A Frozen Fairytale

Dad gave a sense of security. Mom gave me a sense of responsibility. But my sense of story came from my grandmother.

Once there was a time when I believed a cricket bat as a machine gun and orange juice as a toxic chemical for super power. I literally drew heartens instead of a biological heart.  

When I look back, my childhood was a peppy jazz track, completely composed by my grandmother.  Every syllable and word had a tone for itself. Her modulations and tempo of storytelling designed the dreams I envisioned every night.

Higher the pitch, higher the anticipation! Flatter the dialogues, shorter the stories!

Overall every tale connected me like a series of strings which made me dance like a puppet thrilled and excited with mysterious stories.

Though there were many off tones in-between, those were the minute imperfections which added variations and detailing to her stories. Her imaginations added grammar to my dream world. All of my holiday seasons were seasoned by her unique genres of stories.

But, the concert ended one winter night. That was the night I found an excuse to move away from her.The fictitious fairy tales sounded alien. There were no more interesting.

The same night I found my macho moment. (Just grew a beard)

I drifted far away from her. She never stopped me. She gave me a send off smile.

Later, on the next phase, what I had with me were just questions.

To find the right answer, I ran, I flew and even crawled to many places and met many people to know who I really was.  Why was I here?

 No one had an answer. They just made statements. Few were style statements. Few were ego statements. But, most of them were show off statements.

They were just trying to define who they were even before knowing who they really were. Everyone followed a conventional cycle, going round and round and round.

I got lost. I stooped. I went back to the beginning again. I wanted to redefine myself. When I went back I got my answer. The answer was within me. Instead of searching inside, I was searching outside all along. It took me 45 years to realize this simple thing.

I am a story teller like my grandmother.

As the mood is set, now I am fine tuning my chords to compose a beautiful story to my son. But he is in his pursuit to define himself. 

I can wait. 

Ashwin Muralidharan:- Hey people. If you like my story give your valuable comments.