Butterfly

by Preethi Nair
Mr Harris, our biology teacher, shouted above the noise trying
to tell us about butterflies.
The monarch butterfly carries a genetic code that has been
passed down through generations. No matter where it is
hatched, it can find its way back 2500 miles to its ancestral
origins, to a place it has never been before.
Im thinking about the ancestral code handed down from
generations through our family I dont think Id find my way
past Tescos let alone back to the shores of North India. Not
that I come from a dumb family or anything like that, just that
my life is home and school, school and home, home and
school. Its important to broaden your horizons, thats what
Ive told my dad, hoping hell understand. I mean he had done
it by making the journey from India to England. But unfortunately, his world has shrunk to a terraced house in east
London and the furthest he ventures is Ilford (where he
works). He wont even let me go to the cinema or on outings
because of all those wiseos out there. Sometimes, I havent got
the energy and cant be bothered to correct him and tell him
the word hes looking for is weirdos; its not because Im lazy
but because, sometimes, everything feels like an effort, an
uphill sluggish struggle.
The butterfly is hip.
Mr Harris managed to stun the class into silence by using
the word hip. Its not a word I would have chosen. I would have
said butterflies are beautiful but then my class would have
pissed themselves laughing.
I wouldnt even begin to compare myself to a butterfly
Im more of a caterpillar and dont I bloody know it. My nickname at school has just changed to furry Furry Fatima
because Im growing a moustache. Not on purpose, its just
happened my body seems to be doing its own thing at the
moment, and yeah Im also called the obvious one fatty, Fatty
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Fatima. Am I big? Well if you compare me to Rachel Hopper

whos a rake well then yeah, I suppose I am. Its hard though
with a mum who is continually stuffing samosas down you
every time she catches sight of you. People talk about
EastWest cultural difference, arranged marriages blah, blah,
blah but do they tell you the main thing? No, they dont. The
main difference is in the East your mums stuffing samosas
down you and if you live in Rachel Hoppers house you get carrots and broccoli.
On a good day, the kids in my class call me funny, Funny
Fatima. Dont think Im funny by nature, more out of necessity.
I mean if I wasnt messing about or being funny, Id be in a
corner somewhere, crying my eyes out. Its not like what they
say doesnt affect me because, inside, it does; but I laugh it off
like I couldnt care less.
After a while, the caterpillars attach themselves head
down to a convenient twig, they shed their outer skin and
begin the transformation into a pupa (or chrysalis), a
process which is completed in a matter of hours, Mr Harris
continued.
Some days, I wish I could have my head down and hang off
a stick or a tree trunk or something but thats quite difficult in
our house because after homework there are jobs to be done in
the house and there cant be no time to sit around and be
defressed. Thats how my mum says depressed as she cant say
her Ps so now Im thinking maybe she wanted to call me
Patima or Patty. Maybe my life would be different had she done
this but Im not going to dwell on this because my life is going
to be different.
Im quite realistic, I know that any transformation thats
gonna be taking place in me isnt gonna happen in a matter of
hours. The jobs far too big for that so Ive got a plan.
I shouldnt really admit this but before I go to bed, I turn off
the light and, in my mind, I imagine Im a butterfly. Im free,
I dont fit in, I stand out because of the different colours on
my wings. Im beautiful and I can float about doing anything,
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fly anywhere in the world its just my body hasnt made the
physical journey with me yet but I know if I focus hard
enough on making the transformation in my mind one day,
I know it will.
Fatima Palek. Are you listening? Pay attention, Fatima. Stop
wasting time daydreaming. It will get you nowhere, Mr Harris
shouted.
Im dreaming of crossing frontiers, of making a journey,
Mr Harris.
The class roared out laughing.
The only journey youll be making is to Mr Mitchells
office, he replied.
No, it wont be, I answered back, not meaning to offend
Mr Harris but just voicing the thoughts in my head.
Ill have none of your cheek, Fatima Palek. Get down to
Mr Mitchells office now and tell him why I have sent you,
Mr Harris shouted.
So I went to Mr Mitchells office and told him why I had
been sent for using my imagination, for crossing frontiers, I
said. And instead of Mr Mitchell shouting at me and giving me
detention and that, he suggested going to Mrs Popes art club
after school so I could put my imagination to better use. I told
him my dad wouldnt let me but Mr Mitchell said he would call
him and have a word.
My dad has never had a Headmaster call him and tell him
that he had a talented kid and he was flattered, also he didnt
think there would be any wiseos in Mrs Popes art club so he
let me go.
The first day there, I absolutely loved it and began by painting butterflies so I could experiment with colours. Then I painted
the person I would be and the things I would do, I painted
places I would visit and Mrs Pope was dead impressed and she
said, there were no two ways about it, I had talent and would go
far. If Mrs Pope said that and she knew what she was talking
about then maybe I would. Maybe thats all we need someone
to help us believe.
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Fifteen years later, Fatima Palek made the transformation and

has become an award winning artist. She is commissioned to
paint pictures all over the world. Like the butterfly which
inspired her, Fatima travelled over 2500 miles and visited the
place where her father was from and, somewhere deep inside of
her, it felt like it was a journey she was always destined to make.
From Short Stories by Waterstones/Bliss in aid of the Dyslexia Institute,
reproduced by kind permission of Preethi Nair.

Cambridge Collections Turning the corner Cambridge University Press 2008