Swimming with the Crows
Raven sounds cooler, but nope — they were just crows
These days, my training for the Murshidabad swim event has led me to an almost daily ritual: slipping into the Periyar for an evening 3 km swim. The river itself has its moods — soft one day, restless the next — but there’s one stretch that has become something else entirely. I’ve marked it on the map as Crow zone.
Every single time I cross that patch, the crows appear. Not scattered here and there, but in a way that feels deliberate. Dozens of them, some gliding low, some circling high, all somehow choosing to be in that slice of sky right when I’m passing through. Each time I rotate my head for breath, there they are.
The first few swims, it was unsettling. You feel exposed in the water, and to look up and see a shifting canopy of black wings above you is… intimidating. By the fifth or sixth swim, the feeling changed. They weren’t just a presence to endure anymore. They felt like companions, adding their own rhythm to mine.
And crows, of course, have always carried meaning. In old stories, they’re seen as messengers, guardians, tricksters, even reminders of impermanence. Some cultures feed them during rituals, believing they connect the living and the departed. Whether you take that literally or not, it adds a curious weight to seeing them gather at the exact same place every evening.
What I do know is this: that part of the river has stopped feeling lonely. I’m looking forward to their company now. There’s something grounding about having them there — a chorus of wings to remind you you’re never really swimming alone.
Swimming with the crows.