Fireflies

by Nirupama Sudarsh

[box]Nine-year-old Monu wants to collect fireflies in a jar, his father eggs him on, while his mother wonders when the child will learn to be serious and score better in his school exams. Nirupama Sudarsh tells us what eventually happens on that rainy evening.[/box]

A glint of green darted across his eyes, piercing the thick pile of darkness, as Monu watched intently, sitting restlessly on the cold stone slab persevering to touch the tip of his nose with his tongue, his bare lanky legs dangling against the freshly white washed walls.

“Mom, did you see that?!!” he yelped in a wave of unschooled excitement.

“See what?” was the flavourless response from his mother who was sitting propped up against the grey pillar. Her nimble fingers deftly moved between the garlic she was chopping and the sharp knife clenched in the other hand.

“It was as big as a marble and dazzling like a neon lamp. It flitted across my eyes and for a moment I thought I was blinded,” said the mischievous nine-year-old animatedly, his eyes popped wide in wonder.

“You saw a firefly, Monu, and don’t exaggerate,” she said flatly.

“Daaad! Mom is sooooo strict with me. Ramu says his amma is his best friend because she lets him do whatever he wants. When he asked for the largest pack of normal Dairy Milk, his amma got him Dairy Milk Silk!!” he pouted.

“If I were Ramu’s mother I would have done the same. Do you need me to remind you he scored A+ in all subjects?  What about you?” shot back his half-nettled mother.

Monu hung his head low speechlessly in momentary grief and shame; his cheeks ballooned up in childish rebellion. But his eyes lit up on seeing the tiny green insect again. He fixed his gaze at the fascinating creature blinking. One blink and it was gone. He hurriedly looked around, turning his head in all directions,afraid he might lose sight of it. To his utter amazement, there were a hundred of them out in the open sky, like sparkling green beads across the black horizon.

“Dad, did you see that?? There are fireflies everywhere tonight! I am going to catch at least one!” he cried out in sheer delight.

“Why don’t you get an empty bottle from the kitchen and put them inside?” suggested his father, unwinding on the easy chair. He shared his son’s joy. Before his mother could object, Monu made a dash for the kitchen and was out in no time clutching a glass jam bottle with a white strip of label still visible on the outside, and an orange sieve with a deep net bottom. He jumped down the two stairs leading from the veranda to the courtyard and almost danced his way across the dusty ground, swinging and flapping the sieve.

“You are to blame for your son’s dull performance at school. Did you see his report card?” started Monu’s mother, making no attempt to hide her displeasure at her husband for being indulgent with their son.

“I did. It was on the dining table,” was his cool reply. He was now leaning comfortably against the back rest, eyes shut and arms across his chest locked in each other. He wasn’t affected by his wife’s insecurity or apprehensions.

“So what do you have to say about that?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he replied.

“What do you mean, ‘nothing’? That child has scored nothing but B- s and B+s! His friend Ramu is the topper again in class. Ramu scored seven A+s! Just like the last time. How proud he must have made his parents! He has been winning the proficiency prize since 1^st standard. You have no idea about how I worked my fingers to the bone coaching our boy. I stuck charts with pictures and names of historical monuments and plant parts all over his room thinking that at least that way it would get registered in his mind. He wrote the names of just 11 out of 18 parts on the paper. I made him recite The Worm by Ralph Bergengren five times every day. Yet he forgot the name of the poet during the exam. Maths was the only saving grace where he managed to somehow get an A+,” she went on in a whiny tone, when Monu’s father cut her short.

“How come he did well in Maths?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t coach him for Maths after I became impatient with his absolute lack of interest. It’s a wonder how the boy did it.”

“It is probably because there was no external interference,” he said quietly, eyes still closed, and trying to suppress a grin. She flared up instantly: “Oh, so you’re saying that my intervention is doing him more harm than good, is that so?”

Chinks of electric white appeared on the tarpaulin of black above. An eruption of thunder followed. Pellets of rain wet Monu’s half naked scalp, visible due to a recent military crop haircut. He paused in his adventure to concentrate on the gleaming pearl hanging on the tip of his nose when his mother called out hoarsely signalling him to get inside. Realising that his hapless winged creatures were getting wet, he quickly slipped the lid around the mouth of the bottle and pressed it hard before running into the veranda, dabbling at the newly formed puddles as he sprinted back. He was beaming when he placed the bottle on the slab in front of his parents.

“Nice catch, son. I see you’ve got five under your belt. Good job,” said his father.

Triumphantly he said, “No big deal catching the first four. But the last guy gave me a tough time. It was hiding behind the bushes. I carefully crept on my toes, pressing my palm hard against my mouth so it wouldn’t hear me breathe. I think it was caught off guard when I swung the sieve over it and freed it into my bottle and….”

“Go inside and have your bath. Start on the lessons immediately after the bath. I have had enough of your heroic tale for now. Your mid-term tests are just a month away,” barked his perturbed mother.

“Your mother is right. Have a shower and come back in a jiffy. Then you can tell me more of what happened. I’ll take care of them till then,” assured his father, smiling at him in an attempt to downplay the harshness of his wife.

Monu nodded only half willingly, not sure if he would be allowed to do anything but study that night. But then his father had assured him he could come back and regale him with his adventure. He couldn’t ever remember his father going back on his words, especially with him. So he threw a last glance at his newfound friends, moved closer as though to assure them that it was just a matter of time before they were reunited. His mother cleared her throat, signalling it was about time he left. He left immediately.

“Why do you have to counter everything I say and do to that child? I say study and you say play, I raise him in discipline and you encourage him to pilfer ice cream from the refrigerator at night, I caution him not to eat street food and you challenge him in to a paani puri eating match! What kind of a father are you? Ever thought where this pampering could lead him?” she fumed.

“Raji, he is only nine. He’ll have plenty of time to wear a suit, carry a portmanteau and assume a grave expression when he’s grown up. Let him live the life of a child till then. What he needs in these growing years is a mother, not a civility trainer barking orders at him” he said unrestrained yet placidly.

She turned a seething red, abruptly breaking her chore midway. Setting aside the basket of garlic, she rose and stormed past her husband in a fit of rage. It was then that she tripped against the leg of the chair.  She landed flat on the wet tiled floor and let out a groan. Her husband immediately got to his feet and helped her up. Eyes shut in pain she searched high up on the slab for another grip to balance herself when her hand ran over the glowing glass bottle and knocked it down.

Husband and wife gasped in disbelief as they watched the bottle come down crashing to the cement floor on the other side of the low wall and then at the freed captives buzzing over the shards of the broken bottle on the ground.

Before father and mother could come up with a plausible explanation, Monu was already out in the veranda, standing just a few feet away from them. He wore a dazed expression, mouth half open, his eyes riveted on the glinting shards. He then looked up at his father accusingly, his lips quivering and rivulets of tears streaming down his pale cheeks. “How could you…” he began, but didn’t complete as violent sobs shook his body and a heavy fog of sorrow descended on him.

Nirupama Sudarsh is an Economics student at Symbiosis School of Economics, Pune. A native of Thrissur, Kerala, she has been penning short stories and poetry since school days, and likes to base her short stories in an Indian setting. Apart from reading and writing, she enjoys singing.

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