Fairy Dust And Pots Of Gold

I never believed in fairy tales. I loved them but I never believed in them.

I never believed that Rapunzel’s hair could grow that long, that Snow White’s father never knew or suspected what was going on. I never believed that Hansel and Gretel found a whole house made of chocolate. I never once had a doubt as to whether the frog really turned into a Prince. In fact, I never did believe in Prince Charming.

I never believed that snow came down from the Heavens, that it rains when the Gods cry. I never believed that my painfully pulled out tooth would be replaced with a coin by the tooth fairy under my pillow. I never believed in the horse-shoe or the three-leaved clover and though I love the very thought of them, I always knew fairies, pixies and unicorns are make-believe. And mostly I knew Ram and Ravan never deserved all the diyas because they are the Ying and the Yang. I knew that the footprints in rice flour was not Lakshmi. I knew Ganpati never did dissolve properly and come back again the next year.

I knew the Witches of Oz couldn’t harm Dorothy, I knew that Tinker Bell was safe with Peter Pan. I never looked under my bed for goblins; if I was scared, it was always for the human psycho-killer. I always enjoyed The Hound of the Baskervilles a tad more than the regular twelve year old.

I knew God wasn’t Krishna or Jesus or Allah. I knew God was just Him, a chilled out dude who loved nagging us from deep within. A conscience, some would call it. I knew temples were calming but nothing more, the church was peaceful but that’s about it.

I worshipped Harry Potter, stayed up whole nights with the three of them and spent days wishing I’d get my Letter. But I always knew that Hogwarts was the place I’d escape to when things got tough in my reality. Galleons hold no value and Butterbeer would only slip down warmly to my stomach in my imagination. No wand would pick me, I wouldn’t have to wait to have my first sip of Firewhisky and I couldn’t give Fred and George bear hugs for bringing laughter into my board exams. Because I accepted the simple fact that Rowling has a phenomenal imagination.

Santa Claus was always fictitious; I knew it was Mum bought the presents under the Christmas tree. Even when I was three. I remember eating his cookies and thinking that it would be good if he went on a diet.

I was, am, a skeptic. I try hard not to be, try to love life and all it has to offer but deep inside skeptic is who I am. I know it’s all a façade man creates to find happiness, to escape into a place where things are not as tough as in his regular life.

But if they are all untrue, if they all are imaginings, if they are nothing more than extensions of wispy dreams, why are fairy lights irresistible, why is the Christmas tree magnificent, why are the carols so soothing, why do I put up with cold feet and nose just to put up my stockings? Why do I continue to delude myself?

Why is it all so magical even when I know magic doesn’t exist?

Merry Christmas, everyone :)