plaitsnponys

Where Talent meets an audience…

Pour Mon Amour…

Destiny smiled upon us,

One sunny Monday morning,

One life changed, irreversibly, forever,

While neither anticipated the coming..

 

Annoyance is what struck  soundly first,

An unwilling heart to change any,

Scarce familiarity wedged us apart,

Drawing the unwarranted attention of many…

 

Steadily the eventualities changed,

And shyness drew away,

The initial professional demeanour,

Wilted and brought surprising hope everyday!

 

You wormed your way into my affections,

A task ever daunting to achieve,

Our stars aligned and it made perfect sense,

On first meeting, a feeling unperceived…

 

Compelled to care like never before,

The rainbow appeared, happiness anew,

It made fairytales seem childish,

Brewing love, faith and hope in one colossal stew..

love

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Memories of Meetings….

Memory lane is the only street that can draw tears and cheers. Well, someone rightly said that. If blessed with a memory of colossal retention ability, the journey is power-packed with both extremes. A good memory will have you hankering for a repeat telecast of that one moment, etched permanently in your past, while a bad one on the contrary will make you wish time had skipped you by in that moment. Then comes the question: What’s worse? Remembering the bad stuff or not remembering the good stuff??

Memory Lane

In answer to that thought provoking question, a trip down memory lane is in order. And it doesn’t even need to be well back in time. Falling in ‘love’ at 15 is one of the most beautiful things on Earth. Taylor Swift has done justice to the above statement with her hit track of the same name and it would be redundant to further emphasise the point. However, living in the same bubble of fantasy without the cruel whip of reality beating down your back is something you will forever live to regret. Defiance of all sensible reasoning is at its prime in the teen years and what I like to term ‘Puppy Love’ is what fuels the same. “Wordless” and “Meaningless” are the words that best describe that blind attachment to utter nonsense, better judgement has now reasoned. Then however, a future me advising the same would feel like understanding gibberish! Heroic dialogues come to the fore- At least I learned to Love with all my heart without ever expecting a reciprocation; I never knew I could Love someone more than myself. Well, the bottom of the trash can is all those admirable sentiments see when that fictitious little world bubble goes ‘pop’.

Avert it all ye’ maudlin,

The bubble eventually does burst,

A morbid cruelty underlies,

You Languish alone, A fatal thirst.

Moving along, when the age of those formerly believable fairytales approaches its expiration date and when the Prince Charming on a white horse story bites the dust, Serendipity (call it Destiny, if you must) manages to knock you senseless. Prince Charming does arrive sans the horse and the cavalry to rescue you from the prison of self- abandonment and by the time the ultimate realisation does manage to hit you, the consequences may already be in play. Never did you fathom, in a million years, that any individual besides yourself could wield such power. Even if it has humble and shy origins, the repercussions are of epic proportions. Getting to know the person behind the ever handsome and cheeky grin is an adventure in every sense and utterly fulfilling is the feeling of being a helpless spectator as you watch yourself fall more in Love with that person- if that is even possible! Whether it is the much anticipated first lunch date minus the college equivalent of paparazzi- friends or the Notebook style romantic stroll along a lonely road with just the sky, sun and Earth for company or the first couple-like moment in the midst of randomness, Knowing you have found The One is what makes fighting for it so much more worthwhile. While the world offers a formidable resistance, no hurdle is too high to clear. Such is the Power of True Love. It is in wordlessly knowing what the other thinks, How the other feels even if they try to conceal what is really pestering them, Loving and respecting the same life-related entities, Learning and wanting to share your torments with just that one person and finally, Being able to forgive and forget all the mishaps that are part and parcel of Life’s roller coaster ride. Somewhere in between the endless conversations, there is an indescribable contentment that somehow the world is right side up again. While the initial attraction is filled with symptoms like weak knees, rants about not being in the same league and that ever popular pink cheeked blush, the real deal is facing Life together- accepting the other as they are and loving them in spite of all they perceive as their imperfections. Finding that one 10/10 significant other is not what goes through your head in the moment, it is the auto-pilot that guides you to realising that this is everything you wanted and so much more.

When I peep through this window,

It is something different I see,

It’s plain and simply the world,

That I always dreamt it to be.

