My Little Wonders - I

I grew up rolling and strolling through a world filled with little wonders. Among them were the fireflies—those winged beetles that lit up the dark lanes of the suburban town where I spent my childhood. It was more of a village, untouched by the city's electricity network and beyond the reach of its bright lights. I still have vivid memories of running and playing on the grass-covered streets, watching fireflies drift through the moonlit night.

The excitement would peak when I woke up in the middle of the night to find one or two glowing softly inside the house, breaking the darkness with their flickering luminescence. For a time, my friends and I would catch them and stuff them into transparent polythene bags, turning them into makeshift lanterns. But that joy faded when an elderly man planted a thought in our young minds: "Imagine how your mother would feel if someone trapped you in a plastic bag like that!" The guilt struck deep, and we abandoned our harmless but thoughtless little game.

Years later, in high school, I sat in a science class and finally unraveled the mystery of those glowing wonders. I learned that their magical light was nothing more than "a conspicuous crepuscular display of bioluminescence to attract mates or prey." But knowledge never diminished the wonder they had instilled in me as a child.

Now, when I visit my hometown, I search for traces of that soft darkness—the moonlit silence punctuated by firefly glows. But three decades have reshaped the landscape. The city has extended its reach, swallowing the suburb I once called home. The grassy lanes have given way to bustling roads, and the concrete jungle has erased the bushes where my little wonders once lived. The halogen streetlights flooding every corner have stolen their last means of survival—the very darkness they needed to exist.

I imagine only two fates for them: either they were crushed beneath the relentless march of construction, or they fled, seeking refuge in places where the night is still undisturbed by artificial brightness. The emptiness left behind grows larger with each thought of what has been lost.

The list of lost wonders is short, but it keeps growing. And now, it has a new addition—my daughter. She crept into our lives half a year ago, filling every corner with light and laughter, leaving no space for silence or emptiness. I find myself stringing together thoughts and words, trying to capture the wonder of her presence—one that outshines even the fireflies of my childhood.