Butterflies in Paradise

By Maureen Rampertab –

Dedicated to Dr Cheddi Jagan

In his dreams the young boy walked, searching the cosmos for the spiritual being of a great one. The pages of history spoke of so many great men – their lives and times inking an indelible mark on his young, impressionable mind. The blue skies, the green land and flowing seas; not their world anymore, but beyond, in their eternal abode.
The boy’s mind sought to find one of his own whose foreparents had crossed the dark waters from a far off land in the East, one whose legacy was in scripted in a religious text, for his role, his beliefs and his love for his people.

A cool wisp of wind blew through the open window, fluttering the pages of the open history text on the bed and the boy turned, muttering in his sleep.
Once awake, his expedition into the unknown world would be over until another night when tiredness laid heavy on his lids. But the embrace of sleep, like a lover, set his spirit free again to roam.
This night he found himself in a place deep in the countryside. He looked around the cemetery, a place where memories lingered, endearing words inscribed on the tombstones whispered softly to those returned to Mother Earth. A life gone, footprints erased, legacies riding on the strong shoulders of time, or buried in the dust of the past.
The boy walked around slowly, wondering, “Why am I here, which great one lies in this place?”
Then he saw the mausoleum of a son of the soil, a leader revered as the father of the nation, a man whom, in the boy’s young mind, stood amongst great men of the past.
He gathered the dried flowers that had been scattered by the wind and placed it gently on the mausoleum, the sentiments of a true admirer over pouring in his heart as he said,
“I came into this world, when you were already gone and I feel within me the power of your words, your wisdom. Yet I am someone lost and fearful because not many are today who they prophesized to be. Too many swords are unsheathed, draining blood as the master’s whip did; and pens have even poisoned the rivers. Hands that knotted the cords of brotherhood on the journey to this land, do not hold strong anymore. What have become of man’s die-hard faith? Who can speak for the people to strengthen the roots that was once so strong?”
The silence stayed unbroken as the boy stood there, alone, only the moths glowing in the dark then a voice said quietly behind him, “My dear boy.”
The boy turned around slowly and drew in his breath sharply for he stood there encircled by a gleam of soft light, the man whose mortal remains laid in the mausoleum, the man whose name he revered.
“Many words I have heard, spoken in the material world,” the spiritual being said, “But not with such passion and truth. Why do you seek me?”
“I seek your guidance to define a path for me, your ideals, your beliefs and principles.”
“Such deep sentiments from such a young mind.”
From a short distance, voices were heard that drew his attention, and the man said to the boy, “Walk with me.”
As they walked, he pointed out to the boy, “Here likes the common man and woman, labourers of the land. From the sweat of their brows, castles were built, yet their worth is hardly recognized. A poor man lives a simple life with simple desires, and in prayers, he never lies. There is a certain form of richness in being poor.”
The boy digested every word spoken by the man, and they stopped by a freshly dug grave where three men sat in deep conversation, unmindful of the two beings because they couldn’t see them.
“Who are they?” the boy asked.
“My people, labourers of the land.”
“Why are they here, at this hour?”
“One of their friends has died and they’re doing for him, what they can for the last.”
The men poured drink from the rum bottle and the boy smiled knowingly, “A culture, right?”
“Yes,” the man said, “Yet early before the sun rises, they would be in the backdams working with an inborn strength and determination, a hallmark of their survival.”
“They need a leader who can see their real worth.” the boy said, “Like you did.”
The man looked at him for a long moment then reached out and held his shoulders, “I left this world before you were born, now is you time to step on the podium with new ideals, truth and dedication for the people. They have come a long way from 1834 in Indentureship rule to today. Your eyes will see their worth, their values, the richness of silks and pearls. Let their lives be beautiful and free, in this blessed land like butterflies in paradise.”
The boy smiled for he felt lost no more; his path was defined for him. He awoke and sat up in bed with a sense of deep satisfaction; his search was over and now was his time.