A week or so after my retirement I was reading my morning paper sitting in our balcony when I saw a butterfly flitting its way across the street from the opposite house towards our compound. It was not that I had not seen a butterfly before but something drew me to this ‘flower with wings’. I put down the newspaper and started following its flight path.
First it hovered over the vibrant hibiscus red flower. Then it swam, making butterfly strokes, towards our tulsi and circumambulated the plant. After the tulsi it headed for our backyard, where waited our mango tree which had burst into flowers a few days earlier. Down the stairs I ran, forgetting my age, in pursuit of this butterfly.
I waited till it had its fill of nectar from the mango flowers. When it emerged from the foliage it appeared drunk. It bobbed up and down in the air like the undulating line on the screen of an electro-cardiogram for a while, went over the rear compound wall and disappeared. I never expected to see it again, but the next day I saw it making its way across the street towards our hibiscus plant. As it did the day before, it thereafter made a beeline to the mango tree.
Suddenly I found myself longing to have Happy (I had already named it Happy) land on my palm or shoulder. I heard that a butterfly will elude you as long as you pursue it. On the other hand, if you stay still it will land on you on its own.
To try my luck I sat on the parapet wall of our closed well motionless. But it did not work. Happy emerged from the tree inebriated and went away ignoring me completely. My son, to whom I confided about my affair with Happy the butterfly, said with a laugh: “Tomorrow try sitting still in its path with hibiscus or jasmine stuck in your ear.”
On the third day I had to go out on some urgent matter. When I returned it was late in the afternoon. “Happy should have come and gone,” I muttered sadly to myself. It was a kind of a love affair which, as usual, got fuelled by the absence of the object of affection.
The fourth day saw me waiting and waiting beyond the usual time for Happy, which never turned up. Was it hit by a vehicle while crossing the street? Or was it gobbled up by that wretched chameleon which comes to our backyard to perform push-ups on the coconut tree trunk?
I went to backyard. When I reached the mango tree I saw the chameleon standing upside down on the neighbouring coconut tree trunk, rotating its greedy eye sockets in different directions.
There sprang up in my heart unbridled rage. “You rascal. You have killed and eaten up my Happy. Haven’t you? I will teach you a lesson.” Saying this I looked around for a stone — when I saw Happy lying motionless on a fallen dry leaf of our almond tree. When I lifted its lifeless body tenderly, it had already became stiff, except its wings which remained as silky and soft as they had been when it was alive.
I dug a small grave and buried Happy. I did not want to leave it there to rot or to be eaten by ants.
When I told my son about Happy’s demise and the last rites I performed, he took the whole thing as a joke and said, “Don’t worry dad, I will buy you a small Taj Mahal, which you can install at your beloved Happy’s burial site.”
mr.m.r.anand@gmail.com