I was there in my balcony,
looking at the vast blue sky,
seeing the birds migrate,
gazing at the slowly setting sun,
reminiscing the good old days.
Those days, when I used to count backwards,
to that day when my grandma would come,
come to visit me from village.
It didn’t matter what did she bring for me,
hand-made pickles, a bag of toys or any other thing.
What mattered was THE STORIES.
I used to love listening to stories,
bedtime stories of ghosts,
noon time stories of king & queen,
stories I read from my books,
stories I visualized myself to feel safe.
The lesson learnt from each story was crucial,
but more crucial was the imagination,
the way in which I visualized myself as the protagonist.
The movement of hands of my grandma while telling the stories,
the lowering of tempo of her voice during suspense,
the big wide eyes to show surprise,
the soothing smile to show happy ending,
was all very important to me.
I used to believe more in that imaginative world.
I used to think that my imaginative world could had given me more pleasure,
because I could not keep those stories inside me anymore.
I needed to tell those to someone, to anyone, but in vain,
because I was only meant to listen them,
as I was born a Dumb!!