A Fairly Good Catch

Another exception to the Friday night rule: was thinking of writing this yesterday, but ended up doing so today.

Everyone has their share of troubles and joys.  Everyone sees life differently, and the joys of one may be the sorrows of another.  This story is about the sorrows of one group of people, described as the joy of another.  The settings are slightly embroidered due to lack of memory, the underlying events and mindset of the protagonist are simply one set of possibilities among many others.

The protagonist must have his own share of sorrows, besides needing a glass of liquor and dealing with a nagging wife, but here, he only remembers those two for the most part.  The kids must have felt swindled, but to my knowledge, they went on with life, not really much affected by the experience in terms of how things went on in their lives, except perhaps for an unpleasant memory or two.  The driver of course, did not gain much either, it was a ‘fairly good catch’ perhaps, but it was perhaps all part of a routine of dealing with different customers and making the most out of it when you could.

One of the kids, me, remembered this recently, and felt like writing it down.  I wasn’t too sure of what I should write however.  I didn’t want to spend much time on it, but still, wanted to give it a go.  Needs editing, like most of the stuff I publish on this blog, and was written in a single shot, but here goes anyways.

A Fairly Good Catch

It was a fairly hot day, and as I stood by my rickshaw, waiting for customers, I saw a young group that looked somewhat lost.  There were four or five young lads, barely twenty, and definitely new to traveling.  Things looked interesting all of a sudden.

I needed some more money for my liqor, and the my wife’s nagging had been more annonying recently, so I wouldn’t mind making a bit of money.  If I was lucky, 30 or 40 extra rupees, and that would make me happy for a week.

I pedalled my rickshaw hurriedly towards them.  It was a fierce world, lag behind, and the competition got the kill.  Luckily, they looked like they were from Kathmandu, and had been leading fairly sheltered lives.  I spoke Nepali well, while my competition seemed to be mostly Maithali and Hindi speaking, so I had a better chance of landing the kill.  I put on my best smile, and hurried towards them.  “Raxaul janey ho dai?” I asked them if they wanted to go to Raxaul, the Indian side of the border.  I guessed they wanted to board some train to some city in India, and the ride to the train station was around 15-20 minutes by rickshaw.

They seemed nervous, and not sure of whether they should take a rickshaw or not.  One of them, a short man who looked like he was in his mid-twenties, said, lets take a rickshaw, “Pawan dai and the rest always took them”.  They seemed to debate a bit, with some arguments as to the tangas (bigger carts with horses pulling them) being possibly better, since everyone could fit on one.

I knew they would take my rickshaw.  They argued for a bit, and they did decide on the rickshaw, someone experienced had recommended it, and they seemed to think it was the right choice.

Some other rickshaws had already gathered around, and if they had wanted to, they could have traveled one on a rickshaw each.  They did not want to of course.

They broke up into two groups: a group of three sat on another rickshaw:  one person taking a half sitting-half standing position between the other two.  The group of two chose my rickshaw.  “Where do you want to go to?” I asked.

“Laxmipur bus-station” answered the taller of the two.  I started pedaling, the effects of the heat slightly diluted by the little alcohol I had had in the morning.  I hated my job, but it did give me something to go by, and I did not have much of a choice.  I was sizing up the bunch mentally, trying to figure out how much they knew about the area.  From what I had seen so far, a spark of excitement was lighting up in my brain.  Not only did they seem new, they did not seem to be too used to bargaining: most likely “Mama’s boys” who had just been out of their houses alone for the first time.

“Do you have any electronic equipment with you?” the taller one asked.  The other answered “No, but why?  Does it make a difference?  I’ve got a calculator, but I guess thats fine right?”

The taller one answered “I heard that they like to get money off anyone who is carrying electronics equipment at the border”.

“Customs tax?” the other one asked.  He obviously did not know much about the area.

“No, they take bribes, and I’ve heard they make you lay out all your luggage on the street to check sometimes”.

“But we are students, so I think they should understand, right?”

“Idealistically of course” I thought to myself, smiling at the naivete of the two.

The shorter one continued “Do you have any electronic equipment?”

“I’ve just got an emergency light, I guess that will not make much of a difference”.

and their conversation went on for a while, slightly apprehensive, slightly hopeful that nobody would harass them, till they decided to go silent.

