f you want your children to be intelligent, read them fairy tales. If you want them to be more intelligent, read them more fairy tales.” ― Albert Einstein
An ordinary frame of a very ordinary man, bending forward with a smile, to greet me, was frozen in time.
Circa 1981, and fairyland descended on Mother Earth. A fairy sans wings made her way to all the tabloids under the sun.The ‘idiot box ‘prepared to telecast live ‘ the event of the century.’
As Lady Spencer readied to step into the Buckingham world, hand in hand with the Prince of Wales,
We set out to visit the king.
Impromptu, arranged-in-the- last-minute gateways, were my fathers forte.
Sensing my excitement about the ensuing imperial extravaganza, this time, my father decided to give me a quick taste of indigenous royalty.
Young that I was, my fairyland residing someplace invisible, was fueled by anticipation.
Thus, on a dull, monsoon day, at dawn, still asleep, me and my siblings packed in our ocean blue ambassador, embarked on our journey for the august rendezvous.
I opened my eyes to the verdant expanse speeding backwards, with no trace of civic imagery.I was not happy.
“ Where ARE we going?”I opened my case, trying to be polite.
“ We are going to a place called Jhargram shona,” came my mother’s response, pouring all her mother- self into her articulation, dwelling heavy on the upcoming Royal encounter.
My father looked back from the front seat to check on us, as my mother tidied my disheveled tresses and planted a kiss on my forehead. I turned to look through the window.
By afternoon, somewhat settled in the vacay mode , we reached Jhargram.
The palace, re-designed as a hotel was our abode for the weekend.
Freshened up and hungry we played our way to the dining hall to meet our family friends, our company in this merry junket.
Some time into lunch, eyes rounded big with a recall, came the retort,
“Where IS the KING?”
My competence in catapulting straight from the gut, innocent queries, liberally sprinkled with embarrassment were things of a legend.
Couple of eyes turned, my father gave that “ not again” look to my mother, and she took charge like a pro—“this is your favourite chicken curry…..let’s see, who finishes it first!”
The rest of the afternoon and evening was spent in sitting on a hillock near the palace, fathers dwelling upon, how these detox trips should be undertaken more often, and their fairer parallels, on how the next progeny is unleashing their terror.
As for us, under the unending azure, over the ever visible viridescence, we inhaled life.
King, be forgotten.
The palace, very basic in structure, had a quiet presence, accentuating it’s folky surrounding. At places, bore the signs of renovation, which has given the edifice a part modern make over. A good look, you can see the faded hand paintings peeping through a fresh coat of maintenance.
A gargantuan garden, manicured with seasonal beauties, surrounded by large, shady trees, overlooked the palace.
And the next day, we made this garden our kingdom.
While taking circles of the centrally located flower cluster, I was abruptly halted by a stout, medium height, dark complexioned man, in checkered ‘ lungi’ and kurta, in silk.
His deeply engraved, tough face, exuded warmth when he broke into a wide grin, flashing his white teeth.
On my few-seconds arduous journey, to derive on a decision, whether to smile back, I saw my father hurrying towards me.
“ Hello Sir, my daughter has been so eager to meet you!”
And, turning towards me, beaming ear to ear, holding my hand hard, my father announced,” pls do ‘ namaste’ to the king”.
As I walked back to our room, loosely tugging at my fathers arm, I felt a tiredness engulfing me.Not knowing why, I retired to a couch seated beside the window. It started to rain as I saw my mother packing in hurried speed and my father transporting my sisters to the car. I slipped into my slumber.
Years later, many travails completed, I wonder why I choose to write this story.
It dawned upon me the reasons for the locales chosen for our childhood jumbories, or for my disappointment in witnessing a king so mundane. It took the lid off some deeply buried understanding of a finely woven fabric of parenting that wrapped our childhood.
The chill felt deep, as a page opened in my cranial diary from the years lost, dated to a pensive day, fraught with a gloomy monsoon flavour:
Check-in: Reality
Check-out: Hans Christian Anderson.
When I was a little girl I used to read fairy tales. In fairy tales you meet Prince Charming and he’s everything you ever wanted. In fairy tales the bad guy is very easy to spot. The bad guy is always wearing a black cape so you always know who he is. Then you grow up and you realize that Prince Charming is not as easy to find as you thought. You realize the bad guy is not wearing a black cape and he’s not easy to spot; he’s really funny, and he makes you laugh, and he has perfect hair.” ― Taylor Swift
Comments
Nefelibata
24-Apr-2025 10:04