They walk around with their souls unblemished and minds uncluttered. The angelic whiteness of their being hasn't yet been soiled by the society which in thousands of years of human existence is still trying to fix its finger on an ageless and universal moral mooring. They walk awkwardly, laugh recklessly, dance with abandon and cry with an innocent silliness. They are the people of all weathers, enjoy all seasons and care for none. Safe and secure in the knowledge that they are watched over, they step out in the coldest of the winters, dressed in their uniforms like little robots, and settle their little faces in the back of their father, riding the motorbikes to the schools, holding him tight and often their tiny, pink palms pushed into the dad's jacket. They hold all the hopes that we all are born with, in the beginning. We lost those hopes as they crashed against the unfeeling and unyielding breast of the world around us, busy being what it is- a grave, unwel
I am a Worshiper of Words. I ponder, I think, I write, therefore, I exist. A Blog on Literature, Philosophy and Parenting