“Behold,” he says, pushing back the leaf cover, “Antheraea assamensis.”
I pace deeper into his private garden. “The wild muga silkworm?”
He nods. “The very same. The creators of the exquisite garment that you are wearing.”
It seems an inappropriate gift – but he insists I wear it to write my piece.
The humidity is now unbearable.
“Only my creatures are unique. With behaviours, unlike any other.”
The air is cloying! I claw at my throat.
I spy the human-sized chrysalis suspended in the branches, and my knees buckle in the earth spin.
“I believe you remember your predecessor?” he says.