The Firefly That Never Dies

Every summer, the people of Durgapur spoke of the never-dying firefly.

Even in the heaviest downpours, it danced just above the paddy fields and glowed brighter than the moon. It was thought to be the spirit of a long-dead saint who looked after the land, blessed the crops, and punished those who broke the rules.

People left offerings under the neem tree. No one harvested after dusk. Children were warned: “If you chase the light, you’ll lose your way home.”

But to 17-year-old Asha, home from school in the city, it all sounded like village drama wrapped in fairy dust.

Asha laughed as her cousins read firefly tales by lantern light one evening. "A firefly that lives forever? Let's face it, that's probably just a drone or someone's torch. It’s 2025.”

Her uncle glared. “Mind your words. This is not Kolkata. Here, we respect what we cannot explain.”

“Or we don’t bother explaining it at all,” she muttered.

That night, curiosity got the better of her.

Asha sneaked past the cowshed and made her way to the edge of the fields on her phone. Frogs sang, crickets chirped in time, and the scent of wet earth rose around her. She then observed it.

Over the water, a golden light hung in the air. Steady. Silent. Alive.

She narrowed in. No cables. No sound. In the dimness, only a flash of amber.

It swung. She also did.

She went deeper and deeper with it, past the canal and into the more dense fields. Then it vanished suddenly.

And the earth beneath her feet gave way.

She tumbled into a ditch.

A sharp pain shot up her ankle. She tried to stand—twisted.

Her phone’s torch flickered. Battery dying.

Then she heard it: a low hum, and a figure approaching.

It wasn’t the firefly.

It was a man.

Old. Root-like beard encased in a ripped shawl. A small cage and a lantern were both in his possession. A single firefly shone brightly inside, like a headlight.

Asha froze.

The man didn’t seem surprised. “Another one chasing the ghost, huh?”

He lit a beedi while sitting next to her ditch. "You urban kids don't think. This is not a magical device. simply bred differently. fed herbs and survived for longer. An old trick My father used to do the same thing. makes people feel afraid. Afraid that rules will be followed. The land stays clean when they follow the rules. Balanced.”

“You… planted this whole thing?”

“Me? No. I just keep it up right now. Both of us are older than the story. However, there are times when people cannot bear the weight of the truth. Therefore, they propagate the myth.

A rope fell from him. "Ascend out. Tell them not yet. Give them a little more time to believe. It silences the land.

Asha limped home just before sunrise.

She didn’t sleep. Didn’t speak.

She listened intently as her cousins told the firefly tale once more the following evening. She didn't laugh this time. However, she disagreed as well.

Days went by. She accepted her uncle's invitation to participate in the evening prayers under the neem tree. She put her hands together. To listen, not to worship.

She watched the others closely: their hope, their fear, their faith.

And finally, she understood.

Asha wrote an anonymous blog post that weekend with the title "The Light We Choose to Follow." It discussed memory, myths, and the strange way that belief and truth can coexist without fighting. Durgapur was not mentioned in it. or flamethrowers. However, comments from all over the place included, "This also sounds like my village."

Weeks later, the firefly vanished for good. The old man was never seen again.

But every time someone asked Asha about the glowing light of Durgapur, she smiled and said,

“Some mysteries are real because we believe in them. Others are real because we ask why.”