Butterfly from Sambhal

“Weren’t you a worm till the other day?” The plant asks the butterfly.

“That’s ancient history,” the butterfly answers. “Why don’t you look at the present reality which is much more beautiful?”

“How can I forget that past?” The plant insists. “You ate almost all my leaves. Had not my constant gardener discovered your ravage in time and removed you from my frail limbs, I would have been dead long before you emerged from your contemplation with beautiful wings.”

“I’m sorry, my dear Nandiarvattam ji. Did I have a choice? The only purpose of the existence of caterpillars is to eat leaves. Eat and eat. Until we get into the cocoon and wait for our wings to unfold. A new reality to unfold. It's a relentless hunger that creates butterflies.”

“Your new reality is my painful old history. I still remember how I trembled foreseeing my death. Death by a worm!”

“I wish I could heal you with my kisses.”

“You’re doing that, thank you. But…”

“I know. It hurts, the history thing. I’m coming from Sambhal where history has opened up old scars into new wounds. 

These are two of my Nandiarvattam [pinwheel flower] plants. What’s given above is a conversation between a butterfly and one of the plants, that I heard yesterday. I had saved that Nandiarvattam from a caterpillar just in time. When I returned from school, the helpless plant stood almost bare. I picked up the caterpillar and put it on to another plant outside the wall. I hope it went on to become a butterfly. I hope its past doesn’t hurt my Nandiarvattam which has got a beautiful new life.

PS. This post is dedicated to my Facebook friend Anishkumar who seems to be agonised by some ancient history of his nation.