Lions

ONCE, my dad took me to the zoo to see the lion. I had never seen a lion before. I was bubbling with joy.
When we reached its cage, excited, I pointed out, “Look Dad! That’s a little lion.”
He smiled. “A little lion is called a cub, son.”
We waited there for some time and I was in complete awe of its beauty.
But there was a problem.
“Why doesn’t it roar? I want to hear it roar dad.”
He maintained silence.
“Dad! I want to hear it roar!”
He let out a sigh. “C’mon son, it’s getting late. We should get going.”
“NOOOOO...But I....”
My dad gave me the no-more-argument look and we went home.

For days, I couldn’t get the cub out of my mind. I decided to go alone.
Once. Twice. Thrice.
And then every day after school.
It never roared.
So, once I went in the night.
I had risked it all. Petrified, I hid behind a tree, waiting. For hours.
As I was about to leave, it let out a small roar!
I almost shouted with joy when I heard ....the WHIP.
Tears streaming down, I walked away.
The next night, it was the same.
And the night after that.
And the night after that.
Down the line, it stopped roaring. And I stopped going.

Years later when I revisited my town, I went to the zoo to see the lion.
Nothing had changed except for the lion and I, for we both had aged and we both didn’t roar.
“Why doesn’t it roar Dad?” I hear a little girl asking her father.
“Because when it did, it was silenced...when it tried again, it was afraid...and then it forgot how to.”
She looks at me, puzzled. I smile and walk away.

And then it hits me.
Caged lions. That’s who we are.
Devoid of our ability to roar.