I had of course, heard all that I wanted to.  We passed the border, where the customs officers behaved nicely to them.  I could feel their relief as the officers smiled and wished them luck.  My heart of course, was pounding faster.  I looked around for a familiar face in the crowd, and as I saw it, I nodded to him slightly.  He moved towards the gate of the building that had something with the word “thana”, which is jail in hindi, written in it.

He made the motion of beckoning to me, and I drove my rickshaw to where he was.  A well played out dialogue ensued “Open the seats of your rickshaw, I’m going to put you all in jail”.

Two bewildered faces looked at him, then me, then each other.  I could imagine that they must be quite frightened at the moment.  They did not even try to question why someone not wearing uniform was commanding them, they simply tried to defend themselves.

“But sir, we have nothing with us, we are students going to study engineering”.  One of them said.

The good part began.  Of course they had nothing.  The point was that they did not: they were in a place where they did not know the customs, and they had heard of, but did not know the details of, local rules that superseded government rules: rules that helped feed an ecosystem built out of fear, corruption, and greed.  It was all a game, and all that was needed was to hitch on to something that would make them afraid, then cash their fear into money.

The electronic light came out, in words, an admission of the only thing they feared might not be allowed.  Then, the cashing began.  Give me a hundred bucks, and I’ll let you go on your way.

Bewildered faces looking at each other again: it seems they did not carry that much money on them.  The ‘agent’ of course, would not hear of it.  Eventually, all the cash they had in their pockets, which amounted to around 60 Indian Rupees, was all emptied out, and we set out again.

After another 10 minutes of riding, we reached the bus station.  Their friends of course, had already reached the place, and were waiting.  “How much did you pay them?”  One of them asked.

10 rupees was standard.  I of course, had different plans.  “I’m a Nepali too, and you paid those Indian rickshaw drivers that much.  I carried so much in the heat, and still, you are giving me just 10?”  Emotions can be cashed too, as can nationality.  Even if you did something wrong, if you don’t admit it, and claim you helped someone out, that can be cashed too.  I played out my cards, making sure to play on the well-sheltered strings of self-righteousness and emotional sensitivity within them.

The protest came, as was natural.  I did get 5 rupees extra of course, and as I joined the other rickshaw drivers to wait for arriving customers, I started calculating: 25 rupees from the ‘policeman’, 5 rupees from the boys, and the 10 rupees I was supposed to get anyways.  Today perhaps, was going to be a lucky day.  I looked forward to drinking today, and when my wife nagged at me, I would have that extra bit of self-respect as the breadwinner of the house.  I hoped that it would be a good day indeed.

A (Good) Story (?)

He looked around him.  He was surrounded by around seven or eight soldiers with their AK-47’s aimed straight at him.  He had been to the country on a visit, and he was not a martial arts expert or a political figure: he was just an ordinary employee of an IT firm based in California.

His heart was pounding, he was sweating like anything, and he wondered where he was going to land up next.  If this was real life, he knew he was in deep, deep trouble.  He still was in deep trouble, but he was cool, and could afford to look it, because he had faith.

Faith in the writer—he knew that the ending would turn out to be great and in his favor, and that he would look like a hero, nevermind the pounding heart, the screaming emotions, the feeling of complete bewilderment.  He knew things would turn out all right, that nothing would happen to him.

And they didn’t.  He was in a fictional setting, being nothing but a fragment of imagination.  He was indeed, the protagonist of the fiction, but the piece of fiction itself was just a fragment that was designed to illustrate some small fact that anyone knows about, but that had re-asserted itself in the writer’s mind in a brief instant of realization, and that writer, who had not written for quite some time, decided to write down something in a whim.

He had been created, in a tight situation, and he could have potentially gone far in his adventures.  Unluckily, he was destined to be stuck in it till he disappeared from the minds of his readers, and the way the piece was written, his initially scary situation had turned out to look somewhat comical, somewhat nonsensical.  However, he still was the protagonist, in a piece that was unique if nothing else.

Thats all folks .  I had started writing to illustrate one point, but somewhere at around 60% of the piece, I just went with the flow, and ended up writing it completely differently—I somehow liked the ending, but I’m not sure if anyone else did—hope so though!   My original intent can be guessed from the initial part of this entry, just in case you are curious.  Hope you enjoyed it, even if it was just a little .  BTW, its not Friday or early Saturday, but I thought this much was allowable after a long break, since I felt like writing on a whim all of a sudden .

Don’t Make Fun of Me!

