I have heard of lofty praises for love
Love as eternity, love as nurturer of dreams
Ask me and I would tell you what love is,
Love is like the sting of a honey bee
All powerful for a moment, pain jabbing your heart
The next moment, eternity gets replaced by fraility.
Ask a honey bee, why does it end it's life by leaving it's sting while it could have other means.
You would find a helpless sigh escape your lips
For aren't you exactly like a honey bee?
The moment you see your love tumbling, you leave your sting
A sting enough to rip your love apart
A sting enough to jab your heart
A sting, a sting enough to kill you ounce by ounce
One moment you die, the other moment you live
And sing humming songs of despair
You drink despair, you breathe despair
Hail! Honey bee love.
I am the eldest grandchild in my family. And being the eldest, I was pampered a great deal by my grandparents. My aama (grandma) and baa (grandpa) always shielded me from every possible dangers including thrashings from maa. I have pleasant memories of evening story sessions as grandpa took me to bed. Aama would oil my hair and tie pony tails which resembled coconut trees that I used to draw. Sundays meant elaborate sessions with my grandparents. Baa would trim my nails, aama would fondle me to sleep. Their bed room was literally my playing room, my story book reading room, my painting room and what not. With time, as I grew, I got a room of my own but their room was still my favourite one. When I left for hostel, I missed them more than I missed my parents. It was in the year 2014, I had come home after my exams when aama received a pressure stroke . She couldn't make it. I had spent a month as he lay sick on her bed. All of a sudden, there was a role reversal. I could
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