Butterfly

It was a bright sunny day, just like one of the many in the past. Nothing special. Small circular clouds of dust swirled like a mini cyclone, the roads dry and bare. Small homes lined the narrow street, made of stones arranged in no particular pattern, jutting out here and there. Sparse thorny plants sprang out of nowhere near and far from homes, giving no solace to the eye, the landscape as dry as the taps outside these homes. Men clad in ragged shirts and trousers that were almost as old as them, rode on bicycles, slowly, their lunch boxes hanging from the handles of their bicycle in small muslin bags, stained with years. Women walked along both the sides of the road, carrying pots and vessels, coming and going away from the only source of water in the village, some three miles away from the village.

Nothing moved in the heat of the sun, even though it was comparatively early in the morning. The early effects of a city touching a village was evident. Men preferred to go to the city in the morning hours to work, coming back late in the evening, their back strained and aching with the day’s labour, their empty lunch boxes swinging more than in the morning. Some houses had television and a few rare ones even had an antenna for reception of some channels that were broadcasted in the closest corner of the city. Every evening when the men had had their rest and dinner, they would sit in the middle of the village, smoking bidis. A few rich ones managed to buy cigarettes on their way back from the city. Some drank a little. They would sit and gossip, telling made up stories to the children gathered nearby or the women sitting huddled in a group some steps away, their heads bent pretending to be in their own private conversation, though listening intently on whatever the men were talking about, the younger unmarried ones straining to catch the words of the more handsome men of the bunch. On those days when there was a cricket match scheduled, someone would bring out a radio transistor and they would sit in silence, trying to hear the commentary amidst the crackling sound of bad reception. The entire village would erupt into sounds of joy if their team won, or even if someone from their team just hit a six.

On one such not-so-special day, she was returning from the water source, carrying water back to her home. She was young, 14 or 15 years old, though her face was slightly hardened. Her cheeks were plump and rosy and her eyes shone with the spirit of teenage days. Her movement had a dancing rhythm, her skin and face glowing from inner vitality and youth. She knew her mother would be angry because she had taken quite some time in coming back. She couldn’t help it, she thought, blushing from the thought. After all there were a lot of women waiting to fill their vessels with water and on the way back she had accidently caught glimpse of the son of the village sarpanch. Now, that was a rare sight indeed. It was common knowledge that he was the most eligible bachelor in the village, with his dark long hairs and handsome looks. He usually stayed in the city and came back to the village only once or twice a week. It was also common knowledge that he was very rich, compared to all other men.

She had been very fond of him as a child and now in her teenage years, the fondness had deepened into far more that what she understood. Her heart would beat faster, a hot flush on her face, the skin burning with a mixture of embarrassment, fear, happiness and what not. She always ran away before he saw her. She was afraid he might not like her. Often if he was standing looking somewhere else, she would stop and steal glances at him, admiring him, loving him, even to the extent of worshipping him. Today, when she was returning, she had seen him standing inside his house, but visible from outside. He had just taken a bath and was getting dressed, combing his long hair. She had been so overwhelmed that she had stumbled, letting some water spill on herself and some on the parched road. No doubt mother would be angry, she thought, her blush deepening.

It was just another day. Nothing special. Nothing moved on that windless morning. Yet in that barren space, somewhere between her mind and heart, there was a slight quiver of emotions, which she was sure no one ever would be able to reach. And under the bright morning sun, she swore she saw a butterfly with brightly coloured wings, fluttering around, before flying away and disappearing into oblivion.

- Parekh, Pravesh

08:30 AM, 25^th June, 2013

After the Rain

Dark clouds reigned in the sky, looming after the torrential rain. The roads were washed, reflecting off light from the street lamps. The lights formed a mosaic like pattern, spinning shades of hope and mirth and then fading as one took a step forward, each step revealing a fresh mirage. It was a long empty stretch of road, no traffic, no late evening walkers, nobody save the silhouette of a walker and a lone dog in the street, sniffing at some filth, looking for food. His head was bent, shoulders drooping, hands gently swaying to each side, brooding. He glanced a quick look at the dog but did not think of its misery. The dog in turn looked at him, found no solace, and returned sadly to the pile of rubbish, letting out a small whine. All else was silent. The wind was silent, the trees did not sigh.

As his brisk pace showed him the varying mosaic of light patterns, he reflected for a moment on his own existence. Insignificant. Lonely. Parched. Longing for things he would never have. He had always lived this way. Never being really noticed. Never paid any significant attention. He had a job that did not pay well, a boss who did not like him, and colleagues he could never relate to. His mother had always told him to go high in life, to do things his dreams showed him, and to be someone who would go down in the pages of history as someone significant. The void inside him yawned. He had failed her. He had failed himself.

His thoughts returned to the purpose of his visit. It was his mother’s death anniversary. He was headed towards her grave, his heart heavy and his eyes teary. Thinking about her always had this effect on him. He would start to blame himself for everything that had ever happened. His mother had died of heart attack and old age, though he never stopped blaming himself for it. She died because I was a failure, he kept telling himself and the more he thought about it, the wider the void became. He had long since become dead to emotions, dead to beauty and dead to all the joy the world had to give. The only thing he ever felt was remorse and a pang of longing for his dead mother and things he could not achieve. Often during the evening he would sit outside in the small balcony of his one room apartment and stare outside. He would see and imagine worlds of happiness, of people and warmth. Even of love. And then he would find emptiness staring him in the face and he would turn away, loathing himself more than ever.

He never carried flowers to her grave. She had been someone who was very specific about everything. He never really knew what flowers she liked and which ones she did not. Hence he never carried them. He did not want to offend her by bringing her flowers she had hated in her life. As such, had he not tormented her more than enough? He would just go and stand near her grave, silently looking at the gravestone, remembering the days of the past, smiling to himself while tears filled his eyes. He preferred going late in the evening, when the chances of running into people were low. He had always been uncomfortable with people. More so because he could not understand them and he could never relate to what they were saying. Often at the cemetery he ran into someone or the other who would look at him and give him an understanding nod. He would get uncomfortable. What were they nodding at? What did they know? What the hell was it to them anyway?

He crossed the cemetery gate, head still bent, silently navigating his way through the graves on either side. It was quiet. The rain drops hanging from the trees and the clouds gave the place an ominous feel, more than always. He walked till he reached the spot and stood there, head still bent, hands entwined almost in prayer, though he was not praying. He then let loose everything that was locked inside him. He spoke out to his dead mother, apologizing and talking and blabbering. All this time, silent as his mind worked feverishly in telling his mother everything. He told her of how sorry he was and that he would try and take control of his life and do something grand. Slowly his mind grew quieter and he lifted his head slightly. He felt slightly comforted in having made his peace with her. He knew she would forgive him, someday. A gentle smiled played on his lips as tears started to fill his eyes.

He stood there for some more time, his mind at ease now. He stopped thinking about things. He turned around, planning to go. That is when he saw that he was not alone. She was standing near another grave, crying silently. She was dressed in white and held a single red rose in her hand. For the moment she was looking down, yet he could see the tears clearly. She was clutching at the rose, and then she bent to place it near the grave. Then when she rose again, he saw her give a violent sob. Her entire frame shook with the weight of her grief and then she looked straight at him. He was embarrassed. He quickly gave her a nod and briskly walked away. It was only after he was slightly away from her that he stopped for a moment to realize what he had done. It was then he realized that things would change. He would change them. And it would start tonight.

- Parekh, Pravesh

01:40 AM, 16^th June, 2013