‘Mangesh could be right,’ he says, half disappointed. ‘Listen to this. Japan’s second name is Akitsushima—Dragonfly Island. Japan is home to the greatest variety of dragonflies in the world. They have a sanctuary for them. Oh my God! Listen to this. These insects have been in existence for 300 million years. They migrate every year but nobody knows why or where to. They can fly at a speed of forty miles an hour. And listen to this last thing. Lines from a poem by Tennyson.’

‘Oh no, not poetry please,’ Vaishali pleads.

‘Okay. Not the whole poem. Just one line. The poet describes the dragonfly’s flight as “a living flash of light”.’

Anima gets up to switch on the light. The dragonfly’s wings look even more radiant under the glow.

‘What shall we do with it?’ Mangesh wonders.

‘What do you think?’

‘Throw it out. Into some bushes.’

‘It’s so alive.’

‘Don’t be stupid. It’s dead. What will you do with it?’

‘It’ll attract ants if you put it back in your box.’

‘Bai, shall we bury it in the planter outside your door?’

Anima smiles assent. Radha puts the dragonfly on the open palm of her hand. Mangesh rakes up the top soil in the planter. Radha buries the dragonfly. Then everybody comes in and sits down silently.

‘It’s so sad,’ says Vaishali.

‘What?’ Rahul asks.

‘But isn’t it fascinating? That it looked as beautiful dead as alive? It died yesterday.’

‘They say beauty doesn’t last.’

‘I don’t know. I attended a lecture where this man couldn’t stop talking about inner beauty which lasts.’

Rahul is back at the computer.

‘Baba said they used to catch bhingris in the village, tie strings to their legs and fly them. That’s why I said it’s so sad.’

Rahul turns around and says, ‘We’re not as beautiful as dragonflies. But there’s something that we share with them. Dragonflies are sometimes part of a swarm but sometimes all alone. Listen to this translation of a Japanese haiku. Sorry, Vaishali. But haikus are only three lines long.’

‘As if I didn’t know that.’

‘Then listen to this one.

‘Lonesomely clings the dragonfly to
The underside of the leaf.
Ah! The autumn rain.’

24

The way to Haridas’s house is through an inconspicuous by-lane. In the old days his directions to newcomers were: ‘Go straight past Siddhivinayak temple, take the first left and the second right. Go straight down this road till you hit a garbage container. My house is in the wadi opposite. It’s a tiled cottage called Le Chateau.’