Broken-winged Butterflies
By Rajat Chaudhuri
At the junction of Temple street and Constitution Avenue, less than fifty yards from the dusky image of a bitter goddess, is an old garden. A big and wonderful one with a quiet river flowing at its edge and the blush of roses on humps of alluvial earth. The painted see-saws and swings, now rusted are twined by aparajita creepers with glowing blue blossoms; wildflowers line the trails and the spin and dive of the broken-winged butterflies leave you distracted for a while.
Up there at the Temple Street metro station, where the day is already fat with its boredom, trickling out like too much sauce from a stale Mini-Sub, getting sweaty and delinquent with its rush and routines, there are many like me that cherish the tingling breeze of this garden. Rest and a rolled cigarette on its broken benches, a whiff of other worlds in the scent of a flower -- whose name was forgotten when the poet died and then the macabre dance of the butterflies.
Do they come here with their wings clipped or is it the garden that damages the painted wings? Perhaps the twist and torture of long flight messes up the intricate designs -- fractal geometry, the dizzying symmetry of Absolutes, William Blake on an amphetamine high. The Cyclops and the Dusky Diadems, the Satyrs and Blue Glassy Tigers flapping and struggling in their quest for nectar and midnight glory. Beauty hobbling on crutches -- the sight breaks my heart.
Whatever time it may be, there they are, like a chorus of magic birds that have forgotten to fly. An indigo princess out of breath, a tree nymph sulking, a sprightly youngster old beyond her years. Their kohl-smudged eyes are topped with tears that is the memory of smoke-heavy evenings -- arrack-smelly, lipstick-lined, without an end or a beginning. I wait to hear them sing as if that would take a load of trash off my heart and teach me how to fly. Learning to fly like butterflies of the wild.
But instead of a song, comes an old man in military fatigues of the First War and a butterfly net sticking out of his scabbard. He is a trader he says and a diligent collector of butterflies. We shake hands, we had met before, introduced by a seafaring writer. His name is Stein. Stein prepares his bed on a garden bench, drinks water from his canteen and lies down. The setting sun puts him off to sleep. Before dozing off he says, he will wait for the centuries to crawl by. He snores softly at first and to a rhythm. Then it grows louder and one can’t no more, not pay attention. It’s Wagner’s music playing through his nose, loud and clear: The Ride of The Valkyries attracts the birds and the sleepy flowers and the dreamy boatmen in the river and most of all, the broken-winged butterflies. They circle the sleeping Stein in an absurd mimicry of flight.
- - -
Rajat Chaudhuri’s first novel, Amber Dusk was published in 2007. His fiction, reviews and other writing have appeared in popular Indian dailies like The Statesman, Times of India and The Telegraph and international venues like Eclectica, Underground Voices, The Legendary and Scian. He reviews fiction for the print journal Indian Literature, published by Sahitya Akademi -- India’s national academy of letters. Chaudhuri lives in Calcutta in eastern India.
By Rajat Chaudhuri
At the junction of Temple street and Constitution Avenue, less than fifty yards from the dusky image of a bitter goddess, is an old garden. A big and wonderful one with a quiet river flowing at its edge and the blush of roses on humps of alluvial earth. The painted see-saws and swings, now rusted are twined by aparajita creepers with glowing blue blossoms; wildflowers line the trails and the spin and dive of the broken-winged butterflies leave you distracted for a while.
Up there at the Temple Street metro station, where the day is already fat with its boredom, trickling out like too much sauce from a stale Mini-Sub, getting sweaty and delinquent with its rush and routines, there are many like me that cherish the tingling breeze of this garden. Rest and a rolled cigarette on its broken benches, a whiff of other worlds in the scent of a flower -- whose name was forgotten when the poet died and then the macabre dance of the butterflies.
Do they come here with their wings clipped or is it the garden that damages the painted wings? Perhaps the twist and torture of long flight messes up the intricate designs -- fractal geometry, the dizzying symmetry of Absolutes, William Blake on an amphetamine high. The Cyclops and the Dusky Diadems, the Satyrs and Blue Glassy Tigers flapping and struggling in their quest for nectar and midnight glory. Beauty hobbling on crutches -- the sight breaks my heart.
Whatever time it may be, there they are, like a chorus of magic birds that have forgotten to fly. An indigo princess out of breath, a tree nymph sulking, a sprightly youngster old beyond her years. Their kohl-smudged eyes are topped with tears that is the memory of smoke-heavy evenings -- arrack-smelly, lipstick-lined, without an end or a beginning. I wait to hear them sing as if that would take a load of trash off my heart and teach me how to fly. Learning to fly like butterflies of the wild.
But instead of a song, comes an old man in military fatigues of the First War and a butterfly net sticking out of his scabbard. He is a trader he says and a diligent collector of butterflies. We shake hands, we had met before, introduced by a seafaring writer. His name is Stein. Stein prepares his bed on a garden bench, drinks water from his canteen and lies down. The setting sun puts him off to sleep. Before dozing off he says, he will wait for the centuries to crawl by. He snores softly at first and to a rhythm. Then it grows louder and one can’t no more, not pay attention. It’s Wagner’s music playing through his nose, loud and clear: The Ride of The Valkyries attracts the birds and the sleepy flowers and the dreamy boatmen in the river and most of all, the broken-winged butterflies. They circle the sleeping Stein in an absurd mimicry of flight.
- - -
Rajat Chaudhuri’s first novel, Amber Dusk was published in 2007. His fiction, reviews and other writing have appeared in popular Indian dailies like The Statesman, Times of India and The Telegraph and international venues like Eclectica, Underground Voices, The Legendary and Scian. He reviews fiction for the print journal Indian Literature, published by Sahitya Akademi -- India’s national academy of letters. Chaudhuri lives in Calcutta in eastern India.
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