The Crow and the Peacock

High on a branch, a peacock spread its long tail to bask in the sun. Its feathers shimmered green and were dotted with golden rings, as if someone had sewn a whole sky of tiny moons and stars onto them. Right beside it sat a crow, still and quiet, dressed in plain black. It was black from the tip of its beak to the tip of its tail, without a single spot of color.

The two birds could hardly look more different, one dazzling and one deep black. And yet, the old tale goes, long, long ago the crow and the peacock wore exactly the same coat.

Back then, both of them had pale gray feathers, as gray as the ash in a kitchen hearth. The peacock was gray, the crow was gray, and neither was prettier than the other. The two were the closest of friends. They went everywhere together, looked for food together, and slept in the same tree. Each morning they tilted their heads and smoothed each other's gray feathers, then flew off side by side.

One day the two friends were perched by a pond, watching other birds fly past. One was red, one was yellow, another a brilliant blue, swooping back and forth like sprigs of flowers that had learned to fly. The peacock gazed and gazed, then gave a small sigh. If only it had feathers that beautiful. The crow heard this and cried out with a good idea. "Let us paint each other's feathers. I will paint yours, and you will paint mine, and then we will both be beautiful."

So the two friends went looking for colors. They gathered all sorts of things. A bright red, like a ripe gấc fruit. The warm yellow of turmeric root. The deep blue of indigo leaves. Even a little purple. They put the four colors into four small snail shells and set them neatly on a flat stone at the edge of the pond. Beside them stood a bowl full of black, as black as ink.

The crow painted the peacock first. And how carefully the crow painted! It held a soft blade of grass in its beak as a brush, dipped it in the color, and painted the feathers one by one. On this feather the crow dabbed a golden ring, and around it drew fine rays like moonlight spreading out. On that feather it brushed a coat of brilliant blue, then warmed it gently so the color would gleam. On and on it went, slowly and patiently, from one feather to the next.

The sun climbed higher, and still the crow kept painting. It painted the peacock's neck a glossy green. It painted the peacock's body so that it sparkled like a pond rippling in the sunlight. It painted the long, flowing tail, dotting it with one golden moon after another, all perfectly even. The crow was in no hurry. All it wanted was for its friend to be truly beautiful.

When the crow was done, the peacock stood up, gave itself a shake, and spread its tail wide. Oh my, the whole bank of the pond seemed to light up. Every bird flying past had to stop its wings and stare in wonder. Never had they seen such dazzling feathers. Overjoyed, the peacock turned to its friend. "Now it is my turn to paint you," it said, "so that you will be just as beautiful."

The peacock took up the blade of grass, dipped it in the color, and began to paint the crow. It meant to paint slowly and carefully too, one feather at a time, just as the crow had done for it. But it had barely started when a clamor drifted over from the fields. A whole flock of birds was calling to one another to go and feed. Out there the rice had just ripened and smelled sweet, and fallen grain lay thick on the paddies.

Hearing the calls, the crow's stomach began to rumble. It was hungry. It kept wriggling, glancing out toward the fields, then urging its friend on. "Hurry up, hurry up, or the best food will all be gone!" The peacock stayed gentle. "Try to sit still a little longer. By this afternoon you will be every bit as beautiful as me."

But the crow could not wait. Its empty stomach kept nagging, and the birds in the fields kept calling. At last the crow fidgeted and told its friend, "Stop painting so carefully, it takes too long. Just pour all the color over me at once to be quick. Any color will do. I am off to eat."

The peacock hesitated, and the grass brush stopped in midair. "If I do that, your feathers will be ruined." But the crow was too impatient by now. It kept hopping about, pleading again and again. To please its friend, the peacock reluctantly lifted the bowl of black. Then it tipped the whole bowl over the crow in one splash.

The black spread everywhere. It covered the crow's head, its neck, its wings, and even its tail. Not one golden moon was left, and not one gleam of blue. The crow shook itself a few times to dry off, then hurried away to the fields. It was jet black from head to foot, and it never even stopped to take one look at itself.

From that day on, the crow has worn feathers of jet black. The peacock has stayed beautiful ever since, its tail fanning out and sparkling with golden moons. That is because it was painted at an easy pace, carefully, one feather at a time.

But there is one thing the old tellers never forget to mention. The crow was not angry with the peacock at all. It knew the black feathers came from its own hurry, from refusing to sit still a little longer. And the peacock never once turned up its nose at its friend. Whenever they meet by the pond, the two still perch on the same branch and still smooth each other's feathers. One is glossy black and one is dazzling, yet they are as close as in the days when both were the same pale gray.

So whenever a peacock fans out its tail, showing off a whole sky of moons and stars, with a black crow perched quietly beside it, the old tale comes back to mind. Those beautiful feathers did not simply appear by themselves. They were painted by a pair of wings that knew how to wait, working gently, bit by bit, until the job was truly done.