 

The present gallops away,

And the past seems so irrelevant,

While the future stands out,

Inviting and ever so brilliant.

 

With rivers that are calm and outlying,

And oceans so mysterious and puerile,

There trickles by a stream,

Seemingly obstinate and never docile.

 

There are grey clouds of anger,

With occasional gusts of patience,

Along with thunderclaps of splendour,

And an Earth greedy for eminence.

Remembering the ups helps weaken the lingering bitterness of the downs but never really erases them. Next to impossible to even hope that all the bad memories will just disappear. Pretending a life-altering event never happened and pushing all the awkwardness under the rug does no good to a budding relationship. Frankly voicing opinions and being painfully honest helps greatly. But then come those “ups” worth fighting for-the “ups” that can make you smile in the middle of a draught.

But all this fades to oblivion,

For all I ever see,

Is a waterfall of tireless Love,

A Love, whose end will never be…

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But He Loved Me…

Her cell phone buzzed ceaselessly, lodged somewhere in the careless mess of her carry-along-everywhere sling bag. Its jarring tone made no difference to her and she sat like a wrinkled and dehydrated vegetable in the cold steel chairs of that hospital wing, silent and painful tears spilling from her reddened eyes and down to her face in an unending stream. A nurse walked up to us, her shoe soles squeaking against the corridor floor and swinging a polythene bag carrying something I assumed to belong to her. Bending to speak to her, she whispered something in her ear which sent a fresh wave of grief down her tired body and slowly handed over the polythene bag to her. 24 hours had seen no food or water down her oesophagus, I knew, I had been there just as long, but for another reason. The nurse left us in the former silence of the deserted corridor. Her mobile buzzed again, an urgent desperation with each note of her set ringtone. More tears.

Suddenly noticing my presence, her frail and furrowed hand found its way to mine lying crossed in my lap. Her voice, cracking from the effort, came out from behind her dried lips “But he loved me…”  That first look into her eyes sounded a million words all at one instant. Hers was a pain I would never comprehend, not at this juncture in the least.  Sensing my interest in her story she continued “He always did and always will.” Dropping her other free hand into the bag, she lifted out what probably was his cell phone “Our son gave him this. And even after all these years, this is what he wanted to see every morning when he woke up” saying so, she placed into my hand his handset with the faint glow of the active wallpaper. Tears welled up as it read:

“Loved you then,

Love you still,

Always have,

Always will…”

“It’s beautiful…” I muttered softly as I struggled to choke back tears, “…he truly loved you, ma’am” I finished before I could let her hear me sob. “I will tell you our story” she started, as if fired up with a new enthusiasm. I nodded in approval; my mouth had to remain shut for I couldn’t risk a stray sob. “He first laid eyes on me at a formal function our fathers were compelled to attend. I was a stubborn young teenager and he was a couple of years my senior”. A faint smile appeared. Somehow the memory seemed to cheer her up. “My father was first enraged when he found out that a strange young man wished to dance with his daughter. Staunchly refusing the proposal then, he forbade me to ever set eyes on him again. But he had his mind made up, he told me. To him, I was the forbidden fruit and that made me all the more worth pursuing”. A trance she seemed to be in, gently leading me into one too as I pictured her around 5 decades back.

She continued slowly, “He had no means to contact me, not even my name to follow. But he made the unthinkable happen. He stole the guest list from his father’s friend who had organised the whole function and looked up all the men registered with young daughters. His search wasn’t made any simpler when his vague criterion turned up around 43 men who fit the bill”. I swear a giggle escaped from her, and a slight smile lit up on my face.

“Gathering all the courage of a 20 year old about to be shipped off to college abroad, he set out to find me through the process of elimination. I was his 14th attempt and finally his successful end to a love-fuelled voyage. My father had somehow managed to retain that old hatred for him in his chest and it scandalised him even more that a 20 something boy would be daring enough to stand up to a man of his calibre and ask for a date with his pretty 18 year old daughter.” I offered her, her first sip of water in an entire day and she drank without fuss but in a hurry to get back to her story.

Clearing her throat, she resumed “As you can expect, my father refused to let him anywhere near me out of mere resentment for his guts. That was the day I stopped and took notice. Fate was on his side and helped us meet eventually at some random event just days before he was to return to his college. Frank he said his name was. But a fear had gripped me and I failed to savour the moment. A fear of being caught, the punishment would be severe. Hastily he noted down my postal address, somehow reading the fear right out of my eyes that kept searching the crowd for my father. He promised to write from college and I vowed to sneak in a reply or two when I could.”  At that she took a quick sip at the water glass I had placed in her hand.

“Letters were flown back and forth and with each one, we fell deeper in love with each other, if that is even possible. Somehow we managed to conceal our relationship from the prying eyes of our families, well, for the time being. Without any approval to our future union, we began making plans for our lives together as husband and wife. Marriage proposals for me came aplenty but each one was turned down. But the distance that separated us was far too much for me to handle and I soon reached a point where I had almost given up all hope of us ever being together”. At that she bent down to look at her crumpled hands that held mine so firmly.

“And then?” I heard myself ask in the silence of the night. “That is when he did something unimaginable at the time. Leaving behind his college, he rushed back home to me and vowed to never leave my side again. It was only on getting caught at this secret meeting that my father first knew of our secret liaison. It angered him to no measure but in his wisdom and with some convincing from my mother, he agreed to our union. And then, at the age of 19 years and 7 months I began a new life with Frank, the only man I could ever love. In our 58 years of marriage, never once did he let a tear come to my eye and kept to the promise he made to me in his 19th love letter- If Monsieur Death were to ever cross our paths, I would see to it that he took me first and then had the pleasure of having you. He never failed to remind me, as we woke up each morning next to each other that I was still the most beautiful woman in the world to him, well after my prime. His last words to me before that massive stroke slowly took him away were ‘I love you, Noelle.’ And now, 3 children and 5 grandchildren later, he leaves me with these memories…” her voice broke off and died.

Placing my other hand on hers I found the courage to speak after hearing her moving tale “Beautiful memories and most importantly, His Love…” The words had hardly left my lips when a strange hand on her shoulder interrupted our moment. Looking up I spied a man I presumed to be her son. It was time to go. “Promise me dear, that you will tell this story someday. Tell the world about Frank’s Love…Promise me dear…” she mumbled as her son practically lifted her up from her seat. I smiled and held her hand to my heart and promised like she had requested. And she left, a stumble in every step. Returning to my seat, her first words to me echo in my head “But he Loved me…But he Loved me…But he Loved me…”

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For Love or Hate?

The back seat of that beige Fiat was all that connected them that Saturday evening as they rode into the dimming sunset. Their necks probably hurt with the effort of ignoring each other’s’ presence in the same vehicle.  The scenery outside the rear windows of the car never looked so appealing to them both. They had been on the same route umpteen times yet it seemed like their first. For one of them on the backseat, an unforgettable memory was being written and for the other, it was something the next morning would erase. For Love or Hate?

“And it ended with no goodbyes,

Just as it had begun with your sigh,

Fate as it seems to me,

Urged us towards this sea…”

She scribbled furiously into her well-used diary, hoping against hope that someday they would look back into those very leaves and share a laugh together, probably while sipping hot tea on the front porch of their house, long after they had been married. That night dreams rose to cheer her formerly hopeless self into a fresh frenzy, a fresh anticipation that it wouldn’t be long before he would be all hers. Between them stood time and destiny, only, neither intended to grant her wishes. ‘Hope springs eternal’ she had come across somewhere. And that kept her alive and smiling for all who bothered to ask.

She reasoned that fate would never be so cruel so as to draw her close to the one man who held her heart  ( and for so long, mind you!) if it was never meant to be. But fate had other plans! She would be scarred from the experience but it would be that very scar that would teach her how to selflessly love someone and never expect any reciprocation- be it friends or her soul mate. It would be those very memories that would haunt her into giving life and love a second chance, for the world is all about that!

He looked at her with nothing but pure admiration as she effortlessly completed their common task, the same rubber band that kept tugging them back together each time. Reality had not dawned and she reasoned that the look conveyed his silent interest in her. So sadly misunderstood and so tragically painful! Words never were exchanged in the whole time and they remained mere acquaintances, yet she had immense faith that she made the right choice. He was the one she had been waiting for. This was her hero, her man and the like. Well, she couldn’t have been more wrong. For Love or Hate?

