‘Golden butterflies are the people you love but whom you lose,’ the grandfather told his granddaughter, not knowing she was about to see her very first one. A poignant story exploring the profound relationship between a wise grandfather and his curious granddaughter as they wait together for rain on a stormy evening. Through their tender conversation about the “golden butterflies” – the old man’s metaphor for departed loved ones who return with each rainfall – the narrative delves into themes of mortality, memory, and the cycle of life and death. The grandfather’s gentle explanations about sadness, understanding, and the beauty found in loss create a touching meditation on grief and remembrance. This bittersweet tale captures the innocent wisdom of childhood confronting the reality of death, culminating in a deeply moving conclusion that transforms the granddaughter’s understanding of love and loss forever.

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The sky was intermittently dark. Each period of darkness ended with a lightning flash. Each flash was succeeded by a deep growl up above in the belly of the clouds. The light breeze smelled of a subtle promise of rain.

The old man with his head full of bushy, silver hair, stood quietly in the verandah. His cloudy, brown eyes were open, but looked at nothing in particular. Instead, they were filled with the grey shadows of memories.

‘Grandpa! What are you doing outside?’ The little girl walked out in search of her old friend.

‘I am waiting for the rain, child.’ He looked at her, smiling with affection.

‘Why are you waiting for the rain, Grandpa?’ She was one curious child.

‘Because that is what old men do. They look at the grey skies and wait for the rains.’ He answered softly.

‘But it had been raining. It has just stopped.’ The girl motioned at the wet grass.

‘Yes, the rain has stopped, but it will come again.’ The old man said while looking up at the heavy clouds, ‘The giants are still here with their great bellies heavy with rain.’

The little girl looked up and scratched her head. Sometimes she failed to understand the apparently simple words of her loving grandfather. But still she loved him.

She loved his old man smell - the Old Spice aftershave and the bittersweet smell of pipe tobacco. She loved his old man face, with its countless deep lines and the bushy hair in bad need of thorough brushing. And she loved his old man talk, which was always full of memories and stories, and nostalgia.

‘Why do you love rain, Grandpa?’ She persisted.

‘Hmm!’ He thought for a while and then answered kindly, ‘Because they smell good, my dearest. They smell of wet earth and they smell of the circle of life.’

‘Yeah! They do smell of wet earth.’ She inhaled deeply. ‘But what do you mean by the circle of life?’

‘Once, many million years ago, the elements made love and water was born. The warmth of the sun killed the water, and its soul became the vapors. The vapors float upwards and finally reach the clouds. Then the clouds growl and breathe new life into the vapors, and the raindrops start falling. They fall, and the earth appears larger and larger with each yard that they fall. The drops fall onto the parched earth, and they form happy puddles. And finally, they wait for the rising sun to die and become vapors again. This is the circle of life.’ The old man narrated the tale slowly and deliberately, choosing the simplest possible words.

‘That’s sad, Grandpa. I don’t like death.’ The little one was quite sensitive for her age.

‘Death is not the end, child. It is the beginning of a new circle of life.’ He smiled. ‘The puddles evaporate. The vapors float back above and form clouds. Then it rains again. The circle is repeated.’

‘So they come back……….the raindrops?’ She asked excitedly, ‘They always come back. Don’t they?’

‘Oh yes, they do. They always do, child.’ He breathed with obvious relief at her happy excitement.

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Both the old man and the little girl sat down on the wooden stairs and started waiting for the return of rain. He placed his hand protectively around his granddaughter’s delicate shoulders and drew her nearer.

‘Grandpa?’ She asked after a while.

‘Yes, child!’ He knew the question-and-answer session was not over. In fact, it was never over. But he knew she loved asking questions, and he loved answering her questions.

‘Do you love rains only because they smell of wet earth and the circle of life?’ She asked.

‘No.’ The old man smiled, ‘I also love rain because it brings along the golden butterflies.’

‘Golden butterflies?’ The little girl’s eyes started shining with interest. ‘What are golden butterflies? I have never seen one.’

‘Golden butterflies are the people you love but whom you lose somewhere on the path of life.’ The old man told her while caressing her shoulder softly. ‘Whenever it rains, the golden butterflies come flying along with the thick drops of rain. They play and dance in the rain, their golden wings gleaming with the moisture. And I watch them. In fact, I love the golden butterflies more than the rains.’

‘Why can’t I see them, Grandpa?’ She so wanted to see those magnificent creatures.

‘Hmm……!’ The old man searched for an answer, ‘Because you haven’t lost anyone yet, my love. But no matter how much I detest the fact, you will lose those whom you love. And they will all become golden butterflies.’

‘Does it make you sad or happy - looking at the golden butterflies?’ She asked.

‘A little bit of both, I guess. It makes me sad when I think of my loss. But it makes me happy when I think of the sweet memories we once made.’

