The silk he was wearing could well have been from this very Mulberry. Actually, it indeed was. Simply because he wanted to believe that. He was glad to be witnessing the origin of atleast something of his and the possibility of that being from some other pupa would have spoiled the game.

He had seldom given weight to all the possibilities. He did not exactly have a way with Maths at school. So numbers and abstract logic would not be a part of what he prepared for. Both for school and for life. All that existed for him was what he wished for. Anything less or more than what he aimed for was meaningless, as they were non-existent for him. If he wanted unicorns to exist in this world, they did exist for him. If he wanted it to be a holiday, then so be it. He wouldn’t move out of his quilt. No matter what. If he liked travelling, then that had to be the only career that he would pursue. And it was. The very thing he was doing right now. Travelling.

He hated to carry the baggage, of essentials and of possibilities, on his trips. When he moved, he would be all alone. All by himself. Except for the thought of the things he sought. He loved the process more than the result.When in the oceans, wind was to him what ship was to others. Others captured the sight. He captured the smell. The essence. He never tried to make a travelogue. Not that he had not thought about it. But he was not able to put his pleasure into words. Pleasure of finding what he had been seeking. Or rather he was afraid that others would not be able to appreciate what he saw. Everyone felt the wind. But he breathed it.

Like at this very moment, he was witnessing an underdeveloped pupa. What could it possibly mean to others? It was not even as visually appealing as the artistic rendition of the formation of a star.The colours were not diverse either. Some would say dull. Some would say filthy. Zoologists would exclaim about its beauty. And then remaining others would say that zoologists are dull and filthy. But he was none. Neither a zoologist, neither the dull. At this instance, he was someone who liked seeing the larva evolving. For what anyone could say, he could keep doing this for the rest of his life. He was like the physicist who was enthralled more by the thought of creation than that of the process of Big Bang. Tomorrow the process may be ditched due to some new result. But the thought of creation would remain. And therefore, his work would prevail.

But in the very next moment, he was roasting a catch. He would taste the fresh burn and move on. Move on because he could not afford permanence. There wasn’t enough time to stop. He wanted to take both turns lying ahead of him. One on the left and the other on the right. He would save the latter for sometime later, much like the leftover meat. Turning back would mean missing out on what lies ahead. He may never be able to take this right. But there could be many more right turns which he would miss for the sake of this one. The maths of probabilities was still at play. But taking left had become the only option for the traveller now. The right for him did not exist anymore. He would never return for it. He knew what he wanted.

He loved meeting new people on his travels. Each group of people he moved on from, with a promise of never meeting them again avenged the loss of all the things he had once loved. Just the memories remained. Very much like a picture. Only more clear. Because he had lived them instead of merely clicking them. The picture one gets then comprises not only the sight but also the smell and the touch. As all is in the mind.