“Hahaha… your shirt looks so faded… did it belong to your great grandfather?”

Startled, I looked at the person saying this, and I could see an impish young face, perhaps around my age, laughing at me as if I was extremely stupid to be wearing the shirt, and a fool in general.  My ears reddened, as they usually do when I get very nervous or flustered, and I was conscious of the boy noticing that too.

I was aware myself that my shirt was faded compared to that of most other boys in my school, but my parents told me I would have to make do– the cloth used to make the shirts had lost color in one or two washings it seems, and they did not want to buy me new uniforms twice in the same year.  I was not happy, but I did not go around telling anyone that.  I did feel a bit conscious of the shirt though, and when someone said that to my face, and made fun of me, it made me very self-conscious indeed.

“Whats your problem?” I asked.  The boy just didn’t seem to notice.  He kept on laughing, enjoying himself thoroughly.  I didn’t know what to do… I could pick a fight… but then, I would end up getting my clothes dirty, and ending up late to school.  I made up some lame joke about his appearance, pretended to smirk, and headed towards school.

That was the beginning.  Not just for me though.

It turns out that that was the day this strange apparition had somehow landed in that particular spot, deciding to make fun of any passer-bys who chanced through.  I could see other faces, normally much happier, seem somewhat more guilty, somewhat more self-conscious, that day in school.  Even quite a few of the teachers seemed to look around at times, adjust their hair or their clothes, or whatever else kids used to make fun of them about behind their backs, very self consciously.

The stories slowly started to come through.  First, we heard of the boy making fun of Ram Bahadur– one of the strongest boys in class.  No one messed around with Ram Bahadur, or so it had been.  The boy just could not be caught…. no matter how much you planned to catch him up and beat him to pulp when you were somewhere else, when you reached that point in the road and made fun of you, for some reason, you would just get embarrased to the core, and walk along your way, deeply ashamed of yourself, and hoping no-one noticed, but never sure at heart.

We named him Chirkhe, for some reason I seem to have forgotten about.  He would not even be visible, or you would not notice him, until you were startled by that impish laughter which always made fun of exactly what would make you feel completely insecure.  Some of the girls would come crying to school, and would be sullen for almost half the day, just because Chirkhe had made fun of them.

Everybody started walking in groups to school, but then, after a while, everybody preferred to walk alone again.  The reason?  We thought groups would be able to take care of the kid, but it turns out that he made even more fun of people in groups.  First, he would single out one or two in the group, and make fun of something that the others could not help laughing about.  After isolating those guys, he would proceed to embarass the life out of the remaining people in the group in a similar manner.

The worst part was: no matter how many people there were, he would manage to make fun of each and everyone of them, and the road, or maybe even time, seemed to be long enough to allow him to do all that!

We thought he was a ghost or spirit of some kind.  Even tantriks and jhankris (think exorcists and shamans) were called to take care of him.  Their mantras (spells) apparently did not work, and instead, we would end up learning interesting facts about the poor fellows that made them look somewhat ridiculous instead of powerful to us too!  And of course, not just the ones who tried to remove the boy/spirit, but the onlookers would be made fun of too, after the main actor in the scene was taken care of!

There was only that one way to our school.  Other roads could not be built, as the land around belonged to people who wanted to grow crops, and who were not willing to donate land to build roads.  Even selling was not something they wanted to do– in part for personal reasons, and perhaps in part, because they were afraid that then, Chirkhe would show up near their lands too.

It had been 25 years since the boy had first appeared.  Houses had been built, roads were made of concrete, but the area around which the boy would appear was still somewhat roughly done: you can imagine that no-one would want to be made fun of for the time it took to do the job well.

People still walked to the school: though the boy did make fun of people, teachers got used to it: they would be extra careful of their appearance, and in general, they just grew thicker skin.  They would still be deeply embarassed every day the kid made fun of them, but they learned to live with it.  The teachers and other adults coping with it, and the school being a very good school in general, made students still get enrolled, and in fact, the exposure to the ‘making fun’ by the boy, was slowly enmeshed in the general psyche as kind of a ‘character building’ training.

Now though, I know not just one, but two impish characters.  One is the daughter of my cousin: Ritu.  She is a very mischevious kid, and I have never seen her cry.  When she was little (around 3-4 years old I think), she used to greet newcomers by slapping them on their face and laughing at them.  Nowadays she is not as severe.

