Butterflies and Hurricanes

My little plastic box was baby pink, with multicoloured hearts all over it. It had a circular space right in the centre, with a transparent lid that let me see the contents inside at all times without having to open the box. It had all the money I had ever saved. My allowance and the coins I’d found wedged between sofa cushions. Even crispy ten rupee notes my grandfather used to give me as ‘inaam’ after I finished reading a new novel. A grand total of sixty five rupees. All mine. And we were going on a trip to Haridwar. I could spend it all on whatever I wanted!

Papa was driving, we were playing ‘Dil Se’ songs in the car and expertly singing along. Even the ‘Punjirithanji konjikko’ parts that we had no idea about. I held my bag close to me, and kept peeping inside to make sure my box was still there. So much money. I was starry-eyed and excited about the next few days.

I remember walking with my eyes and my mouth wide open. Everything about Haridwar was crazy. The colours were too saturated, the smells were too strong, the sounds were loud and jarring. We took boat rides, ate at the Choti Wala’s, even went for a dip in the Ganga. The water is said to purge you of all your sins. We were not criminals. Why did we have to go inside? The water was freezing cold, and there were way too many nude people to make all of us pretty uncomfortable almost the entire time. Every restaurant blared devout bhajans, and the one we heard every single time unmistakably was ‘Hey Raam, Hey Raam.’ Even if I want to, I cannot unlearn the tune, the voice, or the smell of hot parathas and white butter.

My sister and Mummy wanted to go shop, so Papa decided to take my brother and me to a different ghaat for another dip. They mutually decided to meet at a certain time and place after all of us were done. As we headed towards the other ghaat, we realized there was a crossing line and we had to pay 20 rupees to get ahead. Papa took out his wallet, and all he had inside were 5 rupees. There were no ATM cards those days. No mobile phones. Nothing. He was stumped. He looked around, a little bewildered, a little lost. We couldn’t go back, and we couldn’t cross.

He turned around to look at us, “Do you kids have any money?”

My brother shrieked “I do, Papa.” He took out all the coins he had. Eight rupees. Not good enough.

I gulped. I wanted to help. But somehow I couldn’t bring myself to tell him. If he had nothing, and mummy would meet us only in the evening, he would depend completely on my money. Which means he would spend most of it, maybe all of it. I had worked so hard to gather it. Bit by bit. It felt so wrong, but I cleared my throat and said, “I have some money, Papa.”

“How much?”

“Um, sixty-five rupees.”

He turned around. “How much?!”

“Sixty-five rupees?”

“Why didn’t you say so? That’s wonderful. Give it to me!”

I took out my box, slowly, and while handing it to him, asked, “Will you give it back to me?”

“Of course, I will. Now, come. Let’s cross this gate first.”

Not only did we go for another dip in the Ganga – and this time, thankfully, with no naked people around – we also went to a shack and had the spiciest bhuttas ever. I remember how the salt and the lemon burned my lips. I licked all of it, only to be met with more salt and lemon as I sunk my teeth into the bhutta again. We went to another shop, and had a coke each. Ah, the fizziness was so refreshing that day. Mummy never let us buy a single coke bottle each, she always asked us to share. But we could have a blast with dad. We roamed around, and even had ice-creams. I don’t remember having so much fun with Papa. I was so proud that my money had helped us out, and it let us have so much fun. It was good, honest, hard-earned money. When it was dark and all of us pretty tired, we went to the pre-decided spot and found Mummy and didi waiting for us.

When they got inside the car, Papa said “Aaj to Chinky ne bacha liya, varna pata nahin kya hota.” (“Chinky saved the day today, otherwise god knows what we would have done.”) I beamed and smiled as he narrated the entire story to them, and mom smiled back at me. I felt like a hero! I forgot about the money. I didn’t care anymore. I’d had such a wonderful time.

The next day, dad gave me a shiny new hundred rupee note as a reward for being such a helpful little girl. A hundred rupees! I started calculating in my head: one carry forward to zero, carry forward to the other zero, ten minus five… gasp! Thirty-five rupees more than what I had before! I blushed, thanked him, opened my pink box, and carefully placed the note inside.

“Now we begin again,” I said, and closed the box tightly.