The butterfly which broke from its shell 3

"No, leave him alone! Brother! Don't hurt my brother!"

On the main road connecting the city of Antai with the small villages surrounding it in all directions, there was a long procession of men with carriages, heavily loaded carts and guards carrying heavy cold weapons over their shoulders heading out. This was the city-lord Xiu's procession, as he left the town with his family toward the capital. With several lines of dignitaries sending them off, with gifts lining in numbers and servants hurriedly chasing after the main procession, flustered and with flushed faces – it made everything more and more cheerful like a very large wedding procession was being led and the line of trousseau sent after; it was just missing the right amount of red to showcase the auspiciousness of all this affair. Unfortunately, the big-spectacle soon turned away and the crowd faded from sight in the blink of an eye, as the procession reached the main gate of town and were counting the carriages and people to register with the guards. Perhaps because there were people coming together from far and wide, a little discussion aroused some angry hearts and there was a small scuffle as some took to force and started dealing with a young man standing with his sister, at the main gate of Antai.

"What takes place over here?"

"Someone was found to be in possession of un-believer's book. He was preaching against the "Holy Order Sect", said –

"What did he say?" The voice had turned into whispering mumbles, encouraging the other to repeat.

"Said, they were heralding the end of the world! And even said that the great master of "The Great Compassion temple" himself divined it one of his family members. How brave! You wouldn't be shocked, what else could you be. So, he was dragged and beaten."

The two spectators were also awaiting in the long line outside the huge towering main gates of city fortress. There were many other voices as well as people collected and discussed while watching the girl covering her brother with her body, protecting him as much as she could. There was already some blood coming out of her head.

"He wouldn't survive. Its bad he said that here, in front of so many people too. If he does survive, it will not be for long. Many will give testament against him you must know. Alas! There is no saving at this point."

"I heard the city lord's carriage is just a little while away from here. Perhaps, seeing this occasion he might intervene. The whole thing is so inauspicious."

There was really intervention. Soon guards swarmed in through the gaps in mob and eased the atmosphere. The boy and the girl were left lying on top of each other, profusely bleeding from their heads and backs. The rivulets of blood seeped through, seeping through them into their clothes, dying their whiteness from many washes and faded meaningless patterns into big splotches of scarlet red. It all looked pretty grim, for the sunny hot day outside. And as people continued to come and go, paying their dues at the city gate, they dare not take a long look in that direction. No one was brave enough to get into these dark water these days.

The two young people were left on their own for a hour long, unconscious, unaware of whether dead or alive. They remained so until a man and a woman emerged from the city gate and brought the two unfortunate, unconscious children through the city gate – carrying them over their backs into the town.

*

There was a silent clamor for decadence in his heart. Like withering of red roses, darkened in a hungry attempt to last. Perhaps a little titillating in its act as such, as if its fragrance could reach the skies and return his will. He had lost it, his shadow, a long time back. When his days started with the blushing mornings and settled down a comfortable embrace of his heart. Yet – he had lost it all. Little by little, he sold away all his will to live. You could say it was a profit; he believed it was as well but he had started to grow moss in his exchanged stone of a heart. He had grown a bit hungrier, a bit greedier for more. Of course, it was inevitable! This was his death bed and he could wish for the world.

"Water..." he could cry in a strained croak, a slight whispery breath bound to his wish. But his senses told him he would rather release a small gasp of inexpressible pain. So, he held his wish and kept staring with his hollowed face, mottled light flickering upon the ceiling walls. Perhaps a shadow of an earlier glory could be watched from the elegant brows of the man on death-bed.

"Aren't Niuniu and Xiabao back yet? What is taking them so long? They only said to stay overnight - now its a day and a night and the day again." An old woman sat beside the bed of old man on an ancient looking chair. The whole house gave an ancient smell, and the smell of poverty ridden simplicity. In this particular room you wouldn't find anything that wasn't of very importance, simple chairs, table and a wooden bed accommodating two people. But whether, it was related to the profession of the old man, there were several thick volumes of ancient looking leathered books clustered in a corner collecting dust. In its heyday, it must have seen some worn, but right now it appeared to have been ignored for a long while, even decades. Apart from this unusual items, there were also many pots and containers of old dusty pewter and brass lying about. Each filled with unknown sticky liquids, and gum. The old man's eldest grandson had just apprenticed under another book-house and learned to bind and provide some leather coverings for written texts. It wasn't paying too much but some penny or two of copper could be collected - which were all then spent over the medicine of the old man.

Perhaps the old woman must have been aware that there will be no answers, so she remained engrossed in her fine threading works bending her hunchbacked neck a little lower to get the perfect light. There was no other person in the whole house, or someone might have answered her doubts.

"Its coming..." the croaking voice of the old-man echoed, finally making the bewildered woman look at his face.

