Butterfly

My little child was like a butterfly. She was fond of butterflies as well. This was why I called her: butterfly. She ran to me commanding me to tell her stories. I obeyed as she had been the apple of my eye. ‘Tell me stories’, this was how she commanded me once.. ‘What?’ ‘Tell me stories'. I felt it was as though asking Bheeshma Pitamaha at his deathbed of nails to utter the 'Gita'! He could. Could I? Flesh mine was, of course, weak. Spirit- Was mine strong? I was drowning in cancer. Well, I asked her then: ‘Stories on what?’ ‘On butterflies.’ I was absolutely perplexed. I thought then: was it, in actual fact, a coincidence? Was it not my dream, once, to talk about butterflies? 'I should speak out', I thought. I felt in the interiors of my heart that it was a call of the time, or, rather, a demand of the time. Hence, I decided to put a temporary halt to my grand finale: Death. Amidst unbearable pain, I did make words from my throat to hail. To all those who were on the watch of my health, my words sounded as though the last song of a dying nightingale. I started my story. Indeed, I did not know then that it was she who was a better storyteller and poet, and philosopher than me. ‘Once upon a time, there was a butterfly…’' Then I saw her 'flying after' a beautiful butterfly that rushed therein and dazzled away like a dazzling of lightning. She came back after a while, panting, puffing. She asked me, ‘what had happened to that butterfly?’ Might be due to the annoyance of her disrupting the very outset of my story, yet, of course, not out of malice or contempt, I told her abruptly, ’she's no more.’ She was shocked! Cheerless! She seemed as though feeling absolutely sorry for the creature. It was hence she exclaimed: ‘Butterflies have a comparatively shorter life span. Why don't you tell me stories of butterflies that have longer lives? Or, why don't you give longer life to butterflies in your stories, at least?’ I fell silent. 30 January 2023