Whispers of a broken light

Poetic Dreams and Fireflies

My life in Ooty wasn't just about the hills and the cozy home. I also had my share of school days that were as innocent as a dew-kissed morning. The small local school I attended was a haven of learning and self-discovery, a place where I had my first taste of academic success.

I remember my first year at school vividly. I was just a tiny, wide-eyed girl who entered the classroom with a heart full of curiosity and a mind eager to explore. The world of books and knowledge fascinated me. In no time, my teachers noticed that I had a special knack for reading and writing. My first-grade teacher was the first to recognize my talent, and she encouraged me to participate in the school's annual poetry competition.

To my surprise and everyone else's, I won the competition with my poem about the beauty of the hills I called home. That was the first time I received recognition for my writing. The prize, a small trophy and a book voucher, became my most treasured possessions. It was from that moment that I realized the power of words and the art of storytelling.

Despite my early academic achievements, I remained the same introverted, shy girl I had always been. In school, I had a reputation for being the quiet one, the girl who buried her nose in books during breaks, and rarely socialized with classmates. While others played and formed friendships, I found solace in the world of literature, my trusty books always by my side.

My school years were marked by a deepening love for literature and an increasing interest in the power of words. I had a unique perspective on life, which I explored through my writing. The hills and the quiet of Ooty became a wellspring of inspiration for me, and I began to express my thoughts and emotions through my poetry.

My parents, the two pillars of support in my life, were my best friends. While other kids my age sought companionship in schoolmates, I preferred the comforting presence of my mom and dad. I confided in them, shared my thoughts, and sought their guidance. Our evenings were filled with laughter, stories, and the warmth of family bonds.

I wasn't antisocial; I simply reveled in the joy of solitude. Silence was my closest companion, and I cherished it as if it were a dear friend. I loved the quiet moments, the ones where I could reflect and connect with my inner self. It was in those tranquil hours that I penned my thoughts into poetry and prose.

I loved myself unconditionally, not in a narcissistic way, but in a way that allowed me to appreciate who I was. I had learned to embrace my introverted nature, my unique perspective on life, and my passion for literature. The hills and the quiet of Ooty had shaped me, and I had come to love the person I was becoming.

My life in Ooty was filled with enchanting moments, but none as magical as the stories my grandmother, Amma, used to tell me. She was a woman of wisdom, with eyes that held the secrets of a lifetime. Her tales often revolved around love, and she was a firm believer in true love—a belief she passed on to me.

Amma would sit me down on her creaky old rocking chair, the one she inherited from her mother, and regale me with stories of couples whose love had stood the test of time. She would say, "Abi, true love is like the eternal dance of fireflies. It may flicker in the dark, but it never truly fades. Remember this, my child."

I was entranced by her stories, and as a young girl, I took her words to heart. I believed that somewhere out there, true love awaited me. Fireflies, she told me, were the living proof of this belief. These tiny creatures, with their soft glow, danced in the night, illuminating the darkness with their love for one another.

My fascination with fireflies led me to create my own companionship with these luminous beings. I would capture them in a glass jar, carefully piercing holes in the lid so they could breathe. It was like having a piece of true love right at my bedside. The fireflies in the jar seemed to respond to my words, their glow intensifying when I talked about the power of love.

My innocence was deeply connected to the light of these fireflies, and their presence brought comfort to my young heart. I would often sit by the jar, watching them dance and interact, feeling the rhythm of nature and the essence of true love.

It was during one of those evenings that I witnessed a beautiful sight. Neetu Aunty, whom I knew as a family friend, was reunited with her husband after years apart. He served in the Indian Army, visiting only once every three years. As a seven-year-old, I stood in the shadows, watching their emotional reunion. Neetu Aunty clung to her husband, tears streaming down her face. And just as my grandmother had said, a multitude of fireflies swarmed around them, as if celebrating their love.

In the serene ambiance of Ooty, Neetu aunty and her husband find themselves drawn back to each other. As they walk through the hills, holding each other hands, the flickering lights of the fireflies illuminate their path, symbolizing the rekindling of their love. Neetu aunty and her husband share heartfelt conversations, realizing that some bonds are so strong that even time and distance cannot diminish them.

I couldn't help but think that one day, I would experience such pure love for myself. The image of those dancing fireflies and the love between Neetu Aunty and her husband stayed with me, etching the belief in true love even deeper into my heart.

It was in those moments that I found solace and high expectations for love in the future. Little did I know that my journey toward that love was about to begin, and that it would involve the enchanting dance of fireflies.

Fireflies were more than just insects to me; they were my confidants and silent companions in the stillness of Ooty's nights. I had grown so attached to them that I often felt like they understood me better than anyone else. There were nights when I would lay in my cozy bed, the dim glow of the jar on my nightstand illuminating the room, and talk to them about my hopes and dreams.

As I whispered secrets to the fireflies, I believed they carried my words to the universe, like messengers of my heart. I shared my dreams of finding true love, the kind that made hearts beat in harmony like the flutter of their own delicate wings. In the flicker of their glow, I found reassurance, as if they were telling me that love was out there, waiting to be found.

One evening, while sitting on the balcony with my firefly jar by my side, I was drawn to a story my grandmother once told me about the power of the firefly's light. She said that fireflies were nature's matchmakers, guiding two souls destined to be together. The sight of fireflies dancing around a couple signified a love that would stand the test of time.

Intrigued by this belief, I often watched the fireflies as they performed their mystical ballet around Neetu Aunty and her husband. It was like witnessing the universe itself confirming the power of love, and it filled me with a sense of wonder.

But life has a way of weaving its own tales. As I grew older, I began to understand that love wasn't always as simple and beautiful as the firefly dances suggested. It was filled with complexities, and sometimes, it could be as elusive as the fading glow of a firefly at dawn.

One particular evening, as I watched my fireflies, I couldn't help but feel a sense of yearning. I longed for the kind of love that transcended words, a love that would be like the eternal dance of fireflies. I yearned to find my own dance partner in this cosmic symphony of love.

The jar of fireflies remained a constant presence in my life, a reminder of my belief in true love. And I knew that one day, like those fireflies I cherished, I too would find my way to the dance of love.

One day in my dream, I joyfully running and dancing in the mountains. Suddenly, I slip towards the edge, fearing a fall. Out of nowhere, a strong hand appears, holding mine tightly. The touch feels perfect, as if meant just for me. Fireflies gather around, creating a magical moment. But, just as I  tries to see the face of my savior, I wake up, yearning to meet the mysterious person in my dreams.

Upon waking, I find myself in a state of disappointment. The vivid dream, filled with the warmth of a mysterious hand and the enchantment of fireflies, leaves me yearning for the face of the one who seemed destined to be my true love. The ethereal encounter lingers, teasing me with the allure of an elusive connection yet to unfold in reality.