The Way of the Butterflies

prologue

Life is a cumulative incident. A one in a million chance of being born, specifically to the parents you get, in the city you will be raised, and into era where you will live out your time. These circumstances that frame your existence are all out of your control, a surprise gift that you are unable to return. It is all one big incident that makes no sense from start to finish.

As if things weren't difficult enough already, I am now experiencing something strange yet inexplicably exhilarating.

I look to the trees swaying in the wind and my heart too sways alongside them – it's almost a dance. I hear laughter a lot more, from friends and strangers alike. From myself as well. The sweet sound echoes in my thoughts and feelings – it's almost a song. The mirror holds something new every day. I like the way my hair suddenly now shines, and my eyes hold a brightness I thought was long lost- it's almost art.

This feeling is almost a lot of things but not quite enough of anything. I thought it to be bothersome and fleeting and impermanent up until the point I found a name for it.

Love.

This troublesome name that stuck to my essence and refuses to be peeled off. It now dances alongside my heart and the trees in the warm summer wind. It sings the song in the laughter of my beloved ones. It peeps through my reflections on the windows of the stores I walked by in the bustling intersection of Titli Marg.

Such a burden it is to know love- it follows me everywhere. On the cable lines dashing across the sky and the gutters beside the footpaths. In the playful jumps of the street dogs and the silent scowl of the cat crouched up on the wall. The tempo driver whistling his tune to some famous Bollywood song of the 80s and the grandfather holding the hand of his granddaughter as they crossed the street.

All of this neighbourhood, drenched in love, love, love.