You are the drop of dew, After a long journey through the seemingly never-ending desert. Surviving a summer, blistering through the heat, as I reach some kind of oasis to find Gods reaching our to me, with their heavenly hands, handing me over a sweet, tiny figure, which stares at me with a toothless, trusting face. It is in fact, less of a face, rather, beyond the softness of tiny palms, beyond the gums pink in anticipation of teeth yet to emerge, beyond the unsure arms stretched towards m. It is the promise that those blue eyes hold for me, The promise which my daughter whispers to me through softly spoken mono-syllables "Even though I may not understand a word of the gibberish you people seem to speak, I understand you, baba , the way you have never been understood before, I am the happiness of the opera that dawns on the audience, after the fat lady has sung."
I am a Worshiper of Words. I ponder, I think, I write, therefore, I exist. A Blog on Literature, Philosophy and Parenting