When a Firefly Took Me Back in Time

                     When a Firefly Took Me Back in Time

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Some evenings have a way of surprising you.

In Bangalore, especially in the middle of this concrete jungle, spotting something magical is rare. That’s why I feel lucky — at least my little patch of the city is still green. I’ve crammed every bit of space with fruit trees, flowering plants, and enough greenery to make you forget you’re in a city at all.

It was one of those evenings, about 7:30 PM. I was sitting on my swing chair. The power had gone out — not unusual — and our generator had finished its diesel. That meant a half-hour “cooling period” before the lights would come back. For most people, that’s annoying. For me, it’s an excuse to just… stop.

And then I saw it.

Something tiny. Moving. Not a streetlight, not a reflection. It hopped from branch to branch, pulsing with a soft yellow glow.

It came closer, hovering right next to my swing chair. Almost like it was saying,
"Hey… remember me?"

If you think the world is just about artificial light — the LED glare from billboards, the white flicker of tube lights — you’re wrong. Here was something that was the light. No wires. No switches. Just nature’s own little lantern.

Yes. I’m talking about the firefly — Minnapullu, Minchu Hulla… call it what you want.

It stayed for maybe ten minutes. Then it was gone. But in that short time, it took me somewhere I hadn’t been in years — my grandmother’s village.

Back to a Time Without Electricity

When I was a kid, until around 1992–94, my grandmother’s village had no electricity.
And I’ll tell you — those were some of the happiest years of my life.

No constant buzzing of machines. No traffic noise. No rush. Just me, nature, and the endless surprises the day brought.

Evenings were special. Around 6 PM, the kerosene lamp would be lit, filling the house with a warm, golden glow. The house itself sat on top of a hill, surrounded by areca nut trees, pepper vines, cocoa plants, banana trees — all framed by the Western Ghats.

When it rained, mist would roll in like a shy guest. Fog would drift across the valley. You could see smoke curling up from cooking fires on the opposite hill. It was the kind of view that made you just sit and watch, not because you had nothing to do, but because you didn’t want to miss a second of it.

And then, from the bushes, they would appear.

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The Night Parade of Tiny Lanterns

One by one at first. Then in twos and threes. Until the darkness outside was sprinkled with blinking dots of gold.

Some would float into our verandah, past the iron grills, as if checking who we were. A few landed on the mud roof. And then there were the brave ones — they’d come right up to the kerosene lamp, as if daring it to a contest.

Walking on the road outside was like stepping into a dream. Thousands of fireflies would light the path, guiding us without a word.

That’s the thing about childhood memories — they don’t fade. They just sit quietly in a corner of your mind, waiting for something, or someone, to switch them back on.

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The Treasure Hunt That Wasn’t

That evening in Bangalore, as I sat watching my lone visitor, I must have drifted into a dream.

In it, the firefly started moving ahead, pausing now and then for me to follow. We went through my balcony garden, then down the street… and then somehow into a thick forest that didn’t belong in Bangalore at all.

It led me to a massive banyan tree. Between its roots was an old, rusted box. My heart was pounding. I bent down, opened it — and—

“Wake up!”

My brother’s voice cut through everything. Just like that, the forest, the box, the firefly — all gone.

Apparently, in the real world, I’d just been sitting with my mouth half open.

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Why We See Less of Them Now

I don’t see fireflies as often anymore. Maybe it’s the city lights, maybe pollution, maybe just us humans forgetting to give nature her space.

Still, I try. In my Bangalore home, I’ve planted fruiting and flowering plants in my balcony and in the small bit of land I own. Maybe that’s why I still get rare visits from them.

Each sighting feels like a gift. A reminder that the most beautiful things often appear when we slow down.

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Firefly Facts: Your Mini Guide

🔆 What are they?
Beetles with built-in lanterns, glowing through a chemical reaction called bioluminescence.

🌍 Where are they found?
In warm, humid regions across the world, especially near water, forests, and fields.

⏳ When do they glow?
Mostly during summer evenings in the mating season.

💡 How do they make light?
By mixing luciferin (a chemical) with oxygen and an enzyme called luciferase.

⚠ Why are they disappearing?
Light pollution, pesticide use, habitat loss, and climate change.

🌱 How to help them?

• Reduce bright outdoor lighting

• Avoid pesticides

• Plant native greenery

• Keep small water sources like ponds

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A Little Light Before the Dark

A firefly’s glow doesn’t last forever. But maybe that’s the point.

The best things in life — the ones that stay with you — aren’t always the ones that last the longest. They’re the ones that arrive quietly, light up your world for a while, and then leave you smiling in the dark.

So if you ever see one, just stop. Watch it. And let it take you wherever it wants — whether that’s your own childhood verandah or, if you’re lucky, a treasure box hidden under a banyan tree.

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The Ant Whisperer of Dasara: A Slippery Tale from the Ghats

 The Ant Whisperer of Dasara: A Slippery Tale                                   from the Ghats

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We’ve all done crazy things in our childhood. Not the "my parents were so proud of me" kind. No, I’m talking about those things that don’t exactly earn you medals, but come back again and again as comedy blockbusters in your mind's private theater. They’re so out of the box that even the box says, “I’m out!”

