Butterflies and Hurricanes

At 4 AM, Senthil woke up in a sweat. The first thought he had was of her. The girl he had been watching for over two years now. She lived opposite his own house and every time he saw her, butterflies wreaked havoc in his stomach. 

He could never talk to her though.

 Madras in the ‘70s would have considered him a creep, possibly even a criminal. He called her his green parrot, since she often wore blouses and skirts of that colour. He watched her from his balcony as she walked about on her terrace, often in her school uniform. He watched her as she read a book, as she sat in silence, as she existed.

She was aware of his gaze, and as weeks turned into months, they developed a long-distance, silent relationship where communication was permitted only through the eyes. Not even a smile or a nod. Only glances. It was empowering and overpowering at the same time. 

God, how he loved her. 

His father had often told him of the devastating effects women can have on men’s futures, so for the sake of his education and his career, fourteen-year-old Senthil made a promise to himself. If he ever glanced at a woman below the neck, he would say the entire Gayatri Mantra in his head. During exams, he’d say it twice. 

That summer, he recited the mantra 765 times. 

Let’s come back to the present for a while. 

When Senthil woke up at 4 AM that morning and headed to his balcony, he spotted her downstairs. She was standing at the public hand pump with a plastic bucket. The water shortage those days often forced people to wake up early to get enough water. 

Yes! This was his chance! He rushed downstairs with a bucket. She looked at him. Nobody said a word. 

There they were again: butterflies. 

He couldn’t utter a word. It was as if he had swallowed his tongue whole. She said to him, “Please go ahead and fill your bucket. I’ll wait.” He almost fainted. She spoke to him! She actually uttered words that were meant for his ears! 

That memory kept him awake for a week. With his exams approaching, he was doubtful of the power of any mantras to break that spell. 

He wanted to approach her, talk to her, or maybe just send her a note. But he decided against it. She belonged to a different caste. Even mentioning her to his father was like instant suicide. There was no point. He let it go. So they continued to look at each other from their balconies. 

Day after day after day. 

Until one day, she was gone. Her family moved to another locality. She was lost forever and he didn’t even know her name. The pain crushed him. Oh, how he suffered and grieved. Eventually, he poured his entire soul into his books and managed to become a computer engineer. 

Twenty years later, he was the regional manager of a Swiss bank in Singapore. He was at the Ikea store with his wife: a simple, chaste, pious woman who belonged to the same caste. Suddenly, he happened to glance at a woman. 

They were back. The butterflies. 

She was there. Clad in a green blouse. With her husband and two daughters. She looked pretty much the same, except for a few signs of gentle aging. His first reaction was to recite the Gayatri Mantra again. He almost chuckled out loud. His green parrot was in the same city! 

He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to tell her how he had pined for her. He wanted to tell her the very sight of her still caused him to sweat. He wanted to go sit at a cafe with her and talk at length, and tell her how she had turned his life upside down when she left. But he couldn’t. There was no point. He let it go. He watched her disappear from his life all over again. 

The same evening, his mother called him and asked him if he remembered their neighbours who lived opposite their house. “How can I not?” he almost said out loud. 

“Well, it turns out,” she continued, “they belong to our caste, and they are asking our cousin’s hand for their younger daughter. Isn’t it wonderful how things work out?”