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  • Writer's pictureHina Siddiqui


Updated: Oct 8, 2020

In Urdu, fireflies are called Jugnu. I’ve always found that to be a fascinating word.

There was this one time, driving back from the Konkan coast. I sat next to the object of my affection, knowing that we would not be together once the car reached Pune. I thought about what I wanted and if I was ever going to get it. To be honest, I still think about that.

If I will ever get domestic bliss without all the tediousness of sexual relationships. Of course, I didn’t know then as I do now that I am asexual. So I didn’t understand why it was so hard. To be honest I still don’t. But I was young and foolish then. I am older and still foolish now. I was hopeless then.

As we travelled down the winding path, a light rain began to fall. The sunset. Maybe the stars and the moon came out.

A jugnu landed on the windowpane.

It stayed there, softly pulsing, for miles along the dark road.

It was the first time I had seen one. And it was, just the one. It stayed there till I don’t remember when. It stayed with me. And somehow it’s glow assured me that, someday, somewhere, someone I love will stay with me too.

The jugnu flew away before we left the mountains.

I am thankful to that firefly. I am hopeful now.


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