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Silent passaway of an egoless butterfly

butterfly, marriage,relatives,flowers

Butterflies like typical Indian software engineers keep on jumping from one flower to another. One place to another. One height to another. Reasons only known to them not even to the flowers, places and heights. Just out of the cucoon these creatures start flying the day they are out, almost like new-age Indian IT professionals start thinking about jobswitch the day they get into the first job. Nevermind the simili, butterflies are atleast satisfied with the amount of time they spend with a flower.

So there was this butterfly. Quite uncharacteristic to the simili which connects a bubbly maiden to a buttefly eh! She, in her not so sweet twenty, Spent the two decades generally listening to the enchanting discussions between her father and mother which covered an affair between her father and his colleague. Her father, a succesful sales person with a multinational company, was two feet away from the title of Casanova. These two feet were of her mother who sacrificed her fledging creative career for the sake of a blissful married life, which she was not destined to get anyway. Marriage gets stranger bedfellows than politics itself. So the butterfly,as you must have known by now, was an offspring of a sacrificing mother and outgoing father. Let’s not talk about if it was a love match or an arranged match. By and large it doesn’t matter in the end. And this is not a love story where sixty percent of the creative time is spent on batting eyelids, swirling hair, favourite dishes, colours, motorbikes, movies, eye to eye contact, emotional chemistry, physiological bonding and tyring tales of how many times they were close to a breakup and how love got inbetween the prospect of a peaceful breakup and et al. But anyway feel free to imagine.

So the butterfly learnt a lot of things and lessons which we generally read in books which tell 100ways to do good things and 10000 ways to get away with your wrong doings. She saw both of them practised by her mom and dad respectively. Caught in between the romantic tales of all the Cupid-stuck pairs, and the reality of increasing divorce incidences, our butterfly always looked quite offcoloured. Although she was quite a presentable material for a soon to be bridesmaid, she was often entangled in thoughts of the future and made her feel quite apprehensive. She grew like most of the girls who unload the burden of their misery on them being shy girls and waiting for the fella to come riding a Unicorn (not the bike my dear friends!!). The bikes, cars and their owners-young and aged- tried to convince her about their value of being a good husband. But she, like many a girl waiting for ‘that special someone’ who generally turns out to be a rogue, attending college although he looks like a father of two with white hair painted with a black hair-dye, jumping like a monkey-when last born, and wearing chest-tight bluegreen teashirts and flaunting a cigarette. She couldn’t get the guy of her dreams by herself.

Her relatives who were generally interested in finding a marriage match for every other guy and girl they knew found someone for her. She with no expectation left, married. Years passed by. Her babies got older, husband died and she had no one to take care of her. One day, precisely a month after both of her sons decided to settle in Canada and Australia respectively, she breathed her last.

I don’t know what she said last. Who cared? There was none around.Why someone will care for such people who never had any special demand? Such people-often hardworking and responsible- are taken for granted and misused by everyone to satisfy individual emotional needs. She might have had some beautiful art in her fingers, dreams in her eyes and latent ambitions in her frail figure. But all lay at the the bottom of a debris of nightmares she had in her life and carried them along with no complaints. Although she is no more, many of her breathren still live and thrive like dark, shadowy passages that one is used to ignore while on a fast lane from one city to other. No one knows if butterflies are destined to have natural death. They are either swallowed by bigger egos or fall prey to clash of two egos. I wish butterflies had egoes for themselves. World would be a better place to live for them and flyoff with vibrant colours.

Her relatives who were generally interested in finding a marriage match for every other guy and girl they knew found someone for her. She with no expectation left, married. Years passed by. Her babies got older, husband died and she had no one to take care of her. One day, precisely a month after both of her sons decided to settle in Canada and Australia respectively, she breathed her last.

I don’t know what she said last. Who cared? There was none around.Why someone will care for such people who never had any special demand? Such people-often hardworking and responsible- are taken for granted and misused by everyone to satisfy individual emotional needs. She might have had some beautiful art in her fingers, dreams in her eyes and latent ambitions in her frail figure. But all lay at the the bottom of a debris of nightmares she had in her life and carried them along with no complaints. Although she is no more, many of her breathren still live and thrive like dark, shadowy passages that one is used to ignore while on a fast lane from one city to other. No one knows if butterflies are destined to have natural death. They are either swallowed by bigger egos or fall prey to clash of two egos. I wish butterflies had egoes for themselves. World would be a better place to live for them and flyoff with vibrant colours.
Published: 2006-09-28
Author: Aniket Kavathekar

About the author or the publisher
I am an engineer with passion for writing. That led me to a PG in Mass Communications from Sysmbiosis,Pune. I work as Marketing Communications executive, where again my core job is writing and creative conceptualizing. Business apart, I have been writing in Marathi as well. The writings are generally experimental and are from seemingly mundane incidences. Simplicity is the most complicated and tough thing to achieve...in life as much in writing. I keep my writing simple and straight.

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