Dear Dad,

“Not every Queen was a princess that has been.”

Dear Dad,

Other girls say, “I would prefer a man like my father”,
I sit here and wonder, whether I’d want the same.

Other girls say, “My father is my strength and my support”,
I sit mum, while I retrospect the times I needed you the most.

Other girls say, “My father says I’m his princess, forever and always”,
didn’t I deserve to be a princess daddy?, didn’t I deserve your love?

“Not every queen was a princess that has been”, says the boy I loved,
I could not be more pleased to tell you that he is nothing like you.

He said, “I’ll hold your hand, I’ll stand by you in sickness and health”,
I would like to believe him, but alas!, I recollect you promising the same.

As I sit here, holding my pen, writing everything I could never tell you,
left my life, you certainly did, but please erase your memories I interleave.

Remorse.

– A daughter that once was.

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Wondering & Vanishing

“Wondering Memories, Vanishing Memories. Where do they summer?”

“Ma, I want to stay home today”, She had said,

Her mother was both surprised and rejoiced.

“Why would you rather stay home?”, questioned her conscience,

The daughter, was never so hesitant in her silence.

“My dear daughter, reply at once, who let my princess down?”

Dripping tears filled her eyes, as she adjusted her crown.

Her mother never raised her to be a coward,

She regained her smile, as her mother hovered.

“I promised I would take my mother for dinner”,

“Oh, did you. Why?, I don’t seem to remember”.

“Happy Birthday mother”, the daughter had finally wished,

Just as Alzheimer’s wondered, where her memory vanished.

Serendipity?

“Serendipity simply stands for a happy accident. Serendipity is the need of the hour. Serendipity is what the human race needs.”

Consumed in a world, detached from substantiality,

I owe it to my devoted generosity towards the fantasy.

Such was my maneuver when I went about prevailing,

almost succeeding was my plot, only until the next stop.

The shut of the door, the wave of her saree, alas, a baby,

pink little shoes, tiny little bow, and a nudge from her mum.

That was all it took for her to slide her way across to me,

instinctive riddance of weapons of the 21st Century, I did.

Took myself by surprise, I am still certainly very much alive.

Begins the story, where she asks me for a story, How could I not?

 A tilt of her head to the left, a momentary dimple, much misprized.

Harry Potter meets Snow White, Rapunzel wins the Hunger Games,

such were my stories, all very misconstrued, yet adored, I believe.

Right when Cinderella gets to wear her leather jacket, I hear her mum say,

“She loved her sister very much”, but, unnoticed were the glistening tears.

As little Aditi waved goodbye to my dismal, I was left to wonder the tense,

the tense, the tone and the relief in her statement, as well a wave of wonder.

Consumed in a world detached from substantiality I still closely bore,

but now I owe it to my devoted generosity towards fantasy and more.

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