Folklore

“A dumpling orphan boy”

This was my favorite story grandmother used to tell me,

I was so keen that, with every single sentence, I used to say “what happens next, Aama?”

It was very hard for anyone to tell me stories except my grandmother,

And those stories are a part of me,

Always fascinated by folklore, like the boy in the story fascinated with dumplings,

Every single condition and event creates a series of landscapes in my mind,

I set out the stage, actors, all the creatures and colors within seconds,

Even for the creation of universe, it just takes seconds,

The bravery, the magic, the heroic actions and those happy endings sandwiched together,

You can’t resist taking a bite.

Love in its simple form,

Sweet, which you’ve ever dreamt of,

A prince and princess, father and son or a brother and sister,

Swaying your senses onto something good,

Just like the sister who offered what her brother’s favorite in my lore,

Dumplings and dumplings only for him,

Folklore full of emotions and love…

I search in myself for power and magic and get lost in thoughts for hours,

Like the dumpling boy searching for his lost dumplings in fields,

My imagination outreach my mind when things go beyond the Universe,

When the lost dumpling grow into dumpling tree, when a villain appears as witch,

All the things filled with fantasies of which I am still a slave,

Hours would pass for making me sleep,

Even then I do had to make grandma awake,

I used to cry out loud and say, “Aama, please tell me the rest!”

Those ups and downs creates myriad list of wishes,

For that protagonist whom you care more than any in this world,

And the curses for the villains, no need to say!

The world full of logic denies imagination,

It denies the dumpling tree could grow,

The boy could climb that tree to collect dumpling,

But when you love the unexpected, when you love the imagination,

Then only it takes shape,

Lore, full of morals, full of teachings,

When a protagonist fathom out his difficulties,

When he could resist all the arrows of the antagonist,

Proving out a place for good,

A place for pure,

Like the dumpling boy in the story,

As my grandmother told:

“…Caged by witch, asking him some dumpling out of his tree,

Who was asked to step into dried little branch,

And was tied up into sack when he fell down,

But the goodness in him lifted him up,

Showered him the power,

Gave him the magic of tricks to kill the witch,

So baby there’s a moon for every bleeding sun,

And there’s a shine for every good son,”

Still fresh in memory,

So much of hardships for the hero,

So much for his innocence,

But when wishes and curses comes alive,

At the climax,

You get to quench your thirst with what you expected,

A heroic win, a defeat of evil,

And the boy motivates you more than the moral,

His heroic act acts as a catalyst in your childhood,

You always want to prove yourself as a hero,

But more clever than that in the lore,

And that’s what grandmothers always want,

She knows it,

Folklore, always kind, twisted my being into something different,

And stretched the elasticity of mind far beyond the imagination

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