Hi, this is my first blog since 2007. I'm not sure whether the "in-formality" in writing a blog has changed but anyway, I'd better start spewing words now.
I've scribbled some thought about chickens on a piece of paper, not knowing that the scribbling turns out to be a lengthy written piece of reflection on these bipedal vertebrates. It goes like this:
"To most city dwellers, the word “chicken” almost always translates to the wide variety of drumsticks and wings we enjoy at Kentucky Fried Chicken or Kenny Roger. We are so accustomed to the aromatically sweet honey chicken or the tongue-tingling black pepper chicken that the word itself seldom conjures the image of a bipedal bird that clucks gregariously as it scratches the ground for stray seeds or unlucky worm.
On the other hand, I come from a rural background and the same “chicken” means a lot more than poultry meat or egg. I used to keep a chick, which refers to a juvenile chicken and not the allegedly “hot-looking” babe hungry for men, when I was a child. I suppose I need not explain about its yellow fluffy outlook sometimes marked by dark stripes or spots, but the experience of raising one is undoubtedly exhilarating. Apparently, I found the lone bird chirping ceaselessly in an abandoned nest for its mother, which apparently never answered the call again. So I took the poor creature back home and raised it as a household pet.
Though at first frightened by the high ceiling, towering wall, spinning fan, and the strange sound that a human made, from a chicken’s point of view, the pet of mine adapted and grew into a beautiful hen. Thinking that I was its mother, it would follow me faithfully out on the field, believing that I would protect her from cats, snakes and even cars. It would remain casual even as I caressed the beautiful golden brown plumage of feathers that it sported as a fully-grown adult. Other chicken would simply sprint way if I were to try to do just the same thing.
Although the experience occurred already ten years ago, the memory has persisted vividly in the nexus of my mind. Looking back, I am touched not only to see the amazing bond that has grown between two beings of different kinds, but also the experience it myself. Despite being aggressively protective of its own brood of chicks for most of the time, the hen would allow me to touch and play with them with little fear of me hurting them. The degree of love and trust that have emerged from such relationship was so strong that when my mother intended to slaughter the beautiful creature, I objected obstinately and almost went berserk.
Today, I sit on the grass carpeting the garden lawn before a reasonably large, crudely hammered-together enclosure. It holds six chickens walking around, flapping their wings and running in vain after flies that could easily dart away their relatively large and clumsy assailants. I am an observer, studying the minute movement that every bird makes to gain a little more understanding of what is soon to be served for dinner. Separated by a six feet tall fence that wraps around the enclosure, the birds are not alarmed by my presence. Perhaps, they know that because of the fence, I cannot go in after them easily as they can get out.
Suddenly, a strange behaviour becomes evident as the birds go about doing their own business. When one chicken pecks on a tuft of grass, the others do the same thing, pecking so violent at the same spot that the roots almost come off. Then, when one sits down and rests its body lazily on the ground, the rest follows. I suppose chickens are perhaps the most capricious trend-followers I have ever encountered. Imagine such fickle-mindedness being implanted into the mind of every human: the trend in fashion and music industries would have to change on a minutely basis. It is so fast that the hit songs or hips clothes we spot on magazines would be considered obsolete by the time we purchase them in the store.
Then, after long hours of being a distant observer, I decide to introduce myself to the birds, at closer proximity. I get up, unlock the door, and awkwardly crouch into the enclosure. Just when one bird is startled by the ostensible presence of the newcomer, the other joined in the atmosphere of shock and caution. As expected, they move away from me not individually but as a group. It seems that the fickle-mindedness is not an accident of nature; rather, it is the adaptation to survive in the harsh world where predatory danger lurks, and the slackening of vigilance is a matter of life or death. The instinctive reflex that is inherent in these birds allows them to flee together to safety when one of them spots danger, foiling death traps and allowing them to live for at least one more day.
Although all the chickens distance themselves away to me, it is not to say that they are equally frightened of me. The hens and younger chickens appear to be bolder and happily strut about a comfortable radius of one metre around me. A much larger cock, however, ran almost to the other end of the enclosure. A mental perversion entered my thoughts, compelling me to believe that it is a matter of egoism. Once the garrulous big brother in the flock, it may too ashamed to confront the other chicken after being shocked by the presence of an even more domineering figure: me.
A chicken may not measure up to an eagle or a lion in majesty, grandeur and awe that we have for the latter. However, through the subtlety of its movement and the complexity of its behaviour, a chicken appears to tell a gravitating story of its own, an autobiography worthy of attention. The question of whether its story is powerful enough to rock the human civilisation is debatable but one thing is for sure: a chicken is more than the chunk of gourmet meat gracing our dinner table."
In the event that you disagree with the contents in this writing, please consume a piece of "ayam percik" available at Ryan Hee's kampong. I bet the gastronomic experience would make you forget everything except the desire to get another piece for yourself. Do note that it is only available during Ramadan, hehe!
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