The Wise Old Fool on the Hill

The Crow Whisperer Who Sees What We’re Too Busy to Notice

I’ve resumed my daily morning walks now that I’m back in Kochi.

The familiar streets greet me like an old friend… grumbling a little, but still comforting.

It’s the kind of reunion where neither party has changed much: the roads are still cracked, the dogs still look at me with mild disdain, and my knees… long-time veterans of failed fitness plans… now grumble like old uncles asked to dance at weddings.

I usually don’t pay much attention to the faces of the people I pass.

My focus drifts elsewhere… to the uneven roads, the forgotten pebbles, the stray dogs lounging like royalty, and the dusty cars that have become permanent fixtures.

I take in the mynas gossiping in pairs, the ever-industrious crows, and the heady aroma of frying snacks from street-side vendors preparing for the morning rush.

The tea stalls are already doing brisk business, catering to early risers and weary security guards… men who stand at their posts, eyes heavy with the promise of sleep as they wait for their replacements.

Then there are the young students, always in a hurry, clutching their backpacks as they race towards their coaching classes, and the nurses, dressed in pristine uniforms, walking briskly from their hostels to the hospital, their expressions oscillating between fatigue and quiet determination.

I like to think of my morning walks as a grand exploration… except my only real discoveries are new cracks in the pavement, a fresh batch of existential thoughts, and the occasional dog that decides I must be a prophet on a journey and insists on tagging along.

The truth is, I’m not so much walking as I am being dragged forward by sheer force of routine.

Some days, I wonder if I should carry a clipboard and act like I’m conducting an important survey on potholes, just to justify my presence on these streets.

Among the many figures I pass on my usual route, there is one who stands out… the old man.

He is small, frail at first glance, yet radiates a quiet strength.

His white dhoti and simple, well-washed shirt hint at an unwavering sense of dignity.

He carries a black shoulder bag, and in his hand, an orange walking stick… long and sturdy, though it’s clear he doesn’t need it.

Perhaps it’s a habit, or a comfort, something solid to hold onto as he makes his way through the morning.

He walks barefoot, his feet moving effortlessly over the same uneven roads and sharp pebbles that I tiptoe around as if dodging landmines. Where I grumble about rough patches, he glides over them with the serenity of a man who has long accepted the world as it is.

I see him often when I walk my usual path, moving with a steady rhythm, seemingly at peace with the world around him.

But then, on the days I take the bridge on my way back, I see him again… seated on the pavement, leaning against the concrete barrier, a cloth beneath him to keep his dhoti clean.

A hundred crows gather around, perched on the bridge wall, pecking at neat little heaps of uncooked rice he has scattered for them.

Passersby walk past, undisturbed, and the crows, knowing their place, merely hop aside rather than fly away. It’s as if there is an unspoken agreement between them: the old man gives, and they receive, with dignity intact.

But there is something more to him, something that lingers in the air like an unanswered question.

His eyes, dark and distant, seem to watch something beyond the present moment, as though he is privy to a secret no one else has been told.

His movements are deliberate, his silence eloquent.

He is not a beggar, nor does he seem lost. He belongs to the world, and yet he stands apart from it, much like the fool on the hill who sees the sun going down but never stops smiling.

Perhaps he is laughing at the world’s frantic rush, at the absurdity of it all, or maybe he has simply found a rhythm that no one else can hear.

We have an understanding, he and I.

I walk on the opposite side of the bridge, pretending not to notice him, and he, in turn, acts as if he doesn’t see me.

But I see his face… calm, lost in thought, his eyes carrying the weight of something unknowable. There is no rush in his world, no need to explain or be explained. He simply is.

Later in the day, if I happen to pass by the same spot in my car, he’s gone.

The bridge is just a bridge again, no wise old man, no silent ritual of feeding the crows. It’s as if he exists only in the early hours, a figure from a half-forgotten dream, vanishing with the morning mist.

He reminds me of The Fool on the Hill… the man in the Beatles song who watches the world go by, content in his solitude.

People might not understand him, might even dismiss him as eccentric, but he sees what they don’t.

There is wisdom in his silence, a quiet defiance in his refusal to move with the hurried masses.

The world judges, but he doesn’t seem to care.

And maybe, just maybe, he knows something we don’t.

If you’re curious to hear the melody that inspired this reflection, take a moment to listen to The Fool on the Hill. It might just offer a new perspective.