"Oh, its time..." there was no weeping, no tiring good-buys. "Oh my, oh". No tears were spilled through weary, age-worn eyes as the woman kept looking at her husband's face. the face which she had loved through tough time, good times and now – cruel times. The world hadn't been kind to her husband, hadn't been kind to herself – both orphans of wars. They had tried to do justice to each other, but so many injustices had already dulled their senses of wrongs and rights. But he had been a kind husband, a patient father and equally loving grandfather. She just had a silent wish to leave a space for her grandchildren in all this crowded world, now. That they might get a little morsel but grow up safe and sound. She just wished and prayed for this day and night. So, the parting was in her mind, a parting of little while. She will follow too, soon enough, so, there were no tears to be shed.

"NiuNiu's grandma, look at your grandchildren! What they have been about, a-preaching such things in broad daylight? Does he want us to be killed?"

"What happened? What happened, tell me?" The old woman let go of the shaking hands of old-man, rushing through the doors into the courtyard. She looked a little out of breath, at the girl child who looked like she had been thrashed and her grandson, who looked pale and worn out with white clothe covering his forehead supported by the woman.

"Granny don't worry, it was just a beating."

"A beating well deserved." Cried out the angry woman who was huffing for breath.

"Don't worry, granny, it isn't as bad as it looks like, here see, we are intact."

"What intact, don't lie on her face. Tell her how much effort did the doctor put into mending you all, that you won't say, won't you. And so much money washed away in water!"

"Its bad affair, all the debt of years. Its bad affair. But there must be no time for reprimands. Come and see your grandfather Niuniu, come get his blessings for the last time. And carry your brother in too. He looks not in right state to talk – but he can listen, come, come you all. Look, I thought you wouldn't see him in his last moment - but here you are. Come!"

"Then aunty Feng, I will take my leave." The woman looked at the serious faces of all the family members and decided to return to her husband back to her home. It was noon time and pretty busy in the restaurant where they worked. He will be asking for her help soon. She took a last glimpse at the haunch-backed old woman in tears, the pretty girl with gloomy face and the boy-child squatting on the ground, holding his bandaged head in between his two hands. Its all-sad affair, in this courtyard.

"Grandfather! Do you feel good?"

"Good...", there was much stress, in the way he spoke. He took great pain, in uttering them too. "But child, I want you to do something for me, will you my Niuniu?" There was great courage in forming these simple sentences. But soon he was, with the same courage as if the strange strength that seizes a flame at the end of its existence, just before the room falls into darkness of death – a similar sort of energy was flowing in the old man as well. His eyes brightened as he looked at the ceiling and his ears let in more pretty birdsongs than he had ever heard, he felt life running in his veins as never before. He was recalling good things of the past, the bad events of his life and happy, glorious moments, as his heart pulsed with deep emotions.

Soon enough the girl child was sitting beside the bed, a long feather quill in her hand as she dipped their end in ash water, mixed with gums of the acacia tree to strengthen its durability on hand-made papers. Despite the streaming tears the girl looked quite knowledgeable of any material that could be produced to that cause when required, in all the poverty there was still the needed ink and pen, some paper, a fine hand too. And the man on the bed began to leave his last will.

He said he wanted to tell a poem, record the death poem on his death-bed – which he had heard had been a practice among many valiant warriors and patrons of justice of old. He was a soldier in his days and he did want to act as if his death mattered and had made a splash. But more than that, he wished to record some feelings that he had dwelt upon with his whole life. A question that had haunted him through the majority of his adulthood, and old-age. It was a grave, heavy heritage - yet he wanted to plant these seeds in the poor children mind. He knew he was being unkind, selfish, but he couldn't allow that song to be unheard. With great pain, he had decided to sing in his last moment, so that some spark may be left in unconscious hearts.

He dictated –

"The hunger had passed. And I tumbled upon the unsatisfied need to gobble everything up, till the last bit of morsel disappeared from where they were placed in front of me. I had this urge to go and seek the delicacies around the region, or call someone to bring something to me. But the hunger had passed. What was left was my desire to let everything be ruined. And eat my fill.

"You share, that's the way one gets his fill," mother used to say. Her warmth engulfed all my recollections. Her sour, milky warmth that filled the nostrils. It always stung and brought tears in my eyes. The way it pulsed down to my heart, smashing as an ache. "You eat your fill, till your stomach is padded enough and then you stop. And you always share with your brethren. Take from the same bowl. God then gives you abundance in whatever you share."

We would always be sprawled around the earthen oven, teasing and yelling as she served. Flies would swirl around in swarms attacking the nice smelling fruits and sorbets. Not as much a nuisance in the evening as in the noon, but off-putting enough to disrupt the quarrels between us siblings. Our grandmother would then sit beside us on a chair and wave of flies with her hand held-fan.

We would stop arguing until much later. An anticipation gripping our hearts as we repeated un-comprehended thanks to someone up in the sky. Soon the tinges of orange would giveaway to much grimmer shades of red blending with dark from the other end of horizon. A loud resounding call for prayers would bring us all together. Heart, mind and soul, everything would reach out to something as prayers would resonate around, uttered by everyone. And then the hunger would fade away. No one remained hungry till the end.

"You go over to the little grandmamma and send these to them. Don't stay long, hurry back!" Mother would hand us a basket covered by white cotton cloth, hiding away the appetizing breads and snacks she had made. And off we would scurry away, with wings on our feet to the neighboring houses. The path always smelt of cattle excrement and filth. But our naked feet would thump loudly on the ground, running off into even darker alleys. All of us knew in our hearts that our many grandmamas, aunts and sisters would make mouth-watering snacks. So much to fill one's heart!

