The butterfly, which had been sleeping, silently changed its form. A metamorphosis. It might not have even realized someone was watching this marvel. At least the butterfly was a living creature. But this marvel went so far that it even included the parasol — a lifeless thing made of fabric, plastic, and metal — in its magic. Now the parasol itself was silently changing its form.
Rahul was flabbergasted. It was the first time anything like this had happened to him, and right in front of his eyes. I’m awake, aren’t I? He rubbed his eyes. So this is truly happening in reality?
The butterfly grew bigger and rounder. It grew larger with each passing instant, in each of the twenty-four frames for every second.
The parasol grew smaller at an identical rate. This meant that the butterfly and parasol were in cahoots, playing a game. They both knowingly participated in this act of magic. No more than thirty seconds could have elapsed by the time the butterfly had completely changed into the parasol and begun to flutter in the wind, as if it were the real parasol.
And the parasol had changed into a butterfly and was perched atop the parasol as if it were the real butterfly.
The color had drained from Rahul’s face. He was dumbstruck. O god, what kind of jest is this!
Was this the dream the butterfly dreamed when it flew from Anjali’s shoulder and fell asleep atop the parasol? Could it be that the thing Rahul saw was the butterfly’s dream, occurring inside of its sleep? Or who’s to say Rahul didn’t have a quick nap and himself have a dream?
In the meantime he rubbed his eyes and saw clearly he was awake. Then he looked at Anjali. She was quite real, sitting in the same spot, eyes fixed on Rahul. Her gaze entered his pores, and Rahul felt it swim through the blood of his veins like tiny shining fish, swimming toward his heart, the place where the mysterious clock of life beats, tick-tick: the sound on which the whole of a life hangs.
This meant that the magic was reaclass="underline" the butterfly had really changed into a parasol and the parasol into a butterfly.
Just then, a leaf fell from the neem tree and floated down to the spot where the butterfly sat, which was, just a short while ago, actually a parasol. Frightened by the neem leaf, the butterfly took flight. But Rahul knew full well that it was not a butterfly at all, but a parasol.
“Look, the parasol’s flying away,” Rahul cried.
Anjali looked back to the ground, puzzled. “What are you talking about, it’s right there,” she said.
“No, that’s a butterfly. Believe me. It’s a butterfly.”
Anjali had a good laugh. “You really are a joker.”
Rahul accepted defeat. He realized it would be nearly impossible to explain to this girl what had happened: the thing that just flew away was a parasol, and the thing still on the ground wasn’t a parasol at all, but a butterfly.
“Johnny joker, that’s my name. .” Rahul said. In despair. These were the lyrics from a Shweta Shetty pop song.
Anjali looked at Rahul. This was the first time. Nothing needed to be said. It had happened, the thing that happens. Rahul felt as if a symphony inside him had begun to play for the first time.
Anima, O.P., and Hemant had returned. They brought cake, biscuits, a bag of Uncle Chipps, and five bottles of Pepsi.
“So did the two of you discuss Hindi literature?” Anima said, looking at Anjali. Anjali remained silent. Why did Anima’s voice sound so flat and sorrowful?
When all who had gathered there began leaving, and Anjali had picked up her parasol, Rahul turned around and wanted to tell her the truth: it wasn’t a parasol protecting her from the sun. It was actually a butterfly.
But he stayed silent and trailed behind the six-foot-three giraffe-like bamboo stick all the way back to the hostel and, once in the room, fell flat on the bed.
“I think I have fallen in love. . for the first time in my life!” Rahul whispered into his pillow.
NINETEEN
Sapam’s body still lay atop a slab of ice in the mortuary of Mahatma Gandhi Hospital waiting for either his father to retrieve him or to be shipped back home. The day of the month when the goondas normally attacked was drawing near. What a time it was.
Gopal Dwivedi said that S. N. Mishra, the senior professor of the Hindi department, was angry. He had said to Gopal he’d been wrong to secure admission for a certain student who had no business being there. The student was stirring up caste issues. Dr. Rajendra Trivedi and Dr. Loknath Tripathi said they always weed out such bad apples.
Parch them dry with not one drop, we’ll hit and strike till dead they drop!
Rahul was face-to-face with a darkness that was closing in on him. But somewhere, far in the distance, he could make out the fluttering of a yellow butterfly. So even amid this anxiety, Rahul’s lips were quick to trace the outline of a smile, and he fell asleep.
The eighth and ninth of September came and went. Meanwhile, Sapam’s body had been shipped to Imphal by train. Kartikeya, Madhusudan, Pratap, Masood, Praveen, O.P., and some twenty-five students, among them girls, too, presented Vice-Chancellor Agnihotri with a petition in which they demanded Sapam’s body be returned to Imphal by airplane and that the culprits responsible for robbing and beating him be arrested.
Regarding the latter demand, the vice-chancellor gave the students the assurance that he would liaise with the police, but as far as sending the body back to Manipur by air, he continued, there simply was not enough money in the University Welfare Fund.
During the same period, a meeting of the SMTF was held in Praveen’s room. The core committee member students of the Special Militant Task Force from the four hostels (Arbind, Raman, Tagore, and Desai) decided to link the hostels by a restricted frequency radio transmission. The total expenditure was only 800 rupees, which, through donations, was collected in under three hours. Hemant, Madhusudan, and Praveen teamed up to install speakers in designated rooms in each of the four hostels. Pratap, Kartikeya, and Rahul procured three microphones. It took three run-throughs to ensure that when the time came the students would be ready for action in less than ten minutes. They also collected data on which students expected money orders or had received them, and for how much, for all four hostels. These were the students the goondas usually targeted — those who were receiving the most money.
D. Gopal Rajulu, Akhilesh Ranjan, and Naukant Jha — these three students topped the list. Winter was approaching, and their families had sent them additional funds to buy warm clothing. Gopal Rajulu’s brother was a doctor. For years Rajulu had wanted to buy a camera. He was going on a bus tour to Calcutta, and before he left his brother in Virginia wanted him to have 20,000 rupees.
At the top of the hit list was D. Gopal Rajulu. Number two: Akhilesh Ranjan. Number three: Naukant Jha. Three students, one from Andhra Pradesh and two from Bihar.
But during this period of time Anjali was everywhere, too!
TWENTY
The days were largely filled with the kind of bankrupt happenings found on the pages of a third-rate dime store romance or in the usual Bollywood fare. The main storyline’s sequence of events had no rhyme or reason, filled with all manner of coincidence and happenstance. Absurd, sophomoric, and cheap — yet thrilling. Sex, violence, glamour, intrigue, obscenity, special effects, tears, screams, and heartwarming situations, all laced with song.
The screenplay for this snapshot of time seems to have been written by a sensitive gambler; each time he makes a new move in the plot, he immediately fears its consequences.