There were six of them. All wound up in unorthodox ways. In the distance, the full moon reflected its brilliance off the snow-capped Himalayan range.
The stars fought hard to match the luminosity of the fireflies. Thousands lit up the valley, unperturbed by the six pairs of eyes that tried to follow their every move.
“Is that a bird, flying away with the moon on its wings?” asked one looking up.
They were out in the open. The rain had just stopped, and the grass, on which they lay, was still wet. The cool breeze, that came from the mountains above, was gathering the dark clouds and sending them off in one direction.
Perhaps, the wind had watched the old shepherd round up his flocks in the evening, when the rain came pouring.
The old man, as frail as the worn-out stick in his hand, had called out to his herd of animals, “Come back home! Even the naughty children are heading back to the safety of their homes.” Many of his animals understood what he said and followed his lead. But the ones who wanted to stay out and enjoy the rain had to be pulled away by the shepherd.
But who would pull these six back to the safety of conventional life? What could each be thinking, as they lay there on the damp grass? Were they looking for someone to bring them back to life, or were they devising new escapades?
Only the fireflies knew. That it is better to light up each moment than have a dark, lingering existence. May be the six were made of the souls of those fireflies. Brilliant, yet flickering. In flight, yet chained down to the earth. Each wanting to fly out into space, like those stars sparkling above.
May be the six were fireflies.
