I still remember the day I brought a water lily from a deep pond between the fields. I was all of 11 years and didn't want it to wither away soon. So, despite mom's advice, I thought I could keep it alive by keeping its stalk immersed in a water-filled bottle on the parapet of the well in front of my house. The lily lived for 36 hours in the blistering hot coastal sun. When I came from school for lunch, I rushed to see the lily only to find it dry and drooping, sad that it was snatched away from its home and kin.
I still remember the sorrow that pervaded my whole being. I kept trying to revive it for a day more until mom took it from me and threw it away.
Then I remembered how, years later, I made fun of my young sister for planting a rose flower in the earth, watering it and checking every few minutes to see if a new plant came up. She was as innocent as I. And as hopeful.
'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?
Comments
Post a Comment