Once upon a launch pad, there sat a towering and emotionally healthy satellite-supporting contraption. As India watched, the satellite-supporting-contraption spread its arms wide open, like a mother bird sending her fledgling out into the skies. "Fly away, fly away, my pretty one," the towering satellite-supporting-contraption cried (although her words, or perhaps his, were lost under the roar of the satellite leaping joyously up and away.
The satellite-supporting-contraption watched sadly, and shed a tear or two (unnoticed by us insensitive mortals, for our eyes were on the satellite, and besides, the heat of the engines evaporated the tears in no time, leaving only a miniscule and salty trace). As the satellite arched upward and outward, the satellite-supporting-contraption consoled herself (or himself, as the case may be) with the knowledge that if you love something, you let it go. If it comes back to you, it's - Oops. And alas. The satellite's burst for freedom did just that. Burst.
The satellite-supporting-contraption stood frozen, and firmly welded, on the launch pad. As any good parent knows, fledglings must be let go, to fly, to make their mistakes, to experience the joy of soaring independent, if only to end up in the Bay of Bengal. This is the law of the jungle, of Mother Nature, and of the launch pad. If you love something, you let it go. If it comes back to you, it's everybody's funeral. If you hold on and never let go, neither of you fulfils your destiny.
The satellite-supporting-contraption folded her (or his) arms in resignation. S/he had played her part. Or his. Perhaps one day there would be another satellite in her arms. Or his. Who could tell? (The scientists. Or rather, the people who fund the scientists).
Today India watched, and tomorrow India will forget, the noble unselfish satellite-supporting contraption. And one day, far, far in the future, s/he will be scrapped down for roofing over the slums that will, no doubt, still exist, unhindered by the space race. S/he will shelter them from the sun and the rain and she will feel noble and unselfish yet again, in a fragmented sort of way. And then she will live happily ever after, or however long scrap metal lasts before disintegrating into rust.
Post-script: Due to its phallic resemblance, I am inclined to think of the satellite-supporting-contraption as a he rather than a she: a father, albeit a very nurturing one in touch with his feminine side.
Tuesday, 11 July 2006
Once Upon A Launchpad
Sunday, 9 July 2006
Once Upon A Nostril
(Blog #3 is one of my favourites - tales and truths that need to be told - and as each story started the same way, I named it Once Upons. - n2n, 15/12/07)
Once upon a nostril, there sat a nose-stud. It was an ordinary nose-stud, poked through my niece's virgin nose, and it was now time for the ordinary nose-stud to be replaced by a diamond no less, set in pure gold. Home she came to do so, under the supervision of my father, retired physician extraordinaire.
Who would have thought that the dark interior of a humble nostril could have brought so much brightness and mirth to a dull, electricity-less Sunday afternoon? What we all assumed would be a simple "out with one, in with the other" turned into a dramatic episode that involved such props as spirit, torches, magnifying mirrors, magnifying glasses, a brief ponderance upon the laws of physics and a moment of panic when I knocked the diamond out of my father's hand.
We thought at first it was her nostril that was too small. (Obviously not like her aunt, who can stick two fingers in each nostril with ease, thanks to years of childhood nostril-flaring). In the end we discovered that the diamond stud had too short a stem, and that it would have to be replaced by the jewellers. By this time, my niece had had four people's fingers up her nose (five counting her own, and six if you include her thumb).
My niece sits sadly at home tonight, her diamond dream replaced by what appears to be a tiny piece of broomstick. Oh, the invasion, the trauma, the humiliation! It can only be surpassed by the email she will receive tonight, informing her that her nostril plays a leading role in my new blog.
Dear reader, do not sniff or snort, I pray you! Turn not your nose up in disdain at this humble tale ... it is far from over. One day - possibly tomorrow - my niece and her nostril will live happily ever after.
Post-script: it is the left nostril, in case you were wondering.
Post post-script: Thought I should clarify .. the niece is not a little girl, she's an adult.
Once upon a nostril, there sat a nose-stud. It was an ordinary nose-stud, poked through my niece's virgin nose, and it was now time for the ordinary nose-stud to be replaced by a diamond no less, set in pure gold. Home she came to do so, under the supervision of my father, retired physician extraordinaire.
Who would have thought that the dark interior of a humble nostril could have brought so much brightness and mirth to a dull, electricity-less Sunday afternoon? What we all assumed would be a simple "out with one, in with the other" turned into a dramatic episode that involved such props as spirit, torches, magnifying mirrors, magnifying glasses, a brief ponderance upon the laws of physics and a moment of panic when I knocked the diamond out of my father's hand.
We thought at first it was her nostril that was too small. (Obviously not like her aunt, who can stick two fingers in each nostril with ease, thanks to years of childhood nostril-flaring). In the end we discovered that the diamond stud had too short a stem, and that it would have to be replaced by the jewellers. By this time, my niece had had four people's fingers up her nose (five counting her own, and six if you include her thumb).
My niece sits sadly at home tonight, her diamond dream replaced by what appears to be a tiny piece of broomstick. Oh, the invasion, the trauma, the humiliation! It can only be surpassed by the email she will receive tonight, informing her that her nostril plays a leading role in my new blog.
Dear reader, do not sniff or snort, I pray you! Turn not your nose up in disdain at this humble tale ... it is far from over. One day - possibly tomorrow - my niece and her nostril will live happily ever after.
Post-script: it is the left nostril, in case you were wondering.
Post post-script: Thought I should clarify .. the niece is not a little girl, she's an adult.
Monday, 12 June 2006
Silly cow.
It's the 11th.
I go walking with the moon
and my cigarette.
Of course this makes no sense. Loony, one might think. But there's a full moon out, I'm pre-menstrual, and for some self-sabotaging reason I chose today to quit smoking. Needless to say, that goal wasn't achieved.
I bet that cow jumped over a crescent moon. The full moon is just too damn hard. (But oh so beautiful).
I go walking with the moon
and my cigarette.
Of course this makes no sense. Loony, one might think. But there's a full moon out, I'm pre-menstrual, and for some self-sabotaging reason I chose today to quit smoking. Needless to say, that goal wasn't achieved.
I bet that cow jumped over a crescent moon. The full moon is just too damn hard. (But oh so beautiful).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)