We would eat something of everything and yell for our brothers to get moving from one house to another till we have had given everything away and tasted from everyone's home. Only then would we return. How could everyday chiding of mother hold us to our words when so many delicacies could be enjoyed every day? She would never hold us long enough, only till our night classes. After the call for prayer, we would be off again, flying from our homes with books and prayer beads in our hands, off to our teachers' home.

It was wholesome childhood dedicated to feeling the worth of pity, of sorrow in hunger, of thankfulness when food was spread on kerchiefs, of everything beautiful – beauty of the glow of our mother, the thankfulness in her eyes, the setting sun as we rushed to our teachers, the warm embraces of our siblings, as everyone stuck together the whole night for warmth.

I knew of no abundance, yet I was taught the best and wished the best upon another. It was memory of my heart that dragged me from the battlefields as I spent looking for a piece of peace to string it all together. I couldn't find my land, my clan, my family – I clutched at some soil, that others proclaimed were the places my brethren had been buried. I had thought I had stood protecting them in the southern frontiers, throughout the cold nights I had wished I were somewhere else or ached with unsatisfied hunger, I echoed endless prayers. And I was not aware that somewhere I couldn't see, they were slain by my own brethren.

I couldn't claim them, or their last remains, or the handful of loess; their pride was never so distraught as to be cut by neighbors into pieces. But this was the truth I realized. They were called the heathens. My family had stood their place, never shaking away from their love, but they were drained of it, drained of hope and blood and slain in the name of justice and echoing celebration of their end surrounding them, mocking them from the faces they had looked at all their lives and regarded as family. Were the previous love and harmony a lie? Was everything which I believed growing up, just untrue and truth of everyone was that they, the village-men, were ungracious prejudiced, and wealth worshipping heathens, betrayer of the teachings of the old? Because it was my clan alone who was not slain over words. It was all those who stood up and rejected working for someone who claimed he had more claim over us than anyone, who wanted us to do his bidding wanting us to be enslaved.

They said we are heathens for not abiding to their rules, following the old ways. The teachings of the new should be the one followed, as a new world beckoned us towards itself. It could make us escape the worldly attachments and give us the power to overturn mountains if ever we wanted. With so much power, there would never be misery again, no poverty will be seen amongst us, every one of us could gain the 'resources', as was promised to them through the priest of their god. How was I to believe – for such reasons they had erased my poor family? Some fantastical promises and day-dreams? How was I to believe they were once my friend's father, mother and grandparents whom we ourselves called aunt and uncle with such kindred spirit and such love as if blood did in fact tie us all together."

"So here it is to the life spent on understanding the grief of that chance evening my Xiaobao, my lovely Niuniu. Record my lovely girl, write my death words, my poem - it will be long, be patient as I drain my soul on it, but write it - "

I sang a song that was left of my heart

Tuned to a broken lute by a frosted lake.

Broken whispers and endless ebbing of my loss

Like a sunken tide upon the embankment

Which chased a solace, for the sake of it alas!

I sought the tune I once heard

In my millennium of an hour when the world had yet begun;

Chased a sightless aim as I wandered

The thorns were deepening to ankles, and bloodied

Days ebbing to nights and flooding to another dawn

Yet the song had slipped my ears into my restless heart.

In the endless white path of snow laden grounds

I knew that song was somewhere with me for sure

As was the trace that once a hand had sighed along

To the tunes and turned to swirl in the darkening eve

A testament to all the breathing and tingling loss

A trace that it had lived, a trace that I had dwelled;

Once upon a time upon this land.

"The hunger had passed. And I tumbled upon the unsatisfied need to gobble everything up. But the hunger had passed. What was left was my desire to let everything be ruined. And eat my fill."

There was long silence after the outburst. But no one raised any voice. All eyes looked tired, worn and flushed with emotions.

'Why shouldn't I hate? I ask the world – why shouldn't I hate?' Why shouldn't his life be spent on hate, like a search for a forgotten tune in endless desert of solitariness. He knew not who, what but he still hated. Hated the death of his kinsmen, hated his neighbor, hated the chase after that - to strange lands, till he ceased to be someone he was. Everything had boiled him with rage as if, draining from him the heavy feelings of hatred. And when he realized that only he had changed, nothing was altered in the vast expanse of land and water; the wretched were killing and murdering as they wished, plundering lands in name of heathen gods and his oracle, as they wished and, chasing the un-believers, killing caring, soft men and ruining gentle women - nothing was changed of his killing a few. Nothing had changed from his protecting a few. His arms were still too green to shelter the crowd of innocent victims. So he too ceased to be, so he to sold his self to death, panging for it, dreaming about the final release. And began chasing something akin to a tune he had heard from the lips of his mother, perhaps in the long-forgotten infanthood, in the cradle, in her warm, kind and overpowering embrace.

So he had wished to sing too, at this final moment, but his broken throat will not let him. But he must chase that tune, which he hears more and more clearer as the time goes -

A bird?