My cousin lives around the same general area, and he wanted to enroll Ritu in the same school.  We all went there, and we are kind of used to Chirkhe anyways, to mind him that much.  Thats maybe because we no longer have to deal with him everyday, but he is an interesting reminiscence of our school days.

The three of us: my cousin, his daughter, and me: we walked along, the road to the school.  Its not a long road– actually just around 5-10 minutes from the bus stop, and it has no parking, so everyone has to walk there anyways.  It just seems a lot longer because Chirkhe is around and very effective. As the place around where he would pop up drew near, both of us must have felt a pang of the old fear in our hearts, and we looked at each other at once, and shrugged in a “I wonder whats going to happen next” kind of way.

Not a moment too soon.  There was the kid, laughing out loud.  Before he could say anything though, there was the sound of another kid laughing, and as I looked down, I could see Ritu tugging her father’s hand, and laughing out loud, saying “Papa, kasto fori fucche” (meaning: hey dad, thats such a dirty kid).

I looked at Chirkhe.  For the first time perhaps, I noticed it too.  The kid looked really dirty.  His pants had soil stains all over them, his clothes were ragged, he had snot on his face, which looked unwashed for perhaps, months if not years!  I even thought I could detect the faint smell of the effect of not taking a shower for years.  For the first time in my life, I burst out laughing, when I saw Chirkhe, genuinely amused laughter, from the bottom of my heart.

My cousin seemed to be somewhat caught off balance at first, but in a few seconds, I could see the laughter break across his face too, genuine amusement, as his daughter was just overall excited and amused to see such a dirty kid.  (Don’t ask me why she found a dirty kid amusing… she just did.. she is a kid whose amusement I find difficult to understand so often anyways!)

And as we burst out laughing, genuinely enjoying looking at the dirty and bemused little Chirkhe, we could see his initially impishly amused face slowly turn very sullen, changing very rapidly all of a sudden to contorted facial muscles that did not look anything like the Chirkhe of our school-day mis-adventures.

And then, I heard the kid bawl out loud.  Just as the first tear was about to drop down his face, he covered his face in his hands, and ran away from us.  We of course, were extremely jubilant…I found myself filled to the brim with happiness, and slowly, as my mood got more down-to-earth, I was discovering a great new-found respect and admiration for the impishness of my young niece.

That was the last anyone heard of by Chirkhe, or so they say.

(So ends the modern version of the story.  Actually, Chirkhe had turned into a handsome young prince, instead of running away, as I narrated above.  He had  then got on his knees and kissed the hand of my niece, and thanked her from the bottom of his heart for freeing him from his curse.  It turns out that a sage had cursed the prince (who had mischeviously made fun of him back then) to appear in this time and age to make fun of everyone who passed along his way till someone freed him from the curse by genuinely making fun of him instead.  He then faded away into light, saying “I am finally free.  I will go for now, but I will be there if you need me, just think of my name “Chiranjibi” three times”. I know you wont believe me when I tell you this, so I leave the story ended as it was in the paragraph above!)

The Drink Shop

He was someone you did not normally meet in several lifetimes: a truly interesting man.  He had been places and seen things people had never seen.  He was very easy to get along with, and would listen to your stories with the same interest and attention that you would listen to his ones, and I don’t know if anyone ever could get up and walk away or get bored once he started telling one of his stories.

He spoke of strange lands, magical beasts, and various other things that I could not ever imagine existing besides the industrial machines of today, but for some reason, the way he told his stories, I always believed them, even if he could offer me no proof.   I believe that it was the same for everyone else who heard his stories– we all believed that he really went to those lands, did his business as a wanderer, and everything.  It was just a part of reality that we could not experience completely ourselves.

Until one day, when I was about 15 years old.  I was really angry that day, at a passing auto-rickshaw which had sprayed mud all over my white school uniform.  I was walking back home, angrily muttering insults at the stupid driver who had not been considerate enough to drive slowly when passing by.

“You seem to be in a bad mood today!”

I looked behind… my anger going into background mode as my face lit up to see my old friend the wanderer greet me with that amicable smile of his.  “Yeah, look at the mud all over my clothes!” I told him.

We got to talking of this and that, but the thought of the rickshaw driver had still not left my mind.  I was really irritated, and was thinking that if I ever got hold of him, I would definitely either splash mud water all over him, or do something even more nasty, if only I knew where he lived……..

