Now I get to see bougainvillea very rarely. Once upon a time it grew in abundance in front of our home spreading a pink glow on our walls. To me, a child then, it was one of the pleasant wonders of nature. I loved the way the flowers took on an ethereal transparency. Then as we left that house, the memory of bougainvillea faded. When I saw it again a week ago, I remembered the mornings I had spent looking out of the window as dew settled on the pinks and greens of bougainvillea. I also remembered how I saw my husband for the first time when he was a teenager and I, a scrawny school girl.
'Caught in a strange land in a net with other butterflies, I'm a caterpillar yet undecided to remain a caterpillar and perish or turn into a beautiful butterfly and live a life full of joy.' Readers don't laugh. But I came up with this one night recently when I was travelling in a train. I tossed and turned, not being able to sleep, upset over unexplainable things and frustrated over events not in my control. Then it occurred to me that our life and its usefulness depends on our decisions -- whether to remain a crawling caterpillar whose existence otherwise is either ignored by all and sundry or who is cursed for just being there and thrown out with a stick, or to develop wings of life and metamorphose into a beautiful butterfly whom everybody adores for its beauty and colour, for its flitting liveliness, for its service to the flower's pollination... I thought that I should be a butterfly, of service to others, but then again I thought, anyway, who really cares?
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