DNA Celebrity Column: I want to be a bird!, writes Ayushmann Khurrana

Flock of birds, hovering above. Just a flock of birds, that’s how you think of love.” This is from one of the most underrated Coldplay songs, i. And I love it. The reason is, I love birds. There’s a certain mystery about them. And it’s not just about flying. It’s about flying at will with your own natural talent. We believe we are birds in our heads. All the superheroes are our alter-egos with wings. We all want to fly. But do we have a talent of a bird or just a man? Like do we give a f**k? Or do we give a flying f**k?

“If you will practice being fictional for a while, you will understand that fictional characters are sometimes more real than people with bodies and heartbeats.” These lines from i by Richard Bach, best describe the alter-ego with wings. In this book, the author is a pilot and finds another person who loves to fly and undergoes life-altering experiences.

We are obsessed with heights. Weather it’s about climbing the

Everest or going for a humble touristy elevator fillip to the Burj Khalifa. Devsaab and Nutan climbed down the Qutub Minar  in the song Dil Ka Bhanwar Kare Pukaar from i. By the time I was born in the the 80s, the Qutub Minar was closed. People weren’t given permission to enter it. This action was taken to avoid random suicides.

Forget the Qutub Minar, I don’t understand why we aren’t allowed to go to the terraces of our buildings in Mumbai? They always have a rusty lock. And the watchman is always absconding with no spare key. This is another situation when you would like to be a bird. Or a small-towner who relishes this small joy of making love on the terrace with a pretty neighbour. “Woh Tera Kothe Pe Nange Paaon Aana Yaad Hai...” goes the famous Ghulam ali i. Uff.

My maternal grandfather used to feed the pigeons in Karol Bagh (Delhi) on his terrace. He passed away a few years back. He was 102. The day he passed away, his son (my maamu) went upstairs to feed the birds. To everybody’s surprise, the birds didn’t eat a single morsel. They were just still and didn’t chirp at all, as if they were mourning for my grandfather. They’re strange, beautiful creatures.

I think birds take their power of flight for granted. They never seem to just enjoy their flight. They’re always looking for something. They’re never settled. They make love in the sky. They take turns and change their leaders while migrating across continents. It’s all so well orchestrated. Just like a symphony.  They have natural alarms. They don’t get jet lagged. Get up on time. Go back on time. They predict natural disasters like earthquakes and storms.

Birds are mystical. I know you won’t believe this, but I can  still feel the same excitement I used to feel as an infant, when I saw sparrows for the first time. Sigh. Unfortunately, there are no sparrows in Chandigarh any longer. They moved out of that region because of cell phone tower radiations. I miss them. They make reluctant appearances in Mumbai only to help me relive my childhood all over again. They know I’m here in this city. That’s why they shifted here, It seems. I know for sure, one day, they’ll teach me how to fly.

“You will begin to touch heaven, Jonathan, in the moment that you touch perfect speed. And that isn’t flying a thousand miles an hour, or a million, or flying at a speed of light. Because any number is a limit, and perfection doesn’t have limits. Perfect speed, my son, is being there.” — From Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach