Once Upon A Time

Summer vacations were made of dreams. Dreams… fueled by stories of storks and crows, demons and warriors, princes and paupers. These stories gave shape to the night, bringing alive the shadows playing hide and seek with the fluttering light bulbs, turning the blowing curtain into a living breathing dragon and the moon a brilliant backdrop for another fine adventure. The pillows would be the battleground, where stories fought fiercely to win the honour of starring in my dreams. Mother’s never ending supply, a treasure trove handed down from her mother and her mother before that, tracing an unbroken lineage down the annals of time. To put a child to sleep, mothers from time immemorial depended on their arsenal of bedtime stories. And rarely did they disappoint.

There were times, when all of us would huddle together, waiting in anticipation to leave for our favourite summer vacation destination – Grandma’s home! There, every night, we would get to choose the story that would put us to sleep, skipping the ones Ma had already narrated to us, and diving deeper into the land of stories, where endless wonders waited to entertain us. “No… not this story, Grandma. We heard this before. The one with the hook nosed Prince? We’ve heard it already.” We would be like fine connoisseurs in an exotic winery, seeking the elusive elixir that would satisfy our need for the untoasted and the untried. And Grandma would pull out one surprise after another, always, with a smile. Our dreams and our waking hours, took each story further.

The stories soon parted from our lives. Entertainment took on an electronic coat. Academic books replaced the story soaked pillows. The wheels that led to Grandma’s house moved faster but escaped the city on far fewer occasions. The stories, now faint memories, faded as we took charge of our lives and grew up to the reality we wove for ourselves. Unlike the stories, life had a different ending marked out for us, and we were too engrossed to realize where it led us. The day may have been conquered by reality, but the night still belonged to our dreams. Dreams that would transport us back to the our story soaked pillows, the voices of our mothers and grandmothers and those before them, wrenching the days tiredness away and soothing us with their stories of happy endings.

We would snuggle up to them, content, knowing everything would be alright. And drift in to peaceful sleep.