A distance grew between them steadily yet lies from some merciless soul kept her going, the same optimism at what she believed to be Love. Logical thinking forbade all such positivity and the rest of her world sang to the same chorus. But she had her mind made up and nothing or no one could make her budge. This was a test to her resolve she argued fiercely with anyone who dared to enter a word- duel with her. The world decided to leave her to face her own sorry end; she was too stubborn to convince elsewise.

And like the rest of her world had predicted, her dreams came crashing down in one go when the truth of her competition was waved before her very eyes. Oh, the torture of it all! Like a soldier wounded in battle, she vowed to never again martyr her precious heart to anyone who would discard its pricelessness with such an air of superiority. She remained proud though, her heart had dared to love a stranger, in all its capability even if it ended with no delight. For Love or Hate, I ask… “Hate…” she mutters with profound sadness…

And then came the day her life changed forever.  The tenacity of old decisions was uprooted before she could properly wrap her mind around it. There came another, a more worthy companion. But this time it was the other way around. Distances separated them but time and destiny would eventually smile on her broken heart. He didn’t come riding on a white horse, but that really didn’t matter to her (and who ever does??). He had the ability to convert her uncontrollable tears into a fit of giggles and she found herself melt at that special smile he reserved just for her. Her hands shook with a nervous sweat each time he stood next to her and made conversation, while the surrounding seemed to dissolve into non-existence the instant their eyes would meet. She found her eyes search for him when he wasn’t around and felt her mind ease out the knots it built inside the instant he appeared. A friendship grew progressively over the years and soon enough, words ceased to be required to explain away the trifling matters of life. She hated to see him in any pain, as he soon discovered he’d do anything to make sure her pretty smile stayed on her lips, her dimples he loved.  It was something new, different and so ALIVE!!! This was Love, at last!

But yet a wall stood between them. A wall that kept her away from the man she so truly loved. She never really understood the significance or reason for that wall but found herself spending every waking minute praying for its ultimate dissolution. Still, nothing seemed to change for them once they succeeded at looking over the wall and stood together like they both secretly desired but were far too shy to acknowledge. All she knew was that their love was true and they were meant to be. She was his alone. None of the other vultures who preyed on her were of any consequence, her heart stolen by him in all totality! How she wished her eyes could convey the silent message of her undying love each time he would drown so powerlessly in them.

The right time inching closer with each sunset, she plods along life’s uncertain highway with the assurance that he always was and always will be hers and hers alone… If only the wall didn’t isolate them… If only expression came easy… For Love or Hate, now you ask? “Love…” she replies with all surety.

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With 13 Years of Love…..

You’re not feeling well, baby?” were his last words to me as I lay like a beached whale on the couch in the living room of our ancestral home that Christmas night, while the rest of the family was busy with some other tradition. Alone in that room with granddad, the memory of it is all that lives. Himself too weak to move after a recent heart attack and a prolonged stint in hospitals that would provide the best medical treatment money could buy, his worry extended to my health, a simple, non-festive diet would improve. Such was his love for his family and me, his fourth of eight grandchildren.

He let me sneak my little finger into his liquor glass while nobody was looking and he filled me with interesting stories about life on hot summer afternoons. The tales were endless and those memories are now priceless. In the balcony, he on his wooden armchair and me, seated on the long wooden bench next to him, the world all too trivial to be concerned about. Television and other forms of summer holiday entertainment would be abandoned without question when it came to spending time with ‘Papa’, as we lovingly called him.

Two loves he had in this world. Food and my grandmother, and with her, the rest of his family-three sons and a daughter. Not only was he particular about the food he ate, but he also ensured that it was cooked just right. He would be seen in the kitchen at times, aiding our grandmother. Fish and meats (I guess nobody is much of a vegetarian in our family!) were like oxygen to him. His cousins, residing in the same village, would be his chief companions when it came to shopping for his favourite eats. Oh, their laughter still echoes in the arches of the front porch, where they spent many mornings sharing fish related findings. This passion of his is remembered to this day, daughters-in-law and grandchildren alike. Mango season was prime time for pickles, juices and jams, and the fact that summer vacations coincided with that, made those dusty and dry afternoons that we would sneak into his mango storage shed for an extra mango, even more memorable!

