A Home for the Butterflies
P. Surendran
Translated by Akhil Jose
Dhanalakshmi and Ramanujan search for a dream house bound to the natural world — a meditation on sustainability, conservation, and the everyday cost of human greed.
Full Synopsis
Dhanalakshmi and Ramanujan are in search for their dream house. One that is deeply connected to the natural world, and manifests the idea of sustainability and peace — not in abstract concepts, but as a lived everyday. Yet, as they travel across multiple locations spread over the Neelamala Mountains, the reality shocks them. Will they find their favourite place to live in?
Rights.aboutAuthorHeading
A Home for the Butterflies is by acclaimed author P. Surendran, who has received the Kerala Sahitya Akademi Award. The novel is a meditation on natural conservation and its various dimensions: social, economic, political, religious, and spiritual. Woven through spaces in South Indian towns, it reflects on the modern scale of environmental destruction caused by relentless human greed. In his brilliant critical piece, Surendran leaves no one out: the clergy, the crony capitalists, the urban dwellers are all under his scrutiny. Akhil Jose's translation captures the original in all its essence and lucidity — drawing readers into Dhana and Rama's search that, in the end, leaves us with more questions than answers.
Excerpt
“I must admit, I quite enjoy it when your nose blushes red in anger. But if you’re angry all the time, your beauty might fade. And I want the woman I marry to stay beautiful for a long, long time.” At that, Dhanalakshmi shot up from her chair, balled her fist, and thumped him right on the crown of his head. It hurt a little, but Ramanujan only laughed, pretending not to feel it. There was a dark patch of sweat on her jacket where her body had pressed against the chair. For a fleeting moment, he had the wild urge to lean in and breathe that scent. He saw no harm in knowing what the sweat of the woman he was to marry might smell like. After all, not every person’s sweat was the same. Just as the fragrance of the flowers that bees visit lingers in the honey, so too does each person’s essence carry its own secret notes. Could sweat carry the scent of fresh earth? Or the deep salt of the sea? Or the sulfurous breath of steaming hot springs? Ramanujan had often pondered such things. He remembered, too, the story of a woman whose sweat was said to carry the fragrance of oleander. Wherever she went, the rich scent of oleander lingered in the air around her, drifting far and wide like a traveling whisper. That fragrance had crossed mountains and rivers, weaving itself into countless tales. She lived in a small hut by a lonely spring high up in the mountains. When the word of her scent reached a young prince, he became obsessed with the thought of her. Burning with desire, he sent a messenger to the distant hills to find her, disguised as a wandering monk. When the messenger returned, confirming that every rumor was true, the prince was overcome by longing, completely spellbound. But the woman was not ready to leave the solitary spring by the mountain and live in a royal palace. She believed her fragrance was a blessing from the Earth Goddess herself. Each day, she would bathe for hours in the small lake fed by the spring, letting the earth’s breath seep through her skin and rise from the depths of her being. She had come to understand that the oleander scent flowed from the soul of the earth, through her very pores. So she told the prince: If you wish to live with my fragrance, you must leave your palace behind. And the prince, hearing this, abandoned his kingdom. Ramanujan also remembered another story, the tale of a princess in the Sahara, who bathed not in water, but in camel’s milk. Water was a rare treasure in the desert, but camel’s milk was abundant, salty like the earth itself. Had her prince tasted the desert in her body? Some scents, rising from sweat, could set our blood aflame. Sweat is the sacred breath of the body, an intimate offering of prayer. And yet, people despised the scent of sweat, drowning it in layers of artificial fragrance. Ramanujan spoke all of this in a lowered voice. And with that, Dhanalakshmi’s anger doubled. “All you ever talk about is the body, body, body. Can’t you see my mind, Rama?” she burst out. “Why, what’s wrong with the body?” Ramanujan replied. “Isn’t the body sacred? Should we live as formless souls, floating about? It’s the sensations carried by the body that fill the mind with springtime. Why are we always trying to deny and hide the body? There’s nothing ugly about your body, Dhana. It’s beautiful. What harm is there in celebrating it a little? Only we must not go too far. Isn’t it through the body that we journey through life? Isn’t it through the body that we find the unborn children waiting to come into the world?” Ramanujan would often say that the body was like a river. Standing on the bank, you can never know its depth. Even when the water is clear, the true depths remain hidden. No eye can measure the force of the currents or see the spiral dance of the whirlpools. To understand a river, you must dive into its depths. Sometimes, the river’s strong currents might seize you, coil around you, and pull you into a blue wonder. Yet, there is a strange pleasure in the touch of the river’s flowing muscles. Dhanalakshmi was not so much fascinated with the body. She usually dressed carelessly, often forgetting to put on earrings. Her hair was thick and abundant, but she barely took care of it. Dhanalakshmi believed that the body should merge and dissolve naturally into nature, just like a clay lamp burning in the wind. “People should live in harmony with nature,” she often said. After a brief silence in their conversation, she asked, “If the body was crippled by an accident, would everything still be the same? If acid burned my face, wouldn’t you despise me?” Ramanujan sensed her thoughts wandering down darker paths. Their conversations kept circling back to the body, a source of silent anguish for Dhanalakshmi. She feared that if the body alone remained, it would easily crumble and collapse. When the body alone is worshiped, it tires, it rots, it turns dull. After a while, it begins to give off unpleasant smells, a reminder of decay. That’s when people start wandering through shopping malls, searching for new perfumes. When you can no longer feel the natural scent of life in skin and breath, even your bedrooms begin to feel suffocating. The body holds sanctity only as long as life breathes within it. Once life departs, the body begins to rot. Then, all that remains is a stench that must be hurriedly disposed of either into the fire or into the earth. As the sobbing of those who gather around slowly fades away, everything comes to an end. Ramanujan asked, “Dhana, have you heard about the Aghoris? They eat the flesh from dead bodies. They even consume human waste, seek out decay, and meditate upon corpses. Their terrifying practices are meant to erase all distinctions and reach the supreme truth of life itself. Can we ever aspire to such detachment, Dhana?” “Let’s stop this talk about the body now, Rama. Can we leave this place?” she said. “Then shall we head towards the land of Yemen instead?” Ramanujan teased. Dhanalakshmi grew angry again. Ramanujan, meanwhile, pointed his finger toward the paintings on the wall.
