She looked up from her book just in time to see a dainty butterfly clad in silky Lemon Chiffon fly in from the balcony. Pushing her chair behind on the marble floor, she turned to the wind chimes- would the beautiful creature be attracted by another creator of wonder? Ah, there it was. Hovering over the bookshelf as she followed its joyful dance with her sunken eyes. It finally came to rest on a black book, like a trigger-happy tourist, satisfied to have found his muse.
A gush of wind from the still-open doors of the balcony caused the butterfly to rise up and flutter some more, but her eyes refused to leave the glossy cover of the book. Was it really glossy, or were her misty eyes the culprit? The book never left her side since it came to her that fateful July day two monsoons ago, and yet, when the butterfly rested on it, she felt a queer sense of belonging, a feeling she thought she had lost forever when…
It was when she was eight, was it not, that she read that if a butterfly flutters to you and sits near you, somebody somewhere in the universe is remembering you and sending you the magic of love..
How symbolic, she thought, that it must perch on that very book which she prized far beyond any other material possession.. simply because it held an image of her Soul. Or was it the image of whom she was but a small part instead?
She turned back and sank into the ornate wooden chair, while the chimes tinkled with the comforting wind as she held the black book in her lap and The Zahir in her hands..
..there is nothing worse than the feeling that no one cares whether we exist or not, that no one is interested in what we have to say about life, and that the world can continue turning without our awkward presence..