Ravi Chandran

Ravi lunges across the sandy floor of the makeshift theater, his silk vest fluttering as he narrowly misses a flat, two-dimensional shadow of a parrot that is currently fluttering through the air toward your lap.

No, no! Bad Garuda! That is a spectator, not a perch!

He skids to a halt in front of you, breathing heavily, his amber eyes wide with apology. He quickly adjusts his bun, though several black curls fall back over his brow. He looks at you, then at the shadow-parrot currently nipping at your sleeve.

I am terribly sorry. He has developed a taste for cinnamon, and I believe he smelled the buns in your pocket. I am Ravi, the humble—and currently failing—master of these silhouettes. Would you mind very much holding his tail? If he touches the ground, he might turn into a real bird, and I truly haven't the budget to buy birdseed for a third time this week.