The very first time I decided to finally kill myself – though brooding over the thought of it for far too long – I ended up falling in love with a pupa!

Yes!

Once, determined, home alone, I decided to go for it. But you know I didn’t want to tie myself to one end of a bedsheet and like, hang-flaccid-penis from the ceiling fan. Well, aren’t we all scared of the fan coming down on our heads, crack open the skull, blood spurting fountain all over? Same.

So, instead I took the polyethylene cover the fan came in. Crompton Greaves. Ha-ha. I love that name. Pretty much a homie. Chalo bhai, kill yourself. I’ll cry for you – Crompton Grieves. And if you ever want to suicide, hang from a Crompton ceiling fan, from better air to no air, or for Crompton pedestal fan put your scrotum between the leaves spinning top-speed. You can see a Tarantino style blood spurt across the wall, bedsheet, photo-frame, whatever, whichever direction you want your balls to bounce away with your life you don’t care for anyway, anymore! They have very encouraging taglines as well: ‘Silence bhi aur Energy Savings bhi,’, ‘LET’S HANG(OUT) GHAR PE’.

Well, I have to die so I take three breaths, inhale-exhale, and finally one big inhale and put the cover over my head, cello-taped the ends around my neck. Tight! Choker! I felt Kinky. Ha-ha. (Or played the Riddler way before 2022, I gotta say…) Then, I laid down on the bed, closed my eyes, and held my palms across my chest waiting for death to come take me away. My head started to sweat, my face too, I could hear the plastic bloat and crunch as I exhaled and inhaled. But, still, waiting…

And, finally, yes, as they say, as you approach your final moments your whole life starts to flash before your eyes. And what did I see?

I saw Betty Roy. Who is she?

My class-teacher from fourth class. Why is she here?

That’s what I was also thinking. Maybe, she was dead too, I just didn’t know. No one told me. There was no news about her death anywhere. No one cared to inform me anything. Nobody cared. Fuck it! Well, I’m at the gates of heaven, because it looked all pretty white and hazy and there she is, my former class-teacher to welcome me. I don’t wanna learn lessons no more. I’m dead. Leave me alone. Please?

I hear the crunch of plastic. But it’s not the cover over my head. Then, what is it? I squint my eyes thru’ the haze to see what the fuck?! It’s me, myself as a boy, the nine year old me, sitting there with a plastic soda bottle piercing holes on the bottle cap and neck. For what the hell you doing this boy?

When Mrs. Roy and I were alive, she being my class-teacher told me that I’m a smart kid and would go places. Well, I’m here in heaven with her, yes, good, great! Great place. I feel cold.

But now, I remember back then she had also told me to look for a caterpillar or a pupa in the school garden or if I had one at home. Yes, I had a small you could call it a garden at home. It took me few days to spot a pupa and as she instructed I cut a small stem of a leaf with a pupa dangling under it; placed it carefully inside the soda bottle and brought it to class. That day, she taught the class about Metamorphosis in a butterfly. I was applauded for what I did. Rare, but thank you!


Later, the bottle, well, my bottle was placed in the cupboard and we were told to wait until it broke out into a Butterfly. Or even a Moth, who knew? Moth in Celtic literature symbolizes Death. Maut. Moth. Death. Thin line.

If I remember, it was a strange inexplicable feeling to go every day near the cupboard to see if anything has happened. It did after few days, the wings slowly breaking the cocoon. Struggling. Persevering. Persistent. Each day. And finally, knock-knock on the bottle, who is there? A beautiful Butterfly.

Mrs. Roy took the bottle around the class, showing each bench the butterfly in the bottle. Bunch of excited schoolkids. Smiling. Giggling. Going Wow. Good times.

While everyone had it for the butterfly, I couldn’t get the pupa out of my mind. Why? Maybe, the pupa was strong enough to close the whole world upon itself, isolate, be alone in the dark for long, go through what it had to go thru’ without any certainty of being a Butterfly or Maut. At the edge of life and death. Stillness.


Was I happy? I don’t know. But I did feel a certain something unexplainable kind of feeling. Was it Love?

Few days later, Mrs. Roy and I took the butterfly out from the bottle, and let it fly away. We were able to watch it for a few flutters and then we just didn’t see it. Mrs. Roy gave me the bottle…

I hear the crunch of plastic, the bloat too. Inhale and Exhale. I felt hot, a bit too hot. It felt humid. I felt my sweat. I opened my eyes. Am I not dead? Well, the cover had tiny to miniscule holes on it.

Who did that? Maybe, the nine year old me, just as he did poke holes on the bottle cap.

I tried to get the cello-tape off, but it seemed impossible to find its open end. So, just like the butterfly I had to tear off the cocoon over my head. I sat on the bed for some time, then opened the window to see two small white butterflies flying around, like little Angels. 

Daveed Milann
7 June, 2022.