For ten years, no one could prove her wrong.
That night, Al-Jahiz opened a fresh scroll and wrote: “Chapter on the Gray Parrot of Hind. It does not speak from understanding, but from longing. It imitates the voice of its captor as a lover imitates the sigh of the beloved. Do not ask what an animal knows. Ask what it watches. Ask what we have taught it to fear. In the eye of a caged bird lies the whole history of man’s desire to be obeyed.” He named the chapter “The Parrot of the Two Judges.” And Zubayda lived out her days in his courtyard, where no one asked her to decide anything except when she wanted a fig.
For an hour, she did not move. No pebble dropped. No verdict came.
She always chose the fig.
The parrot sat still. Then, slowly, she turned her head, fixed one yellow eye on Al-Jahiz, and dropped the pebble onto the right side of the dish.
Zubayda looked at him. She blinked. She stretched one gray foot, then the other. And she said nothing.
Zubayda did not merely repeat words. She reasoned. Or so Abu Hilal claimed.