Nazir had been sitting in the park since morning. He
was staring at the flowers, they were in full bloom, a
welcome sign of the spell cast by spring. These
brightly coloured flowers with their heady fragrance
were enticing all the tiny creatures who had made their
homes in the shrubs, trees, flowers, and grass.
Among these creatures, there were butterflies, all with
brightly coloured wings, flitting among the flowers,
each trying to outdo the other with their aerial
acrobatics.
He had always been fascinated by the sights and
smells of the park, here he reminisced about the past
where it had seemed that there was peace, love, and
prosperity all around. He was particularly attracted to
the colourful wings of the butterflies, and from time to
time, he actually tried to catch one, but he never
succeeded, they were simply too fast and too agile.
The area he was growing up in was impoverished,
basically a slum, and the constant, unrelenting poverty
not only stunted his body, it suffocated his soul.
Being the youngest of eight siblings, he was often last
in the queue for any attention or care from his parents.
He would leave his tumble down home every day, with
empty eyes that held no hope. With his clumsy,
hobbling gait, picking his way through the rubbish
strewn street, he always chose the longest path to
reach the school gates.
He had no intrinsic motivation to attend school, the
poor condition of the school building and slanderous
behavior of the teachers meant he often bunked off,
and whenever possible he delayed his arrival for as
long as possible. He was often physically punished by
his teachers, but that held no fear for him, and his only
regret when he was caught was that they would be
watching him for a while. The only thing that made his
life worth living was the park near the school. It was a
well known refuge for many lost souls.
He would be drawn to the park at least once or twice a
week, and he spent many hours there. It was a refuge
from the piles of rubbish, the filth, the polluted air, the
clamor of vehicles, the stench of poor drainage and the
appalling news of bomb blasts and terrorist attacks.
Apart from the peace and quiet it afforded, he was
fascinated by the colourful butterflies. He longed to
hold one in his palm and to be able to touch its jewel
like wings.
He was never interested in going home either. He felt
there was nothing there for him but disappointment,
and deprivation. After leaving the park, he felt cheerful
and energetic, his heart was lifted, but as soon as he
neared his home, it was always the same, his feet
began to feel like lead weights; he knew what awaited
him: The vicious arguments between his parents about
money upset him the most, the constant shifting of
blame and the abusive language, it was mortifying.
With the passing of time, he was slowly becoming
immune to the upset, and able to filter out the raised
voices. He tried to keep busy, but ended up
spending most of his time trying to keep out of
everyone's way; daydreaming, or playing with the other
barefoot urchins. His parents seemed to have no
interest in his studies, they were too tangled up in the
labyrinth of meeting the basic needs of their family.
He had been taken to the welfare school by his older
brother, who had really been projecting his own
desires; as the eldest he had been expected to
contribute to the family finances and as a result had
been unable to attend school himself and was
determined that Nazir would succeed where he had
failed.
Nazir’s mother often scolded him for his untidy
appearance, and scruffy uniform, but it was impossible
to keep it clean and tidy. He did not really mind or feel
bad about his mother’s behavior towards him, he
accepted it as part of his life. The only things that he
truly feared were the bomb blasts. He had never
experienced one at close hand, but he had heard a
number of stories from his elder brothers and other
street boys. He felt they must be exaggerating, but
they terrified him nonetheless.
One day, on his way back from school after a
particularly arduous day, he suddenly decided to follow
one of the colourful butterflies, to see where it went
and find out where they lived. It was getting late, so
he ran towards the park, hoping the butterflies would
still be there. Entering the park, he whooped for joy as
he saw a few butterflies were lazily flying over the
flowers. He targeted one and instead of running around
trying to catch it, he followed it until suddenly it
seemed to disappear. He found himself standing under
a huge, old Banyan tree, its long, twisted roots like a
kind of mystical writing, as if the tree were trying to tell
him something really important. Suddenly, he felt
mentally and physically exhausted. All thoughts of
catching his butterfly forgotten, he lay down under the
tree and fell asleep.
He awoke all of a sudden, for a moment he forgot
where he was, a loud sound had driven him from his
deep sleep, a sound that had also shaken everything in
the park. He thought there might have been an
earthquake, it seemed as if everything was moving
around, but then as if through a fog, he heard the
sound of sirens, and a cacophony of human voices
yelling, crying, and screaming for help.
He stood up and ran towards the main gate of the
park. There he found a large crowd of people on the
main road watching volunteers and rescue teams
rushing around. He walked in a daze through dust and
smoke, until he found himself in the affected area:
smoke and ashes were billowing around burning
vehicles. Everything he had heard about terrorist
attacks came back to him. He felt as if all the blood
had drained out of his body, and he had a feeling of
being, elsewhere. He had never thought that he would
be a witness to one of his brother’s stories.
He only came out of his trance when a pair of hands
suddenly grabbed him, pulling him backwards. He
realised he had been walking towards waves of fire. He
looked around, but couldn’t see who had grabbed him
in the chaos all around.
Stumbling, he rushed back to the refuge of the park,
but that too was full of smoke from the blast. With tear
filled eyes, he began to touch each flower, as if he was
trying to comfort them, consoling them before they
wilted in the toxic air. Near the old Banyan tree, he saw
something moving in the grass. It was one of the blue,
shiny butterflies, but it was dying in the thick smoke,
one wing hanging loose.
Tenderly, he picked it up, and held it on his palm,
caressing it with his fingers, but he felt no excitement
at having achieved his goal to hold and touch the
wings of a butterfly. Slowly the wings stopped moving,
and he dug a small hole under the Banyan tree with his
fingers. As the tears rolled down his cheeks, he placed
its small broken body inside, and covered it, stroking
the earth into a small mound.
With a heavy heart he headed back to the main gate of
the park, staring at his fingers where the earth and
butterfly’s wings had left the mixed colours of death
and grief.
