The rain is a tricky, slippery thing, little one. It often invites, no, lures us to go grace it with a love we are not aware, lives within us. Please do not forget what too much of that wetting gets you into though. Remember, the deceptive cherry-coloured, sleepy cough syrup, which brought upon your pretty face endless lines of disgust and anger and hatred for anyone around you? It then led you to a dreamless sleep, and a dream-catcher that you are, you did not like it at all, waking up crankier than ever. On one such coughy morning, you asked me to tell you a story and running out of time and character, I promised you a true one soon. I am so sorry that the soon is only as fresh as now, but I hope that it makes you forgive me for the unintended delay:
Mommie was an average little girl, little one, waking up to unnecessary lessons of sa, re, ga, ma, pa. What? A true story, love, it will definitely have mommie, for, who around, is truer than you and me?
Yes, so she was made to rehearse and she believed in strange things, you know. That there was a world inside her, round and bubbling, and many worlds outside; each of which were complete with green islands on blue seas, like the ones one could see in books called Atlas. She thought volcanoes longed for companionship and that they got so agitated with their loneliness that sometimes they erupted and red, burning anger came out of them. She believed that every little thing around her, like the badminton racquet and the harmonium and her grey school skirt and the logo on the badge, had a voice. In fact, she started paying so much attention to all those voices that she did not realize when she lost her own.
When she became a big girl, your mommie, she spoke with the digital Snake on her mobile screen, and cursed the little monsters eating her Pacman. She built Tetris bricks and burst Bubbles, and life went on, rather lovingly, lazily. Then Mommie was in love. With A to Z, through the years. And the worlds went wild, within and without.
Voices were dissolving into her deepest, and like the shooting out of her silver threads on her hairline, words belonging to everyone else, shot out of her. She became a Wordsmith. She juggled with incidents and played with words. She worked like a magician. Even a magician needs preparation you see. Yes, yes, little one, she has magic, but magic needs to have the edge to carry on. And that edge is arrived at only with soul-power. The soul should will to yield out the voices. The soul then shines, like a crazy diamond. You do know a crazy diamond, don't you? It shows you seven lights, dearest, held up against one.
Mommie then came to terms with the fact that this was a true story and must be told to you, so that in the long road of life, you can believe in magic, and the truth of it, truth in it! How else do you think you are?
Yes, so she was made to rehearse and she believed in strange things, you know. That there was a world inside her, round and bubbling, and many worlds outside; each of which were complete with green islands on blue seas, like the ones one could see in books called Atlas. She thought volcanoes longed for companionship and that they got so agitated with their loneliness that sometimes they erupted and red, burning anger came out of them. She believed that every little thing around her, like the badminton racquet and the harmonium and her grey school skirt and the logo on the badge, had a voice. In fact, she started paying so much attention to all those voices that she did not realize when she lost her own.
When she became a big girl, your mommie, she spoke with the digital Snake on her mobile screen, and cursed the little monsters eating her Pacman. She built Tetris bricks and burst Bubbles, and life went on, rather lovingly, lazily. Then Mommie was in love. With A to Z, through the years. And the worlds went wild, within and without.
Voices were dissolving into her deepest, and like the shooting out of her silver threads on her hairline, words belonging to everyone else, shot out of her. She became a Wordsmith. She juggled with incidents and played with words. She worked like a magician. Even a magician needs preparation you see. Yes, yes, little one, she has magic, but magic needs to have the edge to carry on. And that edge is arrived at only with soul-power. The soul should will to yield out the voices. The soul then shines, like a crazy diamond. You do know a crazy diamond, don't you? It shows you seven lights, dearest, held up against one.
Mommie then came to terms with the fact that this was a true story and must be told to you, so that in the long road of life, you can believe in magic, and the truth of it, truth in it! How else do you think you are?
Sweets, in the course of uneven life, you might end up with many people around trying to convince you that a story can never be true, or, that which is true is never a story. I want you to fall back upon such sessions of mommie-curling, Tucker-tucking, pillow-boxing goodness and decide for yourself the thing about truths. Momsie thinks they are over-rated. You may choose to believe otherwise!
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