JULIE was leafing through her biology scrapbook. She was supposed to write an essay on houseflies and complete the labelling and descriptions. She was putting in much care and effort, trying to live up to the standards her aunt Bidisha, a professor, had set for her.
Aunt Bidisha looked somewhat like an insect herself. She wore large spectacles, was reed thin and had straggly hair. In spite of her slight build, however, the learned aunt was a personification of unbridled energy. She was always doing one thing or another.
Aunt Bidisha would come the day after to check her scrapbook before she finally submitted it at school. Now all she had to do was draw a fly and describe it. While doodling the first outlines on the page, Julie observed a curiouslooking fly getting itself perched at the corner of the page. It seemed to be somewhat critically looking at its image being reproduced on paper. Julie yawned.
“It won’t be a good idea,” said a familiar voice, jolting Julie to her senses. The voice was her aunt’s, but the speaker was certainly not she. Once awake, the thing that arrested Julie’s attention was a fly; only it was as large as a human being. Julie was about to say, “Yes aunty, what do you say about the diagram?” but the words died on her lips.
The insect seemed to be introspective. “Do not ever experiment with flies. It doesn’t pay off. Look what has happened to me,” said Bidisha-fly.
“You begin with a diagram and you end up being the subject of it,” the creature that once was her aunt was losing its voice fast, degenerating into shrieks and croaks. “Why are you crying Julie?” asked aunt Bidisha, who was sitting at her desk, evidently impressed by the diagram. “Wake up! It’s good!” she said, “I’m proud of you.”
