Meera could not see what lay before her. Needles of sunlight
constricted her pupils to a dot. She felt like a misguided ant trapped in a brightly-lit
room with unblemished walls of glass. She raised her little palm and squinted
for some clarity. The blinding haze gradually cleared up to make way for tiny
sunflowers; millions of them, swaying in the breeze, singing a silent chorus.
Meera couldn’t believe her eyes. She pinched herself but felt nothing. She looked
around. The ocean of yellow wreaths seemed endless. They looked at her with
their brown faces and invisible eyes, and then turned to each other, talking in
whispers and waving their leafy limbs animatedly. Meera felt a wave of cool air
wafting through her hair, combing through the tangles hiding underneath the surface.
She suddenly felt free. She lifted her arms, closed her eyes, and ran with the
wind; no direction, no destination. In that moment, she was a bird; a bird in a
field of sunflowers.
“Wake up Meera! The guests will be here soon.”
A voice called out to her from somewhere. Meera opened her
eyes. She was not a bird. There were no sunflowers, only painted fluorescent
stars hanging from her ceiling. It was infact a dream. Meera let out a muffled
sigh of disappointment. She stretched her arms to shake away the sleep and
walked up to the doll house for her morning ritual. It was time for her dolls
to have tea. And what a lucky set of dolls they were! Meera took care of them
like their own children. She braided their hair and put matching ribbons on them. She dipped their clothes in glasses of water and laid them on
her desk to dry, after which she pressed them under her pillow and stacked them
into neat little piles. She played doctor to them when they were sick. She
scolded them for running down the stairs too fast. She switched the wooden fireplace on
during winters. She tucked them under patched scarves and kissed them
goodnight. She loved them like they were her own. To her they were real.
Meera set the plastic table out and propped her dolls around
it. She laid out the cups and poured into them from the tiny red kettle. She
sipped on some imaginary tea and pretended to like it. She asked her dolls if
they wanted cookies. They sat their silent. She asked them about school and
told them to be good.
“Meera?! Are you ready yet?”
Meera looked around startled. She knew the guests would be
there soon. It was her eighth birthday and she had to be pretty for them. She
told her dolls to be quiet while she was away. She felt guilty to be leaving
them alone. She promised to get them presents this time.
-------------------------------
Meera walked out of the shower smelling like jasmine. She
hopped on the rug a few times to dry her little feet and stepped into her room.
She noticed a cardboard box lying on her bed. It had a large silver bow on it. It
was her first present of the day. She read the note glued on it.
For my darling Meera. Love
Dad.
The words were the same every year. It was the familiar lazy
handwriting that she had grown to look forward to. Meera ripped the printed
wrap in all her excitement and opened the box. She saw a dress nestled neatly
amidst the folds of parchment paper. It was the most beautiful dress she had
ever seen. It was white with lacy patterns running along the collars and the cuffs.
The waistband was a precious shade of blue. There were miniature roses
embroidered along the edges. Meera couldn’t wait to put it on. She slipped it
over her head and the fabric felt like feathers on her skin. She posed in front
of the mirror and stared at her glowing reflection longingly, turning on one
side and then the other. She knew she was beautiful. She heard the guests downstairs,
streaming in slowly. She held the edges of her frock and spun around quickly
one last time. The lingering frills danced all around her.
-------------------------------
The living room was brimming with guests. Meera looked
around to see if there were any kids her age. She couldn’t find any. She pushed
through the throng of gossiping adults, trying to garner their attention. They
seemed all too busy with nothing. What
could be more important than her? It was her birthday. She suddenly heard a
familiar tune on the piano. The room fell silent. She made her way to the front
of the crowd and saw her thirteen year old brother Pavan sitting on the stool,
his fingers running deftly across the octaves. ‘Rustle of Spring’ by Sinding. The string of hypnotic notes echoed
across the room, while the guests stood still, gaping at him in awe. Meera
inched towards him hoping that someone would take notice of her. No one did. As
if sensing her intention, Pavan stopped playing right that instant. The trance
was broken. The room woke up to resounding applause. Someone noticed her
standing in the corner and wished her. But it didn’t matter.
“Happy Birthday Meera! You're such a doll.”
Meera slipped out unnoticed, pushing her way through the cloud of
oblivion. “He’s a genius.” “He plays like a professional”. “And he’s only
thirteen”. She ran up the staircase and slammed her door shut. You're such a doll. She’d never felt
more humiliated. She walked up to the doll house, grabbed the nearest doll, and tore her plastic head apart. A tear rolled out the corner of her eye.
The rest sat their smiling.
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