Fishing was another hobby and our fishing trips to River Sal with the required paraphernalia were nothing short of incredible! He would sit, with a dogged determination, a fishing rod in hand and bait at the end of his line, at the bank of the river till daylight faded on his attempts and long after we had discarded all hope. A cat-fish or two. Success came nonetheless, and the victory tasted even better after he was done cooking it just the way he liked.

A particular memory has never failed to uphold its reputation of being a tear jerker. After more than an hour with a bad case of the hiccups and yet following my grandmother around the kitchen, in an attempt to pick up a few of her trademark cooking secrets, Papa decided that enough was enough. Pulling up the little blue ‘kiddie’ plastic chair my cousins and I would use besides his massive wooden one, he asked me to join him in the balcony that faced the backyard and led to the kitchen. Leaving the cutlets sizzling on the stove, my grandmother followed me, apparently in on his little trick.

So you lied that day, didn’t you?” he asked me with all the seriousness of a well-groomed actor. Caught unawares at the sudden and shocking accusation, I denied the occurrence of any such thing- lying was never an option. Picking up her cue, my grandmother followed up with the interrogation with such resolve, that together, they had almost managed to scare me into believing I really had lied about something I could not even remember with clarity! Fright had gripped my eight year old self and before I even realised, the hiccups had vanished. Realising soon enough, Papa suddenly asks “And what happened to your hiccups?” Laughter followed as it dawned on me that they had fooled the hiccups out of me! To this day, an unexpected fit of hiccups reminds me of that incident and makes me long to have him work his magic again.

When I was a little older and just enough to be let into the kitchen to experiment on my own, he always praised my efforts no matter how bad they really did turn out. At family parties, he would sit on his favourite chair at our house, cross-legged, sip his drink and ask “So what did you make today?” And surely enough, he would make it a point to offer constructive criticism. That valuable advice and encouragement has led to much progress and improvement in my culinary skills (well, that is not demeaning the efforts of my mother and grandmother, both excellent cooks).

And when he left all so suddenly, that cold January the 13th  night, a massive stroke the cause, he left behind a grief that tears and time could not erase. Huddling together, his bereaved family, stung by the immense and irreplaceable loss, tears seemed to be the only resort. Uncontrollable and ceaseless, for days on end. But he didn’t leave us empty-handed. Leaving behind a legacy of love, sacrifice and devotion to his family, till his dying breath, Papa lives to this day IN each of us. His memories very much alive and thriving! His spirit in our blood..

And time does not take away,

The joys, the sorrows we shared,

Look down on us from heaven,

Until we meet again someday

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The Musings of a Poet…

‘Only, beside me is your gift of Hope,

I pray, I not ever have to lose,

For a thousand lives would go by,

With no replacement to choose.’

If only every moment in life could be just as poetic as the lines above. Romantic and fairy tale like. Ironically though, the above lines have been inspired by life itself. It goes unsaid that the best form of expression is honesty. So where does this hope come from? The faith that even impossible can deviate to the very possible. Miracles, even. The answer is artless. Life. Love. Man.

If Romeo and Juliet hadn’t to so tragically pass, in the arms of the other, laced with devotion and misconceptions, their fictional story would not assume the fame it enjoys to this day, their creator long gone. Simply, the similarity it bears to the human nature and the faith on the existence of such pure love makes it the masterpiece it is. Women all over the world accepted the norm that for love to be indeed true, it had to be professed by their lover, which would hence display a certain ‘territorial ownership’ over the woman in question. In simple words, “Make her mine..” In the same breath, men began to devise new and improved ways to make their women feel loved and appreciated through what is commonly called Romantic behaviour. Evolution.

The bended knee, the diamond ring, the rose petals, the violin playing softly in the background and the priceless tears in the woman’s eyes as she tenderly whispers her approval to the relationship. Who deserves the credit for this evolutionary trait? Two Shakespearean characters who supposedly had a secret love affair, considering they came from warring families and discerned the intolerance to their much desired union? Or the fact that society, right from times immemorial, has indeed portrayed women as the weaker of the two sexes and thus arose the need for the men to exercise further control over their lives. Evolution came into play here as well. The scenario has now seen a change with women choosing to ‘wear the pants’ in the house.  Fruition. Growth.

