A stormy afternoon

 

There was a squall in the afternoon, a powerful windy rain-lashing by the weather gods. And the small creamy white butterflies that were flitting around on a relatively cooler day faced what is most expected from life—a crisis. They struggled through the beating rain. The strong wind made it seem like a flirtatious dance with death. The branches shook angrily as if saying, ‘No, not here!’ as the butterflies approached them for shelter. And once a butterfly landed on a branch, it swayed and shook so violently, catapulting the hapless butterfly again into the squalling throbs of life. The rainstorm was pretty powerful and lasted for half an hour.

It was a little group  of butterflies and I don’t think many of them survived. Most of them must have perished. But how many butterflies get a chance to try their wings, beautiful patterns and colors against a storm? And some chance survivor would see the real beauty of the next dawn and flit around as a living memorial for all of them.

The next morning is a foggy one. It’s real fog with the temperature dipping as low as fifteen degrees. It’s unbelievable for this point of the season in the burning north Indian plains. Nature’s catapults!