“You seem to have grown quite a lot since the last time I saw you.  I think it is time to have a drink!”  my friend said.

I wasn’t sure of whether I actually wanted a ‘drink’, especially if it was what I understood what he meant by it, but I was also slightly excited to have a go at the stuff, so I nodded my mute approval.

While talking, I had not noticed that we had reached some deserted part of town I had not been to before instead of nearer to home, as I would have expected.  Old, semi-crumbling houses, dusty lanes, and a meadow with very dry, withered grass on it were all I could see.  A strange post lay on the center of a crossroad.  It looked like the frame of a door, except that there was no wall surrounding it, and no door held within it.

My friend, Mani, the wanderer, was looking at me with an amused face, his eyes studying my face  for any reactions that it could see.

“Where are we?  I never came here before!  Is this where you said we could drink?” I asked.

He said nothing, but walked straight on to the strange frame in the middle of the crossroads, signalling me to follow.  I felt a strange excitement go through me, and wondered what was happening.  A glance down at my pants sent a slight spike of rage up my head briefly, but was lost in the excitement of the moment.

“Do not be afraid.  Do not let go of my hand or look backwards till you see the other side” Mani said, firmly gripping my right hand with his left, and apparently opening an invisible door within the frame with his right.  I could feel his body tense for a second, and then he moved forward.  I could see nothing as I followed him: just pitch darkness that seemed to contain not even one spark of light.

However, as soon as I took one step forward, the darkness had disappeared, and I saw a very beautiful landscape, with a shop that seemed to be full of customers that seemed to be drinking.  The shop was on the side of a hill, that seemed well cultivated and full of herbs, and all around, I could see other hills, with lush green forests growing on them.  The sky was quite different though: no sunlight it seems: the light was a deep green at places, and light blue at others, and many other colors– it looked like it was the color of different beautiful jewels that shone, illuminating the whole world with their brilliance.  The light was much smoother and nicer, and I somehow felt different– lighter than before, but I was not sure why so.

The top of the hill was very near to where we stood.  It was a very strange sight there too.  There was a statue on the top, mounted on top of a rock, that was in the middle of a small, blue pond.  Seven small streams flowed down from the pond, from different sides of the hill.

While I was busy noticing the scenery, it seems we had been walking quite rapidly towards the shop.  I was startled when I heard an old man speak: “How are you Mani, it seems you brought along a young friend today!  What would you like to drink?”

Mani laughed.  “I think my friend needs to drink what he has been desperate for today”.  “Revenge or forgiveness?” Mani asked, looking directly at me.

I don’t know how I would know what such a cryptic question meant.  We were talking about drinks, and in any other context, I would have definitely not understood.  Except that I did, today, in this place.

“Revenge” I said, with a taste of excitement in my mouth.

“Revenge it is then” said the old shopkeeper– Birkhelal dai, laughing out loud.

We sat on a table outside, enjoying the view, talking very little.  I knew Mani was scrutinizing me very carefully, but I could not catch him looking at me at all… he was just looking at the scenery and occasionally smiling at people inside or talking to people coming out or going in.

A small glass of brown liquid, slightly thicker than tea, was put in front of me.  Mani’s glass was much larger, and completely green.  “What is that?”  I asked.  “You can have it someday.  Today, even a drop would knock you out!” he said.

“Your drink has come: its not too strong, but very good for its purpose.  Good luck!” he added, with a wink.

I took a sip into my tongue, and the drink tasted sweet.  Without even thinking twice, I gulped it down completely, and saw that Mani was grinning widely.

It all came back to me.  The walk back home, the fast auto-rickshaw, the puddle of mud that had decided it liked me more than the streets where it would get disturbed by every passing vehicle, and the driver who could not care less.  I felt as if I was living through the same scene again….

except….

I stared at the driver, and the driver slightly lost his control on the steering handle.  I knew that there was a big puddle on that particular area of the road, and if the rickshaw got stuck there, it could not get out without a lot of people pushing it out– the road was not very well made, and I had seen rickshaws get stuck there before.

All I had to do was wish.  I saw the rickshaw get stuck in the puddle, exactly the way I wanted it to be.  The driver had to get out, flustered, and try to get the wheel out of the puddle, which unfortunately, he could not do alone.  The will I had made me wish people away from helping him, or even bothering themselves about what was happening.  His passenger also left in a minute or two.  That was sweet.

Except that my stomach seemed to be  a bit hot.

