Tuesday, 3 April 2007


There was a time that conspicuously stands elapsed, when I chased butterflies and virtually did nothing else in the ravines, meadows, marshes, thickets and the neighborhoods; not knowing fully, why I had to do that and the exact meaning of my apparent odd quest.
Like others in the village, I never grew up for a secure future. Usually living a life of calculated abilities was what I dreaded most—not the devil spirits of the ageing banyan trees near the burial ground, not the unceasing droughts of the doomed region, not the sorrows of the untouchables, nor the marauding uncertainties of the young widows.
Ever since I started dreaming, I only liked the deep blue skies, the surreal clouds, the inundating nights, the twirling stars, the bustling springs, the meditating pebbles, the ecstatic flowers, the fluttering birds, the lazy lizards and of course, the ever busy butterflies, who dotted my space. My dreams were so alluring that I always felt like feasting on them undisturbed and nestled far away. Though, I somehow knew that beyond the dilapidated mud walls of my house, a wretched fate awaits me in rapt attention; I mostly preferred to ignore it and as a maneuver, traded for a quicksand existence for me, mostly of my own making. Perhaps, I preferred the darkness of a beautiful morning for my unmeasured sojourn.
The butterflies, my obsessions, wore spells, which stretched like eternal fluxes in me, ever since, I stared liking them. Always they came in droves to bury me and than rescue me and to float with them near the distant horizon, in suspended animation. I preferred to lay in wait, in anticipation of the enactment, in intense surrendered agog.
Whenever the days came, I hurried up to catch up with a familiar landscape, full of conflicting realities, scattered and cluttered out there. I knew, I would never fit the characters of the melodramas and so obliquely sulked to unfathomable depths of forced ugly pains. At times, I screeched for help that was never to be of any meaning. For me simply, the days were bizarre, I discovered and decided to escape to a loneliness of nonchalant innocence of a battered self, still sprouting. I hurried breathlessly to desolateness, and found a willing alley in the butterflies. For me, these butterflies were the ultimate hermits I was supposed to be in search. With them I started living an occasional life in the periphery of a beginning or may be the end itself.
I never accumulated a past, for they were the scripts of imprisonments. I never chiseled a tomorrow, for they were the perfect recipe of debility. I never had a present also, for they were just crippling.
Yet, I grew up one day by proxies and trials to again turn into voids, while reaching their destinations. Largely, this was not the myself but someone else resembling me. May be, I was sans myself for a while. It was then that to hide, I prepared masks of various sizes and colors, though they never came handy or suited perfectly on me. I also forgot my once recurring dreams. My primordial incarnations and my new found sins coexisted, very strangely. It was a time of parting ways. It was also a time to disintegrate and to count the possessions. It was a time when I had no butterflies in my garden. This was the time when I was a miserable skeleton, and bereft of myself.These times were so suffocating that I wanted to stifle and gag the accompanying eventualities. And then the miracle happened. Thousands of butterflies, for hours and hours flew from all directions. I could recognize that they were the same butterflies I had seen all my life. It was strange, as I was the only witness to the swarming. For a moment, I was awe stricken and than started chasing them like I did before.
I had no idea from where they came or where they were going. I had no idea also about the directions they will take. I had no idea of my own direction that I must take. It was the most difficult time for me. I was so short of energy that finally, I aborted a run after the butterflies. Since then I never existed again, either way. I found myself a moth eaten corpse full of fears and no dreams. My people have carried me to a safe morgue and anointed me. The butterflies are nowhere in the vicinities, now. Do they have fears like mine?