The Diary of The Blue Butterfly - Entry 31, page 5

I hadn't ever imagined that the bridal attire that I saw her off in would be the one in which he too would behold her.

Well, the house is all set for some drama now. The battle lines are drawn.

An ambitious mother, a calculating and successful entrepreneur, a domineering wife to a husband who serves as a constable in the BSD. Two strapping young men"one who inherited his mother's entrepreneurial skills and calculating acumen and another who inherited his mother's short fuse and sharp tongue.

A man who returned to his ancestral home after 15 long years. And another reluctant man who returned home to a teary-eyed welcome from his younger brother, who equated him to Ram. Only this man refused the sobriquet because, as everyone save one knew, this Ram had no Sita for a wife; his wife, the walls too would whisper, had eloped.

Entering his son's former room, he saw him looking around. He saw the furniture set up precisely as though a child had attempted to create a make-believe castle. Except that he knew that the boys had long outgrown such games. So what was this about? He craned his neck upward. That was when he saw her. Perched atop the cupboard -- not as daintily as I would have -- he saw her in the bridal attire.

"Rat", she squeaked, in explanation to his brusque question.

Oh well, it was a logical conclusion for him to draw, wasn't it? How often did his son ensconce women in his room and bring his father in too? Never. How often did his son bring a woman dressed in bridal attire to the house, never mind the bedroom? Never ever. How often did his son force him back to his ancestral house? Never ever in the past 15 years.

Ergo. He must have tied the knot without inviting him to the marriage. All because of the burnt potatoes that he had fed him. Dratted potatoes! But that explained why he suddenly wanted to root down in the ancestral house.The ties of a beautiful woman.

Now how many times had he warned him off beautiful women! Countless times over the past 15 years.

But, look at them engaging in an eye-lock right in front of him to the strains of imaginary music!

They didn't know that I had trained her. And I thought that I had seen him trained and raised with better skills than this.

Well, who would have thought that?

But, first, let me get a tad bit sentimental. The sight of the elder lad and his lass communicating without words reminded of days gone by when we would do that. A shared smile. A hand squeezed to convey support. Eyes that conveyed love.

All this time. And he still hasn't understood me. He still underestimates me. That works out just well, doesn't it?

A veteran in the art of escaping being on the menu for others, I had trained her well.

If you want to find out if you are being followed, think out aloud so that those following can hear you. Let them know that you think that there is something amiss. That will immediately put them on the back foot, especially if they are interested in the chase and not capturing the game then and there. Check.

Him. I remember seeing him being trained. In the art of The Butterfly Dance. Tonight, he had a pupil. He was teaching his junior. Lesson 1: Since you are a human and are not blessed with wings, wrap a shawl around yourself. Lesson 2: Extend your hands and flap them as you hop from one spot on the ground to another. Two steps side-ways and a hop. Yes, they have got the rhythm right. Lesson 3: Turn and close your eyes. Pause. Lean forward. Lesson 4: Two steps forward and yet another hop. And pause. Lesson 5: Lean forward again. A few steps backward. No, not like Michael Jackson. Much more daintily ... remember it's The Butterfly Dance.

Her. Next step in the art of detecting your true followers. Do a 180 degree turn suddenly with a wide-eyed gaze. Pause. Do another 180 degree turn. Head to your destination. If you still think that something is amiss, it is amiss. Never ignore your instincts.

Him. Emboldened by the thought that he hadn't forgotten the final crucial steps of The Butterfly Dance, he went for it - a twirl and a few hops and a final leap. The junior followed. Quite well done for a beginner. But, they forgot that their bodies were not transparent. Forgot that when The Butterfly Dance in danced by the light of a lantern at night, the dance becomes a shadow play.

Her. She saw the shadow flit across the wall. Bingo. She was being followed. Oh well, they didn't know that she still carried with her the tools of her trade, did they? No, she was not referring to her grey matter. They took her to be a blustering, at times silent, nincompoop. Which was fine with her. She still had the mirrors. When she had learnt to ride Meera,, she remembered seeing the motor cars whiz by with their rearview mirrors. On learning that the rearview mirrors enabled one to see what was behind without having eyes in the back of one's head or having to turn and crane one's neck, she had made a special headdress for Meera with the mirrors. Ever since that had worked, she had taken to carrying a mirror around. The men thought that it was vanity at work. Suited her fine. But, for her, it doubled as her eyes in the back of her head. And they sure did come handy now. She saw them ... framed as her followers.

Aha. Her instincts had been right. Check.

Next step. Create a diversion that requires them to duck and lose sight of you. But, let them think that they still have you within their hearing range. Check. Knock softly on a surface. Check. Ditch the bangles. They are handy at times. But, there comes a time when they must be ditched. Check. Knock again to keep up the diversion. Check. Next the anklets. Check. Keep knocking. Check. Leave the jewellery behind so that they know that you are onto them if they find it. Check. Now hide. And keep your mouth covered. Check.

Him. Ergo. Out came the butterflies. The senior asks the junior for silence so that they can listen for the tinkling of the jewellery. Nada. Of course, knowing that she could be hidden still close at hand, they reveal their plan and the reason for their subterfuge. Men! How dense can they be! See, when unexpectedly thwarted, they don't think so very rationally.

And they let it be known. The senior still thinks that she is a blustering nincompoop. Tsk tsk ... hadn't I taught him not to speak ill of others? But then he senior sighted it. The jewellery that he hoped would give away her presence. All it did was give away her presence of mind. Aha. That led to an immediate revision of her mental acumen. Not such a blustering nincompoop after all, eh?

Standing in the middle of a square, the junior sees one path lit by a lantern and shows his senior the way. The smart men don't believe in splitting up for the search. Partners don't do that, do they? They have to have each other's back in case the not-so-blustering nincompoop surprises them with a "Boo".

Tick tock ... tick tock ... tick tock ... tick tock. Hours of search later, the senior further revises his opinion. "She is involved with them and is an old hand at this game." Then the soft-hearted junior voiced his concern for the girl's safety given Tejawat's history. And the senior demoted her right back to being a nincompoop again. Men!

Finally, they part. Off to his home again. Home, did I say? Yes. Not the best of mornings, is it? The younger son was sure lucky that his honey-tongued mother came along and defused the situation. He was just spoiling for a fight and it would have given him great pleasure in rearranging his old rival's facial features.

Off to his room only to be surprised to find it locked from inside. Drat. He even has to identify himself to his father. So, he asks the insanely logical question to a person inside the room, "Why have you locked the door from the inside?" Err ... things might be different in our world. Pray, when you are inside, do you lock a door from the outside? I guess that's what happens when he doesn't sleep for the night.

Anyways, he enters his room. And follows his father's gaze yet again. This time not up towards the top of the cupboard but down to the ground. That is when he sees her, sitting on the ground, divested of most of her jewellery.

Ding dong bell, Paro's at home n well.