“Sweet, isn’t it?” Mani said quite nonchalantly.  It does kick you a bit in the gut afterwards though.  He wasn’t lying.  He ordered some food to help deal with the kick.  “Forgiveness is kind of sweeter in the long run, though you have to be really gutsy to bring yourself to swallow it down…. you can have the strangest visuals at that time.  Always made me feel happier in the long run though.” He said.

Oh well… I had my revenge.  Sweet thing is– the next day’s paper showed the same picture I had seen in my mind after drinking Revenge.  The same ricksaw and driver, on print .  I was not sure of how or when it happened, but was definitely impressed.

Later in life, I got to go on more drinking trips with Mani, and drink more exotic drinks than the Revenge one I had tried my first time.  Forgiveness wasn’t so bad either.. though it was definitely hard to swallow.  I used to look up the revenge drink whenever someone pissed me off badly at first, but it kind of got hard to keep score later– maybe it was my nature, maybe the influence Mani and the drinks had on me, maybe just co-incidence.  I found myself liking it less and less…. but just so that you know, I do not like people who cross me, and I keep a spare bottle in my cabinet all the time.

Except for the fact that it doesn’t seem to work out here– you have to go to that shop…. but still, you better be careful

The Future

They said he could tell the future very well.  He used to read hands… and also look at you and tell you things no one else knew.  That is why so many people talked about him, talked about how this person or that that they had known had been told such and such, and how they were excited to have their future foretold themselves.

The man was not so old, but no longer young.  He had not started reading hands as a fad like others had– it had come more of curiosity– he had simply wanted to see what reading hands could tell him, and slowly, he as he learned more and more, he understood so much, and yet, he could see so much he did not understand.  The lines told him about events in people’s lives, and they could avert that to a certain extent.. that was what astrology was about– he had read in some book a long time ago.  But nowadays, he saw things as a complex web– one event entangled with another– the world just a tangled up bundle of different strings of existence.  You tugged on one string, and the whole structure moved– the event would be averted for now… but you still had to pay for things later.

Long ago, it had been a novelty– he had started with so much interest.  Nowadays, it was a means to get by.  He read hands, got some money, made ends meet.  He could perhaps follow some other occupation, but this was so much more easy to do.  He wondered why they would come to him anyways– true .. he might be able to tell them what would happen, but how would that change anything?  There was more to it, but he did not care any longer.

He had read the hand of a little girl this morning.  Surprisingly, she had come alone.  She had a rupee in her hand, and she wanted him to read his hands. He had agreed.

He saw a lot.. he saw a pure spirit, he saw lines of care, lines of worry, lines of triumph and defeat.  He saw the lines of  someone who wanted to live a life from their heart.  He saw something else too.. he saw someone very similar to himself, as he was, a long time ago.  Before he had gotten entangled in existences, in the web of other people’s lives.  Before he had changed from an intelligent young man to a tired old one.

She was still a child.  Seven years old.  Her lines would change often, perhaps till she reached 25 or 30.  But they held great promise.  He could see so much, but for perhaps the first time in his life, he told her only a few things.  That she had a good life ahead, that she would have her share of joys and sorrows, but with faith, she could succeed, and most importantly, when in doubt, the only place she needed to look to for guidance, was not in the stars or what someone else told her or predicted, but in her heart.  Three things, and that was all she would need.

That was his last reading: he stopped reading hands after that.  He had learned to read them out of his own interest, but for so long,  had been reading lines because others had wanted him to.  Not any more: he was now concerned with the future of only one more life: his own.

The messenger

He was about to go to school, early in the morning, as usual.  He had done all his homework, and was looking forward to school, but not too much.  A slight feeling of excitement was playing in the depths of his mind, as if something was tickling him from inside.  Questions would form and disappear, but not significantly, as he was simultaneously thinking of a lot of other things.

And then he saw it.  The beautiful yellow butterfly, with spots of red on its wings.  It fluttered its wings and slowly flew towards the boy whose attention it had completely captured.  Flew near his face, fluttered a while in the air, then flew away.

Somewhere within  his mind, the excitement in that boys heart changed to something else…  to something better.  Some new confidence seemed to have formed in his heart, as he walked with a more purposeful stride towards school.

The butterfly too, purposefully, changed into something else.. a black crow I think, and flew to one of the houses in the neighbourhood…. possibly with an unwelcome message to deliver.