The Fly

In my mind there is a memory of a fly. It settled against pale yellow furniture one night in the library. After a million-flutters abuzz-flight, it settled down peacefully near my knuckles. If I hadn't seen it I wouldn't have known it. It pressurized not and its whole weight was too light to constitute even a touch.

The house fly same in Lucknow as in Chennai, apparently. Like the dozen others I have observed in my life time with primitive eyes that never get the differences right. The same grey exterior, the same transparent wings, the same way of rubbing its forelimbs together. I fancied it to refer to common leifmotifs that do not leave you even if you are not particularly obsessed by them-the house fly is one, the other is boring professors.