Where are my butterflies?
Last Sunday morning, I woke up with a feeling of elation, light as air, bright as the morning sun. The feeling clung to me, warm and golden, like the memory of the night before. The night before, I performed in a few dance routines in a musical. I had stepped onto the stage after years, and a forgotten part of myself began to awaken with each beat of the music. Saturday night reminded me how much I missed performing—the joy of movement, the thrill of being seen, and the magic of becoming a story in motion.
The performance was part of a musical—Laila Majnu, a tale as timeless as Romeo and Juliet. That night, between my dance performances, in the chaos of outfit changes and hurried whispers, I found myself irresistibly drawn to the stage. I stood behind the curtains, as someone fumbled with the pins of my skirt, yet my eyes fixed on the unfolding story.
We are introducing Laila in this song, on the magical Saturday night of 7 December.
I have always loved stories; stories are a powerful way to understand each other better, empathise, and learn. And there, under the shimmering radiance of stage lights, my two great loves converged: story and dance. To add a cherry on top, it was a love story. Who doesn’t love eternal love stories? The performers on the stage breathed life into love, sacrifice, and rebellion. I was witnessing it all—music, dance, drama, love, passion, sacrifice, deceit, rebellion—unfolding one song at a time.
Over that Sunday morning cup of cappuccino, still basking in the golden warmth from the night before, I found myself ruminating on the story of love and sacrifice in Laila Majnu. Gradually, my thoughts turned to how the fate of this Arabic folklore echoed other timeless stories. From Romeo and Juliet in Shakespeare’s Verona, Punjab’s Heer Ranjha, to the tragic river-crossing of Sohni Mahiwal. I imagined the Chinese Butterfly lovers fluttering towards freedom. My thoughts went to Tristan and Isolde of French medieval literature and Antony and Cleopatra from the ancient sands of the Roma land. From the Ghanaian folklore of Anansi and Aso to distant lands unnamed—the story persisted: star-crossed lovers, an unforgiving world, and the perfect annihilation.
Love traversed time, geographical, and cultural boundaries, only to be reborn with the same fate—as if to test its luck, hoping to find a kinder, more forgiving world. Yet wherever it was reborn, fate remained unyielding: kismet, as cold and unrelenting as the world around it.
These stories have been adapted countless times—on stage, in songs, and in movies. But what is it about these stories that make them so powerful? It’s the unyielding, passionate love at the core—so magical that it defies mortal boundaries. These love stories are eternal, etched like constellations in the night sky. I found myself wondering what my own romantic love would feel like. Would it be like those butterflies in your stomach, leading to a happily ever after? Moments like these make me wonder: where is my Romeo? And then, in the quiet of my thoughts, I wonder if such a thing as a “happily ever after” even exists—or if it’s just a dream we hold on to, hoping it will be real.
Over another cappuccino later in the week, my thoughts drifted to a conversation I had with an old, dear friend. He told me about a woman his family had arranged for him to meet. Afterwards, he seemed disappointed and melancholy. When I asked him how it went, he said, “She’s nice, but I didn’t feel the butterflies—the kind of butterflies that make you excited to meet someone new.”
I tried to comfort him by saying, “A lot of people claim it’s okay not to feel the butterflies right away—let love grow slowly. Doesn’t science say that...?” He cut me off, “But I want to feel the butterflies, I want to be excited when I meet someone new. I have one life—am I not allowed to feel the butterflies?” He added, “I don’t want to settle for someone I don’t feel a spark with—just because they tick all the boxes.”
His words resonated with me. We are so caught up in following life’s expected timeline, the default path—getting married by 30, ticking off all the ‘right’ boxes—that we forget love should be magical. Love should feel like fireworks in the night sky. To love like Romeo and Juliet is to crave infinity in a moment—to want to freeze time and savour the feeling of being alive in love. When was the last time you felt the butterflies? Think of the last time you felt the butterflies, and how did that make you feel?
Let me make one thing clear here: it’s not about having a tragic love story like Romeo and Juliet. It’s about having a passionate love, all-consuming love, love that sparks light in you. It’s not about dying in love; it’s about living in love and, more importantly, it’s about feeling alive in love!
Your Laila or Majnu is out there, waiting for the right time. Don’t let yourself settle for anything less than the real thing—something is not better than nothing. Don’t fall for the age-old saying that you should simply make do. What if Laila and Majnu had defied the odds and lived? Would their love still be legendary—or just ordinary? Would we still know of them? Why settle when Laila and Majnu didn’t?
This reminds me of the song I Lived by OneRepublic, which speaks to the very idea:
Hope that you fall in love
And it hurts so bad
The only way you can know
You give it all you have
And I hope that you don't suffer
But take the pain
Hope when the moment comes you'll sayI, I did it all
I, I did it all
In the words inspired by Rumi's teachings, often quoted by my best friend and the artist of this painting, Nidhi Sehrawat: 'Don’t fall in love, rise in love’.
Explore more of Nidhi’s captivating creations on Instagram: @Qalabynidhi