Now, while scratching my head about what to write next—what people would like to read, or what would at least not make them hit the back button faster than a mosquito hits your ear—I suddenly remembered one of my all-time favorite childhood episodes.

It didn’t happen during the usual summer holidays, mind you. This was during Dasara holidays. Yes, that special time during October–November when schools close, and in our part of the world—South Canara—the world opens up.

You may ask, “Why now? Why do people suddenly step outside?”

Aah. Let me give you the secret recipe.

See, in the Western Ghats, from June to September, the place doesn't get rain—it becomes rain. Morning, afternoon, evening, night—there’s a non-stop concert by the Rain God. I’m talking Lollapalooza-level headliner rain, the kind that makes you forget the sun ever existed. The clothes refuse to dry, and the mosquitoes, leeches, and frogs decide it’s their time to shine.

The vast open verandas—once used to dry arecanut and coffee beans—turn into temporary vegetable farms. The land becomes so fertile, even cucumbers start throwing parties.

Come October, just as the Rain God starts taking breaks between his back-to-back concerts, Dasara arrives like a sweet interval scene. And that’s when magic happens. You step out, and suddenly it's like someone painted the world with 500 shades of green. The ghats, the forests, the farmland—every inch sparkles in chlorophyll glory. Even the mossy path glows like it's been polished by a thousand tiny brushes.

Now let me pause this poetic nonsense before you think I’m auditioning for a nature documentary. Because what I really want to tell you… is a story. One that involves slipperiness, stupidity, and suspense.

The Slippery Stage and My Weirdest Pet Project

Our mid-term routine was simple: Wake up to thunder that sounds like God dropped a wardrobe. Eat idli, sip steaming coffee, and watch rain pour through iron window grills like a movie curtain. Lunch. Watch rain again. And then—on lucky days—a short playtime window when the rain took a tea break.

The walking path around the house was a world of its own. Covered in pachi (that shiny, slippery moss), it was an open invitation to perform all forms of dance. One foot on the wrong patch and boom—you’re in a live episode of India’s Got Accidental Talent. From classical to hip-hop to breakdance, the pachi didn’t discriminate.

But one day, amidst all this wet drama, a thought struck me. You know how people keep dogs, cats, maybe a parrot? Yeah, normal pets. Boring. Predictable.

I, the great innovator of my time, decided to raise… wait for it… giant ants.

Yes. Not those little ones that visit your kitchen without an invite. I’m talking about the majestic, slightly scary, red-black big ants that you only find in the lush wilderness of the Ghats. They were strong, had good work ethic, didn’t bark or poop everywhere. Perfect pets, right?

Wrong. Very wrong.

But I was convinced. I found an old Horlicks plastic jar—one that once held promises of "strong bones and sharp minds." I thought, “What better place to host my mighty ant kingdom?”

So here’s what I did:

• Made tiny holes for air.

• Caught about 10 of these ants (after a thrilling Mission Impossible chase).

• Dropped a spoon of sugar inside. (Ants = Sugar = Happiness. Basic biology.)

Voila! My first ever ant aquarium. Or maybe ant prison. But who’s judging?

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The Empire That Didn't Last

For the first day or two, I felt like a zookeeper. I’d talk to them.
“Hello General Ant, how’s the sugar supply chain today?”
I even named them—Antony, Antina, and so on.

They roamed, climbed, and acted all civilised. My cousins were curious. Some laughed. One even suggested I teach them to form words like “Hi!” inside the jar.

Then came Day 3.

They were… still.

Day 4: Still still.

Day 5: Funeral procession. Inside the jar. For all ten.

My mini ant republic had collapsed. I was heartbroken.

I’d like to say I cried. But no, I was still trying to poke and see if someone was just in a meditative state. Spoiler: They weren’t.

That day, a wave of guilt hit me. Like really hit me.

I had taken wild creatures who were free, who knew the dance of rain and leaf and soil, and I had trapped them—for my own entertainment. My ant farm was, in truth, a plastic prison. I wasn’t their friend. I was their jailer. And they paid for my experiment with their tiny lives.

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The Moral of the Mossy Story

Years later, as I sip hot coffee and look out at the rain hitting my balcony grill—just like those childhood days—I smile and sigh at the same time.

That memory is still funny. But it’s also a tiny bookmark in the diary of “things that taught me something.”

It taught me about curiosity.
It taught me about boundaries.
And above all, it taught me that just because we can do something, doesn’t mean we should.

Today, when I see ants walking in a line across my kitchen floor, I step over them gently. No more ant hotels. No more sugar traps. Just quiet respect for lives far smaller, but no less important, than mine.

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Final Thought

Childhood makes us do strange things. Sometimes funny, sometimes foolish, sometimes downright facepalm-worthy. But each one teaches us, shapes us, and gives us stories to laugh at... and reflect on.

So next time you slip on moss, rear ants, or think you’ve got the next big idea—remember, it’s okay to experiment. But it's even better when your experiment ends with life, not a lesson in loss.

And if anyone asks, “What was the craziest thing you did as a child?”—you can proudly say, “Well, I ran an ant hotel during Dasara. Didn’t end well for the guests, but hey, the check-in process was smooth!”