Jane Austen. Pride and Prejudice. Mansfield Park. That says it all. Women were described as the demure and pretty ones, and men chose their life partners on the basis of how high they scored on the ‘attractive’ scale, how much they would inherit on marrying them and maybe even their reproductive ability. Elizabeth Bennet was the exception to the rule wherein she married a man (Mr Darcy) she had come to love, not only for his wealth and mannerisms but also because he respected her self-reliance and acumen. Inspiration has been taken from this lovely, fictional lady as women today, have begun to attach a certain value to themselves and have ceased to believe that they were born to be married and bear children. More growth. More progress.

So where do the human emotions of Love, Hope and faith collide in the midst of all this alteration?  In one simple sentence, Love is when a person’s hope for a happy ending is courageously blended with the faith that they have chosen the right mate from the millions that stood before them. Sometimes acceptance of the higher power called destiny, governing our fate is the only sensible thing to do. Wise men have reasoned that each person has their destiny written in leaves at birth. Reality sounds a different song, where hard work and perseverance in accomplishing a long standing dream makes all the difference. Talent and the resources to do so are more factors that come into play. For the romantic souls, this is an objectionable theory by a jilted writer. Let’s just leave it at that there are some things that do not depend on hard work and the related. There are just some things that were destined from birth. Like a soul mate, a lover and a life partner. Having faith that with each breaking dawn, a new hope is born that draws you an inch closer to finding that perfect soul mate/lover is what Love is all about.

‘As the wind blows my hair askew,

My eyes stare into the distance dreamily,

Thoughts of you drowning me entirely.

To reality I wrestle my heart, unwillingly,

My dwindling faith to store,

Comprehending it’s the kiss of destiny I need more.’

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Always and Forever…

I will love you Forever, I will like you for Always...”  a mother whispered into the tiny pink 
ears of her newborn, as she cradled the infant in her tired arms with all the love her heart could 
possibly hold. Always. Forever. Two words. One meaning.  With that promise comes an unbreakable bond, 
one that is most chaste and has stood the test of time: A mother’s eternal love.
    The scar on our celebrated Harry Potter’s forehead bears a mute testimony to this very bond, 
this love. His mother’s decision to sacrifice her life to save that of her sons’.  We may not live 
in a magical universe that permits such physical marks of love but, we can assure ourselves that an 
invisible wall of our mother’s very life will protect us if ever the need did arise. That goes unsaid,
disregarded and mostly, unappreciated. 
   Gone are the days when children gladly ate the healthy evening snacks their mothers would spend 
hot afternoon’s in the kitchen preparing. Only the processed food industry has stood to gain with 
this sudden and exponential increase in demand for all packaged ‘Ready-To-Eat’ items, which are now 
made easily available and at reduced rates. Entrepreneurs are now seeking to make hay while the sun 
shines with this rapidly spreading trend and are inventing other, yet undiscovered, means to trap 
the vulnerable and gullible sections of society with catchy advertisements, misusing the role model 
concept in the process. This deluded generation now looks to these “fake” idols of perfection as 
portrayed by the media and thus begins the ceaseless cycle of copying and being copied.
   Gone are the days when a mother’s warm arms was the most comforting place on Earth. In this 
electronically structured and emotionally devoid age, mothers have work lives beyond being homemakers 
and children have social networking sites. While this current scenario has its pros, the cons stand 
to outweigh them. Do you ever wonder why the guy next door has stopped being present at the dinner 
table and instead returns home at the crack of dawn??
   Besides being the hand that guided us when we were little and unable to comprehend the ABC’s of 
the world around us, our mothers played a vital and irreplaceable role in our lives:  That of 
moulding us into the people we are today. Do you realise that it was the same Care that made her 
tell you off when you were on the wrong and nurse you back to health when you were too sick to lift a 
finger?? That is the sheer beauty of it all. Care. One word, different faces.

