Enter the minstral

.
I think somewhere deep down we all have our little fairytale worlds, where we nourish our dreams of a tomorrow, a magical, beautiful tomorrow; with hope, excitement and wide-eyed expectations. But, more often than not, the common characteristic running through them is that it is also an impossible tomorrow.

Almost of the kind that the movie "Serendipity" depicts. Perhaps many hearts have yearned for that kind of a fairytale romance, as mine did. Regardless, however, it is the kind of story best summed up by MsPunch on IMDB: "A little bit of perfect escapism."

I have never wondered how long we bother to feed these fairytales, how long it is before we give in to the harsher truths of reality and accept that not all of us will get to live in houses of chocolate.

Soft-spoken and obsessive, Trager never looked the part a hopeless romantic.
But in the final days of his life, he revealed an unknown side of his psyche. This hidden quasi-jungian persona serves during the Agatha Christie-like pursuit for his long-reputed soul mate: A woman whom he only spent a few precious hours with.
Sadly, the protracted search ended late Saturday night in complete and utter failure.

----------Serendipity

Sort of like this??
Or is it just a natural death as time goes by and the senses too dulled.
For when you have felt every emotion, there are none left to feel.
For when you have dreamt every dream, there are none left to dream.

Or sometimes they just refuse, to die.
Perhaps because of a typical taurean obstinacy, a refusal to yield.
Perhaps because of chance and circumstance that give the whiff of hope that drags the dream onto the life support keeping it alive for a little longer, hoping against hope.
Perhaps because the wrong tunes play at the wrong time.

Aankhein khuli ho ya ho bandh,
Deedar unka hota hai...

Or perhaps simply because wandering minstrals pop up to set alight the flames of a subsiding passion.
"Pipe to the spirit, ditties of no tone."

Perhaps there is something to be said in favour of the afternoon sob operas on TV. They start off like a house on fire, gripping, taut, and then fall away, lose a good part of the viewership, some sudden inspiration in the script writing produces a spark, a momentary interest, and then more flagging... Life, often, is like that. Or at least, the best fairytales are. But, mine has already been too long, winding aimlessly through the tides of time, the sparks too few and far between.

And just as you are about to sit back, and consider saying "goodnight" to it, along comes the minstral, and in a matter of minutes, the spark's back. You know its just another twist that goes nowhere...
Sure there have been the fleeting glimpses, the incredible lookalikes, when you give your stupid head a playful smack and remind yourself its meant for the silver screen alone. Hallucinations, dreams, a lot of banter over them but just wishful thinking, nonetheless. And in the second the minstral pops up, it no longer is. It is a vibrant soul that fuses into you for this is very very real.

Hell, it is a twist!!! Of the only fairytale of your life, and damn, it may be your very last opportunity. And every inch of your practical being screams that you are better off without it.
It isn't their fairytale however, its yours. Nay, its not the fairytale of your life; its your life itself. It is every inch of your being, every inch of your spirit, just you.

I want to turn the clock back.
Sure, so does everybody. Athletes with flagging energy levels, models with the hints of wrinkles appearing, politicians gambling on every card, they all want to.
Except that I dont know why I want to turn the clock back and they do. I dont know if I want to go back and just live in those years, or whether I want to grow up differently, whether I want to weave a new fairytale, or whether I want to vanquish them.

And there are the clouds. White, cottonlike, dreamy. Floating forever. Taking you on magic carpet rides. To fantasyland. Where dreams come true. Where it is all smiles, where there are uncertain, affectionate squeezes of the hand. Where it can never end, where this is forever. Where you whisper with ice-creams in hand, giggle over nothing, dream and promise, live and love.
And never think.

Chand sifarish karta humari, deta woh tumko bata,
.....
Humko aata nahi hai chhupana, hona hai tujh mein fanaa.

And then the darker ones move in. And fill up the horizon.
But, by then, you are already in dreamland.
Or not.