Fairy Tale - I

Once fairy tales captured our imagination. Will they still ? At this age ? When we ... well whatever.
Of crusading knights and Saracens ? Hmm hmm.... blonde damsels locked up by evil witches in high towers ? Guarded by dragons ? Lost treasures ? Lost relics ? With magical powers ?

Is it the horses and the swords ? The chivalry ? The magic ? The royalty? The glory ? The honour ? The countryside ? The castles ? The battles ? The heroism ?
Hmmz

Its escapism.

I used to love fairy tales. I've read Enid Blyton , and offcourse the staple Grimm's.
Ah ! Pixies and fairies and gnomes, talking toys , elves ...
I'd seen the whole series of Grimm's at Nandan at some film festival. My parents took me. I enjoyed every moment.

I have a relationship with Soviet Russia . The erstwhile USSR. Yes. No , this isn't baloney. When I was around 2 or 3, i used to subscribe to this Soveit children's mag called MISHA. Illustrated. It had comics , as well as stories, anecdotes, activities, write ins and description of children's lives in the USSR. And yes ... I remember being read all that ... i shall smack anyone who even dares to suggest otherwise.

Political propoganda or not ... communism democracy be hanged .....
My eyes used to fill with wonder , amazement and joy. Nothing compares to it.
It used to have folk and fairy tales from all over the world. Ukraine , Turkmenistan , Kyrghyzstan, Mongolia, China , Japan , Vietnam, Cambodia India are just a few.

Then the USSR fell . The magazine stopped. So stopped my monthly dose of Baba Yaga (Russian witch ) and the Spotted Cap , and Aldar Kose ( a Kyrghyz wit ). And all the joy associated with MISHA.

I HATE you .... you self righteous bastards ... upholders of freedom , democracy blah blah and all that m***********g crap.. it don't mean shit to you you liars it's ALL a farce. LOOK at the world today. THAT's what your ideals have done ... you kill millions and yet justify everything and demand acceptance. Why ? Just because you're on the frekkin otherside of the law ?

Those were precious to me. I have preserved every magazine. And I still read them sometimes.

Raduga publishers (Moscow ) used to have a stall in the book fair every year. They sold books for really cheap. Russian translations. My parents bought me "The Golden Goblet" by Karim Tangrikuliev. A story of a young boy and his narratives , in Central Asia. As he grows up.

I am not that articulate, and I am sleepy now. Hence .. its simply beautiful.
Ends with the commencement of WWII. ..... woooohoooooo ! :D *expletive*

I have read Central Asian folk / fairy tales. Magical. These tales from the vast arid steppes speak of romance and adventure of a different sort.

Then I have Russian fairy tales..... of Princess Alyonushka..... and all those wonderful things ...
The Firebird .... and the Horse that Prince Ivan rode to rescue his Alyonushka..... Set in the cold cold snow covered conifers on Northern Russia ....... it's white magic.

( Maria Sharapova was my real life Alyonushka ) *blush*

It's been long since I last read a fairy tale. Or felt like I was in a fairy tale. I am no longer in the Age of Innocence. Everything has to be assessed with practicality and prudence. There is no time to daydream. Really .. I'm lost for words... feels like I have no place to escape to. Being realistic does help us get through life. But then again ... life's like a dream. Isn't that what the Bard said ?

Hold my hand , let us fly

Let all the reality pass us by

Over the mountains, through the mist

Where myth and magic still exist

Where sparkling waters meander

And paths through wooded valleys wander

Of glorious battles without any pain

With glory and joy in both sun and rain

Sweet scent from flowers, ripe fruit from trees

Bathed in soft sunshine, caressed by the breeze

Where we had our love, amidst mountains and streams

That place is better than all of our dreams

How long before we heed the calling ?

Or shall we be forever falling ?

We traded for lies, look what we lost

At what cost my love ? At what cost ?

Hold my hand ,my love, let us fly
Let all the reality pass us by
Over the mountains, through the mist
Where myth and magic still exist.

Dew

Footsteps. He stirred in his sleep. Motes danced in circles. Peaceful. Austere. Outside the tent, the air was balmy. This was before the Royal Summoning. After the Summons, the stillness would give way to the usual restlessness associated with daybreak.

Not a soul was stirring. Save for the maker of the footsteps. Yeah. It was his job. He didn't really know anything else. How long had he been at this ? A billion years ? Since the beginning of time itself.

He still slept. His face wore a look , not really of innocence. Innocuousness would be more apt. A very self absorbed look. One which radiated out signs of some unknown peace. A peace , though. Isn't that what we all desire ? Inner peace ? Yes. It was some sort of peace.

Whether these eyes had beheld horrors , or this heart had felt pain, or his mild frame had undergone hardships, was inconclusive.

Footsteps. He stirred again. Footsteps grew louder. More stirring. Footsteps entered his tent. For a moment it felt like someone had turned on all the floodlights in the Stade de France. Wattage in billions , for a fraction of a second. Not like a flash. Try to imagine. The atmosphere was electrifying. But only for that moment. Then it was all gone. Footsteps, and all.

His eyes opened after a few moments. Clear black eyes.

Isn't this the time you said you would be closest to me ?
Isn't this the time you said I'd be rewarded for every tear I shed ?
Isn't this the time you said you'd touch me ?
Love like I'd never known what love is.
Glory beyond glory. Love and glory.
Isn't this when you said your thick shroud would be like a veil of muslin ?

You beckon.