And then they stopped listening...

Last November this blog crossed the third year mark. A day to be fondly remembered and celebrated was eclipsed by a tummy. A really BIG tummy. After all, one does claim to have a real life, right?

Er...um...yeah.

Truth be told, this blog was more an escapist's refuge than an artist's studio. I wasn't anonymous, so I didn't really bare it all. But at times, under layers of fiction and verse, a few home truths did peek out. Some of you might have read the undertones but most of you decided to keep your thoughts to yourself. I thank you wholeheartedly for it.

It made me reconnect dots to form a newer, better picture; it provided a laugh track for my lame jokes, a punching bag for my rage, a sponge to soak up the tears and open arms when silence said it all. This blog turned out to be the best friend, when my best friends couldn't be by my side at that moment. Well, why shouldnt it do so? After all, I've been wonderful company too, right?

Ahem.

Unfortunately, I shared only my disappointments and delusions with the blog. When things were stressed and beyond salvageable, I wrote funny stories and depressing verses. When things were sunny and joyful, I was outside living it; the blog a figment of my imagination. Why should I justify myself to a blog? It doesn't really exist, right?

Wrong.

The other day, I found myself free of chores for a couple of hours. A gold mine, under the given circumstances. But instead of taking a nap as I should have, I sat reading through my archives. I laughed, cried and laughed some more and I thought to myself, 'Darn it! This woman writes really well. At times.' (Well, i don't fish for compliments. I just dish them out myself :)) I can be a narcissist in my own blog, right?

Right.

Thanks to this blog I made some really wonderful friends. Most of whom I haven't met but who I know are just as wonderful, beyond all this ether. Thank you. You know who you are, so I am not going to list names. (Truth is I am scared in my current sleep-deprived mode, I'll miss someone and they'll stop visiting the blog to write lovely comments). I also thank the the few invisible friends who drop by now and then.

Most importantly, thanks for supporting me all these years. In this age of 15 minute fame, 3 years of virtual existence is a huge milestone. Especially for a little girl who refuses to grow up. I've dusted the bike for a whole new ride but it's going to be shaky start. Hoping you'll stay with me even if I meander a little bit.

Here's to another edition of The Midget Diaries.

Mistress of the Basket

Nothing ever is the same once you've jumped off the cliff. Or picked up a wailing baby. The Man felt no different. Princesses may appear magically but sadly there's no magical way to satisfy all their needs.

The entire kingdom was turned topsy-turvy the moment Princess Maya arrived. The best carpenter in the kingdom was beckoned to build the sturdiest and yet the most wonderful looking cradle in the world while the Royal seamstress was asked to weave soft sheets of silk.

The Man paced outside the nursery with the baby as The Little Princess tried to create a whole new world inside. The baby in his arms crinkled its eyebrows and The Man could sense a cry forming. Princess Maya let out a soft whimper. Just when he thought he couldn't hold off any longer, the door opened and he stepped into the nursery.

The Little Princess and her bevy of helpers had truly outdone themselves. The cradle was a masterpiece crafted in rosewood, and the sheets were as soft as satin. The Man softly laid Princess Maya on her bed.

The moment she touched the bed, Princess Maya wailed. The Man held her tight; the Little Princess rocked her back and forth but no avail. Princess Maya just couldn't be pacified. The Queen and The King rushed in to help, but all the lullabies in the world weren't enough to soothe the tiny baby. The Man and the Little Princess looked bewildered.

Then The Man rushed in search of the Royal seamstress. Maybe cotton would be softer. The Little Princess ran to the Royal garden. Maybe a nightingale's song would quiet the baby. The King walked up and down the room, nodding his head as that's what he did best. While they each tried to find a solution, the Queen held Princess Maya and tried to rock her to sleep.

Minutes passed into hours. But Princess Maya hadn't slept a wink. The Little Princess slumped into The Man's arms, unsure of what to do. The King was snoring in a corner, next to a broken basket. The Little Princess used to play with it as a kid. An exhausted Queen slowly placed the crying baby in the old basket and flexed her arms.

After a few minutes as she bent down to lift the baby, she found Princess Maya fast asleep, her tiny hand tightly clasping an old blanket. The little one had drifted to sleep in the comforting smells of old wood and worn down wool.

Little Princess smiled at The Man. Raising a princess wasn't a new tradition to be learnt. It was simply forgotten and need to be remembered.

Who makes the mundane, magical?

You

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Hidden in every fold
is the reason
to live another day.