its very existence has vanished into thin air. The occasional sprawling of luxuriant colonisation—a bulk of freshness in shades of jade—seems out of place in the otherwise stark white carpet all around. As always, a frontbencher, I station myself at the farthest point on the extremity. Behind me, the onlookers crane their necks to get a better glimpse of the liquesced pale-blue water.

As I am always draped in black and white, I notice the blue-grey hue near my throat when I eat. My siblings have additional golden-yellow ear patches. The wandering, winged creatures in the sky generate an indomitable desire in me. I wish I could fly. I galumph, leaning towards one side, a waddling gait with a lazy swag. My perspectives immobilise in the turbulent, sweeping wind chills.

Stranded on this towering cliff together with fellow earthlings, I gaze at the sky and contemplate the changes. Smitten by uneasy, unprecedented anxiety, without the comfort of the abundance of krill[1], till I decide it’s now or never. Unless we proceed, we will forever remain dependent on our parents. Though I am very close to my parents, I do not wish to be a continued burden to them.

Turning around, I look at my fellow beings for the last time. Their ocean eyes are like static travellers, their noses filled with unrelenting salty tears.

I take the colossal leap of faith, plummeting down like forever, holding my breath, and splashing straight into the icy water below. The biting, piercing hostile water smacks hard at my face in its embrace, as I feel its bitter presence in my shuddering bones. I resurface almost instantly, my heaving chest breathing in the tranquil air—my mind suddenly resorts to flight.

I swim with short strokes, flapping my preternatural wings, traversing the wild sea in style like a fish in known territory. The tiny spectators above remain quiet, admiring the victory ahead of the giant trepidation. A momentary eloquent sound of silence, followed by jubilant cheer. The celebration begins as one by one my mates plunge into the sea unhindered. Initial discomfort, followed by floating in the alien water—our very first step towards filling our bellies with krill, fresh fish and squid. The accomplishment that once bordered insuperability now rests parallel with peace.   

[1] Krill is growing scarce due to climate change. https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/saskatchewan/penguin-diets-climate-change-1.5383720

Sreelekha Chatterjee lives in New Delhi. Her short stories have been widely published in various national, international magazines, journals, and have been included in numerous print and online anthologies.

George Freek’s poetry has recently appeared in The Ottawa Arts Review, Acumen, The Lake, The Whimsical Poet, Triggerfish and Torrid Literature.

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