   A mother’s love knows no bounds and while she wills the best for her children, she attaches a 
silent prayer with every kiss goodbye/good night that she places on the forehead of her little ones.
With changing lifestyles and nuclear families, this tradition is dying a slow and steady death.
Children, reluctant and reproachful and their mothers, powerless, silent spectators.
   Did you ever stop to think of the nails that you drove into your mother’s tender heart all 
through your life? No, I am not talking about the tool here. I speak of every word, every sentence 
when you back-talked, yelled or conflicted with her rational opinion. Words once said cannot be 
taken back. Damage complete. However, no matter what, she loves us still. She will still hand you 
her raincoat if you are stuck in a sudden shower on your way back home and will tell you off if 
you don’t properly conceal your head in the jacket hood. Then she will probably get to the part 
that you shouldn’t have been so lazy as to not want to carry your own raincoat during the monsoons! 
By then, she’ll be dripping from head to toe and you will not have felt even a drizzle on your 
raincoat protected body.
   And the suffering doesn’t end with putting up with incessant mood swings and tantrums with 
relation to the silliest of things. She must also endure the torture of watching us slowly drift 
away from her, physically and mentally. For the rest of us it is just, “Move on, Mom!” but for her,
she must painfully endure in silence as the infant that spent its first nine months alive in her 
womb, chooses to leave her out of his/her “new life” .
   And if you think that it ends with that, you’re wrong!! Some of us are even cruel enough to 
abandon her in the nearest old age home the minute we move out with our significant other, only to 
send her a meagre check every month. Is that what you would appreciate being done to you??
   So too all the mothers out there, here’s a salute to you. For being a tireless army in all 
entirety, standing silently behind your children in whatever they chose to do and become later in 
life. Till your dying breath, let that promise hold good. That promise made several years ago, in 
the ears of the infant you cradled in your arms. 
                          “I will love you FOREVER, I will like you for ALWAYS….
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The Mythical White Horse….

Our bed time tales began with ‘Once upon a time…’ and usually ended with ‘And they lived happily 
ever after’…. The world in between these two phrases was a product of a wild imagination. The 
real world would cease to exist and those fairytales would assume a gripping realism. As for 
me, the grip still hasn’t loosened its hold…
Those endless fables were narrated with the sole motive of inducing sleep, well, with me,
they accomplished so much more! They served the very noble purpose of  inciting my imagination 
into a creative frenzy. A yearning that drove me deeper into the literary world, where words 
became my best mates.
Now, coming to the truth in those narratives. The pretty princess painfully locked up in a 
hostile environment filled with wicked step mothers and malicious step-sisters. The proverbial 
rags to riches journey. The ultimate triumph of Good over Evil. No matter where the plot did lead 
the main characters, the Happy Ending was a must.

So where is this Mythical White Horse? Is it the one from Taylor Swift’s music score? Most 
importantly, where is the Prince Charming promised to every ‘Daddy’s Little Princess’ at bedtime??
Is he the guy you just had lunch with? Is he the guy who stared at you all day during class? 
Is he the fellow who makes fun of your every action but means the best?  With such a shortage 
of horses around here, no wonder we all have such problems when it comes to choosing our Mr. Right!

In a way, we are constantly reminded of the phony nature of these tales we were compelled to 
believe during our key formative years, in our everyday lives. Right from the unending wait 
for the ‘Happy Ending’ we all find ourselves in search of, to battling the ‘forces of Evil’ 
to make that one love story come true. Years fly by like days and there’s still no sign of 
the long anticipated golden sunset in sight. No White Horse. No Prince.
Another farce we are consoled with by sympathetic friends is, ‘Things will fall into place when 
the time is right….’  But when is this so called ‘right time?’ How in hell is the Prince 
Charming supposed  to know? Some blame it on a higher power that governs our every action and 
reaction. Fate. Destiny.
Experience has taught me one thing if not patience, Don’t waste your time and energy looking 
for this Mythical White Horse with your Prince Charming perched on top. If your Prince 
Charming decides to think out of the box and ditches the horse, you risk missing him enter 
your life on foot!!!

Isn’t it pathetic to dream of the perfect proposal but have no Prince to actually make it 
happen? The stage is set. The hero is yet to make his appearance. The damsel still in
distress, awaiting her Prince.
                                       ‘And so my soul bleeds in song,
                                     This suffering too arduous and long,
                                       The antidote solely your voice,
                                      Lost in the labyrinth of my choice.

                                       I drift into the realm of hope,
                                          My grief from to escape,
                                        And with faith I do implore,
                                   A simple vision of you, my heart replete….’
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