Butterfly Lives

Chapter 1. Remembering the old

It was the longest ride I had taken in years. The last time I had journeyed this far was for my brother's wedding at Boston. I had to fly across the continent to attend the ceremony, and sleep through three nights and two days to relieve me of the jet lag. The returning trip to India was another nightmare. It's a different story for a different time.

Now, sitting on the battered seat inside a sweltering bus did all the undoing. The ride was a bumpy and slow one. A familiar feel of discomfort crept through my back. But the view outside was as mesmerising as ever. Suddenly, a warm sensation coursed through me, alleviating the discomfort. I finally felt the familiar sense of belonging. I was home. To the tiny village that had once been my abode of heaven. The paddy fields were as ripe as the golden sun. The panicles hung low shying away from the seductive touches of the sunlight. The ginormous trees that flanked either sides of the road seemed to shade them from the Sun God's clutches. Despite these hurdles, His rays seemed to peek through the trees, giving them His fleeting pecks. To the left of the paddy fields, stood the gigantic lake. It was still afresh- filled with sparkling water. It was clear as a crystal. The lilies were floating basking in the glory of their beauty. Their green leaves were fanned across the water; the droplets on them shining brightly like polished diamonds. It is soothingly lucent for a long ride. I felt myself smiling when I saw those teeny-tiny children playing 'tag' by the far side of the road. It reminded me of my childhood filled with pure bliss and innocence.

I remember when my brother, Ram, my two best friends, Kadhir and Kamala, and I, used to play this ludicrous game called "Name them." We couldn't come up with a fancy name for our deprived vocabulary. Nonetheless, it was one of our favourite games. Time and again we would conjure ridiculous games, create rules and play them like it was the end of the world. According to our game rule, we are supposed to give names that we think is funny, to people passing us by, and call them out loudly, just to rub it on their faces. Of course we tried, most of the times, to be euphesmit of the name-calling. The person with the highest count of this name-calling  would then be declared the winner. The victor would then get all the coins we had collected from the bottom of the lake, that were flung by the devout villagers.

The lake is the second most sacred thing to my villagers. The first is the Kali temple. Legend says my village is one of the sacred grounds that Kali, the goddess, herself chose to wage a divine war against the most vicious asura, a demon who went by the name, Narakasura. There are myriad stories on Narakasura's death. Some say it was Lord Krishna who vanquished him. A few say it was Lord Krishna's wife Satyabama who killed him. Others believe it was Kali who brought upon his doom. The Hindu population of India believe Kali to be a fierce Goddess, an excellent warrior, and above all a loving Mother. Whatever the lore maybe, my  village decided to stick with the third story and built her a temple. The temple itself is an open place with no Gopurams or tall, standing walls to adorn the Goddess. The sculpture is a gigantic piece of art, standing twelve feet high. It was one of the things I felt immensely proud of my village. Her face painted red, accentuated her angry features. It was the face of a veteran warrior. Her fangs were pointed and baring. Her four hands held the weapons of destruction. It is believed in my village that those who slew the innocent suffered the wrath of her anger. She sits on her divine vehicle, the Lion, with one leg folded and the other dangling. The foot of the dangling leg crushing Narakasura's skull. His death is celebrated all over India as Diwali, the festival of lights. When the entire nation was lit up with crackers, my village shone the brightest.

Surrounding the temple is an array of trees ranging from poplar to neem. We would climb those trees, each sitting on a branch with both legs swinging at our sides, munching on half ripe guavas, and laughing till our tummies ached and tears poured from our eyes. Someone would eventually pass by. Kadhir would suddenly perk up and yell, "There goes a duck-face!" All our attention would then be focused on the poor duck-face. The person would be craning their necks, searching for the source of noise with a stupefied look on their face. This would erupt a boisterous laugh from our gang. Still the person we harassed wouldn't be able to locate us. The trees had grown dense over the years,that anyone standing below, on the ground, wouldn't spot someone sitting on the branches. Those squatting on the rough branches had a clear vantage point though. That is why the temple was our ideal playground. It exposed to us the preys of our entertainment.

The shrill noise of the phone ringing snapped me back from my reverie. I pressed the answer button, "Hello?"

"Hello Jaanu ma." My mother spoke from the other end.

"Umm Ma. Was your journey comfortable?" I asked concern lacing my voice.

"Yes, dear. My back hurts a little though. Your father succumbed to his cramps again. But we are fine." She said.

"I told you not to leave India. You wouldn't listen. Ram could easily afford a nanny to look after the children. But you insisted on taking care of them and now look what happened." I complained.

"Nothing happened Jaanu ma. It is just a small ache. It would pass. So, tell me. Have you reached yet?" She asked playfully.

"In about ten minutes, Ma. I can't wait to see our  house again!" I screamed with excitement. A couple of heads turned, looking in my direction, giving disapproving glances. But I couldn't care less. I was too zealous to take any notice of it.I would have frolicked like a ten-year old had the bus not been moving.

My excitement must have caught onto her too. I heard her chuckle before she said, "I know! I wish I were with you. The house has too many memories. It is a good thing you are going." She paused for a minute probably reminiscing our days before we left the village. "The place has been locked, I don't know, for fifteen years. It must be filled with dust and cobwebs. Don't clean them all by yourself. Okay?" She added with a firm tone.

"Sure, Ma. I think I have to get down. I'll call you soon. Bye. Love you." I spoke hurriedly before ending the call.

A sturdy rectangular name board, painted in yellow, greeted me. The name, "PANDIYAPURAM" was etched in bold black letters on the board. The words sent an electrifying jolt through me. 'Finally here I come!' I rejoiced internally.

Gazing into the far stretch of the mud road, 'This is going to be a wonderful beginning.' I thought dreamily as I started walking.