The Collector of Dead Butterflies

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‘Baba!’ My ten-year-old son pulled my hand, ‘Was it very difficult?’

‘Was what very difficult, my love?’ I asked, while smiling into his curious dark eyes.

‘Was it very difficult becoming your own father?’ He chose his words carefully.

Instead of answering his question, I looked afar. I looked towards the place where time and space ceased to have a meaning - the place where all was obscured under a slowly falling, golden dust. This is from where a few memories smiled back at me, while the others were wrapped in the grey shrouds of sadness. It was a magical place - a place where dead butterflies rested forever in the glass jar of nostalgia, but their colors remained immortal. I have always had this glass jar, tucked away safely within the folds of my heart. It is my most valuable asset and also a friend who keeps me company.

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You and Me – Human and Selfish

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Each of us - you and me and even us all;

we walk and run, and sometimes we crawl

We laugh and shout, and we love and hate;

our feelings make our ego, a great big wall

Each of us hides within a giant black hole;

hungry enough to devour our very human soul

It’s our heaviest burden that we must carry;

life is the theatre, and it is our abhorrent role

Each of us floats along a dark river of pain;

winding through the valleys of loss and of gain

Our longest journey from birth till our death;

our miserable life – grey and filled with rain

Each of us is addicted to the drug of pleasure;

a sudden rush surging - no limit and no measure

This is our downfall and our biggest dilemma;

regret is the poison; there is no hidden treasure

Each of us is different, despite being the same;

yet we hate and we fight for name and fame

This is why we fail to grow, this is why we lose;

admitting weaknesses, a prospect filled with shame

All of us are one, yet we choose to tread alone;

fighting like rabid dogs when life throws a bone

This is the grand sin; this is why we are doomed;

we fail to hold hands, we always act for our own

The Boy and the Lake

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There once was a little boy named Sebastian, who was fond of wandering and adventures. These wanderings and adventures were his ‘walkabout’. What is a ‘walkabout’? You may ask. That is indeed an interesting question.

It is said that once a child reaches puberty amongst the Australian aborigines, he or she is left free to roam the desert, preferably under the watchful eye of a tribal elder. The child wanders here and there and sees all. The sights become perceptions; the perceptions become observations; and the observations become learning once translated by the elder. As they grow older, the learning is applied to life, and the lessons become wisdom.

Though Sebastian was never left free to roam around, he loved doing it whenever he could. He loved the tall trees and the green mountains and the blue sky filled with the billowing summer clouds. He loved nature and all its wonderful smells.

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Love, Greed and the Elephants’ Graveyard

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After a full day of rain in Africa, the sun goes down, hiding behind the majestic purple clouds. The clouds, in turn, gradually disperse to reveal a bluish-black and velvet night sky. It is adorned with small glittering sequins - stars both big and small and stars both near and far.

Whenever it rains in Africa and the night grows dark, the elders sit around the crackling fire, and the children and young people gather around. If the elders are kind and in a good mood, they tell stories of the days gone by and the days that are still far away in the future. Myth and history make love under the night sky, and stories are born - stories of magic and wisdom and stories of love and longing. On one such magical night, the story of the elephants’ graveyard breathed its first.

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