Wisdom of the Chestnut Munia: The Pineal Gland, the Spiritual Clock Within

When I was a child, just learning to read and write in Assamese, I came across a story that quietly settled in my heart. Back then, I was studying in an Assamese vernacular medium LP School at Khumtai Tea Garden in Golaghat district. Our classrooms were simple. We sat on wooden benches. The walls had more memories than paint, and the blackboard was often worn out from years of chalk-dust. Yet, those humble surroundings gave us more than just academic knowledge. They gave us stories. Stories that carried values, shaped our thoughts, and planted seeds of understanding that would quietly grow with time.

 

One such story was about a pair of chestnut munias, which we lovingly call "টুনি চৰাই" in Assamese. These gentle little brown birds often build their nests hidden in the comfort of paddy fields. They are not grand like peacocks or mighty like eagles, but something about their simplicity, their grace, and their quiet dedication to each other made them unforgettable. I didn’t realise then that this little tale would one day become a quiet guide for me during moments of doubt, difficult decisions, and silent turning points in life.

 

Much later in life, while reflecting on that story, I could visualise it clearly. It reminded me of something real from my own childhood. In our residence at Dergaon, near the pond inside our campus, there was once a nest nestled gently in the green straws. My younger brother and I discovered it during one of our playful wanderings. We didn’t disturb it. Instead, we were fascinated. We observed the birds from a distance, often protecting the nest as if it were our shared responsibility. Looking back now, it seems like nature was quietly giving us lessons in care, gentleness, and silent understanding.

 

The story from my school went like this. A pair of chestnut munias had built their nest in a thick patch of a rice field. The female munia sat patiently on her eggs, warming them with care and quiet strength. One day, the owner of the field came with his young son to check on the crops. As they walked between the green stalks, the father looked around and said the rice was almost ready. He told his son that they would soon ask their relatives to come and help with the harvest.

 

Hearing this, the female munia became worried. She turned to her mate and asked what they should do. If the harvesting began, their nest would be destroyed and the eggs would be lost. The consequences of such an act would be heartbreaking.

 

The male munia remained calm. He said they had no reason to panic just yet. The man was only talking. As long as he was depending on others, there would be no action. And without action, there are no consequences.
Days passed. The eggs hatched into tiny chicks. Their eyes were still closed. Their fragile little bodies moved gently with each breath. Life had begun. The parents worked together, feeding them, keeping them warm, and staying alert. Then again, the man and his son returned. The father said the crop had ripened further and again mentioned calling relatives for help.

 

The female munia grew anxious again. But again, the male reassured her. He repeated what he had said before. Until the man took the work into his own hands, there would be no real danger. Words don’t bring consequences. Actions do.

 

This continued for several days. The man would visit. He would talk. But nothing changed in the field. And so, the munias continued caring for their young. Then one morning, everything changed.
The man stood quietly, looking at the field. The rice stalks had turned golden, bending with the weight of ripe grain. There was no sign of help. He told his son that no one was coming. Enough waiting. From tomorrow, we will start cutting the paddy ourselves.

 

This time, the male munia grew serious. He looked at the chicks, who had now begun to grow soft feathers and could flutter their little wings. He turned to the female and said it was time to leave. The man had taken responsibility into his own hands. That meant action would follow. And wherever there is true action, consequences will surely come.

 

Before dawn, the munia family flew away in search of a new place to nest.
As they flew above the fields, the female asked why her mate had remained so calm earlier and why he had chosen to act only now. The male replied that until now, the man had been relying on others. He was only speaking, not doing. But the moment he took charge himself, change had begun. And wherever there is decisive action, there will always be consequences.

 

This simple story returned to me often in life. I too have stood at such crossroads. There were times when I waited too long, thinking someone else would do what was needed. There were moments when I clearly knew what had to be done, but I hesitated. But life does not wait forever. It begins to move when we take responsibility, when we act from our own hands. And when we do, consequences follow. Some of them bring peace. Some bring regret. Some offer learning. But all of them are real. And it is those consequences that shape who we become.
In worldly terms, I may not have achieved very much. I was not the most talented. I made my mistakes. But there is a peace that comes from knowing that I stood and faced what came. I didn’t escape. I accepted the outcome of my choices. I embraced the consequences. That peace has become more meaningful to me than titles, praise, or reward.

 

With time, I also grew curious about birds like the munia and how they stay so finely tuned to their surroundings. How do they sense changes in weather? How do they navigate across hundreds of miles? How do they know when to stay and when to move?

 

One answer lies in a tiny part of their brain known as the pineal gland. In birds, the pineal gland is more exposed to natural light than it is in humans. This makes it highly efficient. It helps them align with sunrise, seasons, and even the invisible magnetic fields of the earth. It guides their sleep, their migration, and their quiet sense of timing. It protects them from unseen consequences by keeping them connected to the natural flow of time and space.
But for me, this gland means more than biology. In many ancient traditions, including in Sanatan thought, the pineal gland is linked to something deeper. It is said to be the seat of intuition, the place within us that sees without eyes and knows without words. It is that quiet voice we often ignore, the one that says wait or now is the moment. If we learn to listen, it protects us from unnecessary consequences and helps us accept those that are destined.
I like to think that the pineal gland is like a small window. One that opens us to something timeless. When it is awake, we sense things that logic alone cannot explain. We feel time differently. We know when to act and when to be still. It’s almost like a form of quiet time travel. Not across centuries, but across moments that matter. It helps us prepare for consequences before they arrive.

 

Perhaps that is how the male munia knew. Not through planning or logic, but through deep awareness. He was in rhythm with life. And life, when observed sincerely, speaks to us. But we must learn to listen.
That rhythm still exists. But in our modern world, with all its screens and noise, we often forget how to feel it. Children however still carry it within them. They are closer to silence, to wonder, and to truth. That is why I have a small suggestion.

 

During Gunotsav, when officers and officials visit schools, it would be a beautiful gesture to invite a few elders from the local community too. Not only those with fame or titles, but people who have lived honest, meaningful lives. Retired teachers, officers, Farmers, Weavers, Craftsmen and Social workers as well. Let them speak to the children. Let them tell stories of how they lived through their own seasons. Let them talk about the choices they made, the struggles they overcame, and the consequences they faced.



These stories will not disappear. Even if children don’t grasp everything right away, the words will settle quietly inside them. One day, when they are alone with a difficult decision, these stories may return to guide them. Just as the story of the chestnut munia returned to me when I needed it most.

 

Not everything a child needs to learn is found in textbooks. Some of the deepest lessons come from life itself. And when a child begins to understand what it means to act with responsibility, to face the outcome without fear, and to stay grounded through all of it, then true growth begins. Growth does not happen in the absence of consequences. It happens when we learn from them.

 

This is where I believe real spirituality begins. It is not about rituals, temples, or sacred chants alone. It is about clarity. About taking responsibility. About accepting both praise and difficulty with the same calm heart. When we walk this way, even hardships begin to feel lighter. Even failure has its grace. Because we know we did not run away. We stayed, We tried and We grew. As we faced the consequences with dignity.
And often, that wisdom begins not in a temple, but in a story. A small, quiet story told with love, held in the heart, and remembered just in time. And it is such stories that prepare us for the real consequences of living with courage and honesty.