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For a few moments, they sat together in silence. Both were thinking of the golden butterflies and listening to the silence of the rainy night. The silence was thick. It was as thick as a slab of invisible butter. One could almost slice it with a blunt-edged knife.

‘Grandpa?’ The child gently pulled on his gnarled hand again after a while.

‘Yes, child!’ He patted her hand in return.

‘Have you ever observed that it grows very silent just after a rain?’ She looked up into his face and asked. ‘I mean, before the crickets start singing and before the fireflies begin their magic dance of lanterns?’

‘Yes, it always grows silent just after a rain.’ The old man looked far into the night. ‘Legend says that it rains when the gods weep up above in the skies. Maybe, silence is a mark of respect for the suffering of the gods.’

‘Do you really believe that, Grandpa?’ She smiled naughtily, and the old man chuckled softly in return.

‘No! Of course not, child. The gods never suffer. That is why they are gods.’

‘Then why does it fall silent just after a rain?’ She repeated her question.

‘I believe the silence is the world’s acknowledgement of the sadness of life.’ The old man said.

The little girl remained quiet. She did not understand the sentence, but she did understand sadness. She understood it through her grandfather. In her happy world, he was the only sad entity. But still she loved him because, despite his sadness, the old man never failed to love her.

‘Why are you sad, Grandpa?’ She asked him hesitatingly.

‘Because I have spent so much of my life, little one.’ The old man ran his fingers lovingly through her silky hair. ‘I have found out that life is sad. And with time, I have learnt to love sadness.’

‘Why do you love sadness?’ She asked, and her grandfather smiled. He was expecting this question.

‘Because sadness brings along understanding - the understanding of life and the purpose of life.’ He answered thoughtfully.

‘Why don’t you like happiness?’ She was always ready with another question.

‘I don’t like it because it dulls my senses and makes me numb to the pain of others, around me.’ He replied.

‘I don’t like happiness too.’ The little girl announced firmly.

‘Ha! Ha!’ The old man laughed and then grew serious, ‘First, you get all the happiness you deserve.’ He waved his index finger in front of her tiny nose. ‘Only then do you have the right to like or dislike it.’

 

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Suddenly, a thick drop fell on the little girl’s forehead. She looked up. Rain was starting to fall again. She looked at her grandfather. He was looking up too. The lightning flashed and the thunder cracked. She moved closer to him for comfort. Thunder frightened her.

‘Grandpa?’ She asked in a small voice.

‘Yes, child!’ He answered while patting her little hand reassuringly.

‘Can you see the golden butterflies?’ She searched the rain-filled sky.

‘Oh yes! I can see them. I can see them all. They are all floating down, riding the thick raindrops and dancing in the rain.’ The old man said dreamily.

‘Is Grandma one of those butterflies?’ She asked.

‘Oh yes! She is the biggest golden butterfly of all - the shiniest and the most magnificent of all of them.’ He smiled sadly.

‘Say hi to Grandma from my side.’ She so wanted to see her,  the most magnificent of all golden butterflies.

‘I will, child. I will.’ The old man said affectionately. ‘Now run back inside. Leave me alone with my golden butterflies.’

The little girl kissed the rough cheek of her grandfather and ran back inside. But before entering the door, she looked back at the old man. There he was, sitting under the pouring rain. The rain plastered his hair to his forehead, and the drops slid down his cheeks in torrents.

‘Grandpa?’ She shouted over the din of the falling rain.

‘Yeah?’ He answered without looking at her.

‘You know, I find rain very sad.’ She shouted, her eyes filling up with tears.

‘And why is that, little one?’ The old man’s question was almost drowned in the noise of the falling rain.

‘It is because rain hides your tears very well.’ She brushed her cheeks with the back of her hand and ran back inside.

 

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It rained all through the night. For a while, the little girl watched her grandfather from the window. He kept sitting in the rain motionless. But he was smiling. She was almost sure of it. And she knew why he was smiling. He was watching his golden butterflies dancing in the rain. Then sleep came over, and she slept, dreaming of the love of her grandfather and the golden butterflies.

Morning came, and it was still raining. The little girl got up and looked outside her window. Her grandfather was still sitting where he was, the previous night. She hurriedly climbed down the stairs and ran outside.

The old man was almost sprawled on the stairs. His eyes were closed, but there was a most wonderful smile on his sleeping face.

‘Good morning, Grandpa!’ She lightly kissed his wet forehead. It was cold as ice.

‘Wake up, Grandpa!’ She shook his shoulder, and the lifeless body of the old man slid to one side.

The little girl knew something was horribly wrong. She thought of calling her mother. But something caught the corner of her eyes. It was floating above the rose bushes, gleaming in the rain. She looked closely and couldn’t believe her eyes. It was a golden butterfly - her first golden butterfly.

But the old man was wrong. The sight of the golden butterfly did not make her happy at all. Instead, it made her sad.