The Dream Palace

Rini was busy playing with her friend. The five-year-old loved to be the princess of her dream kingdom. And she loved it when the charming prince, her best friend, doted on her, like a slave rather than a prince. She would tell him all her secrets, all her adventures, her deepest fears and her recent exploits. He would listen, seldom interrupting, but always attentive, drinking in the details of her existence.
When mummy called, she would rush off, but not before hiding her prince in her doll cupboard, away from prying eyes and wagging tongues. Mummy never came to know about her dear friend and she never chose to tell mummy about it. Not because she was ashamed about her silent, docile friend, but because even she knew nobody would understand her friendship with the prince or would appreciate it.
Besides, as long as they understood each other, the world did not exist for them, at least it did not exist as long as they were together, and until mummy called her to check on her or ask her to fetch something for the baby or just to cuddle her.
But as she grew older, the prince seemed to become distant. Princess Rini wanted him to talk to her, to take her away on his white horse, to a land where mummy’s voice would not reach her. Where the baby’s cries would seem like a gurgling river, where daddy would not be able to pick her up and place her on his lap to hear about her day at school.
Rini wanted the prince to talk to her about the world he came from, for she knew it was different world. Different from the one she knew. She realised that she could no longer find her palace and the rows of beautiful girls who would help dress her up and the lovely gardens where she would play hide-and-seek with the prince.
The memories faded, but Rini kept going back to the old tin trunk in a corner of the store room — for that’s where the prince lived now.
She hoped he would speak to her the way he had ages ago. She looked again and again for the white palace, the green gardens, the blue sky and the sailing clouds. But they seemed very distant and unrecognisable. Over time, she forgot about the prince. He continued to live in the tin trunk and sometimes, when the world seemed irrational and insensitive, he would come into a corner of a mind and stand by her thoughts. Surprising, after all these years, he still listened in the same attentive way, understanding and supportive. She was always glad for his presence.
Then one day, she found her little daughter playing with the prince. For a second, a stab of jealousy gripped her heart. Then she realised that her prince had found another princess. And as she looked, she saw them running around the gardens of the marble palace, gay in their innocence. And with them, her heart ran, like an unbridled horse, galloping into the sailing clouds and the blue skies. And from her high perch, she never lost sight of her prince and her little princesses ever again, not even for a second.

Househaunting again

It's that time of year again, when a cloud-less sky breaks into showers right when you want to look at the next available house. House-hunting and bin badal barsaat go hand in hand. Their cosmic connection ensures that the more tired you are and the more helpless you feel, the more heavy is the downpour.
The rain gods have proved me right twice this time, but both times the showers, instead of dampening my spirits, lifted my soul to the skies so that I could personally thank the heavens for being there, and reducing the heat generated by the numerous disappointments.
I've seen all kinds of places this time, in all parts of Delhi...nope, I missed out on North Delhi I guess.
There were houses I looked for in the South, in the East and in the West, and each more unsuitable than the other. One was so cramped, there was no place even for my breath to rest. Another was one was so exorbitant, it was funny...and the broker showed me the house even though it was double my budget. He just wanted me to appreciate his sense of aesthetics and judgement! He's yet to show me the place he insists is the perfect one for me. There'll be another post on this blog once that revelation is made.
Oh! and of course, the number of property dealers who convinced me there are NO 1BHKs (one bedroom, hall, kitchen...and yes, the bathroom is also included) in Rajinder Nagar. Would like to locate at least ten just to spite them :)
And yes, the ringtones one encounters while househunting is amazing. There's always at least one Om Jai Jagdish Hare and one Gayathri mantra. But this time, there was a Hey! Mr Bomb too. And it belonged to this dealer, who I really wished lived up to his name — Lucky M. But unfortunately, he was quite unlucky for me.
And there was Amma, who was into this business so she could earn enough for davai-daru. This information shocked an Americanised South Indian also househunting with me...He tried to appear as discreet as possible when he enquired, "Does she mean she drinks liquor?"
That was something to keep me smiling through a hopeless round of looking at houses that were available until two days before my urgent need materialised.
But so it is with househunting as it is with everything in life. Things happen only when that wise guy up there wants it to happen. And for those who snigger and wonder why I'm going through all this trouble when I'll get the house only when I'm destined to, here's a piece of wisdom I've totally imbibed by now: God helps those who help themselves.
Maybe a few prayers would help hasten the miracle that I know is coming my way!