​About Bridge To Terabithia-Not About Bridge To Terabithia. 

​About Bridge To Terabithia-Not About Bridge To Terabithia. 

So Bennigton died a few days back. And a friend of my mum, took her life last night after her twelve year old daughter died of cancer recently. I couldn’t call her selfish for that – for not thinking​ about the husband she was leaving behind (although that’s what everyone else kept saying.) The reason why I couldn’t blame her was because I couldn’t ever claim to imagine the kind of sorrow that she must have gone through. I’ve been a kid for most of my life but I’m not alien to things like depression or loss. Not anymore. I’ve grown up over the years from a silly girl lost in crayons and tent houses to a teen growing up into the big words in life: “sorrow”, “failure”, “dejection”, “frustration” and slowly a little more, towards “death”. I’ve seen both my parents go through phases of depression and I’ve been mean to my father when I couldn’t understand why he was being​ so rude to me sometimes. My mother called that a High BP. I’ve cried when I secretly sensed my mum was sad about something. I cried when I knew sometimes I had unknowingly hurt her myself. But, I digress. 

What I mean is, I grew up to the life I had to face. Stepped into the big shoes. Learned to look in the face of things and what to do when dejection takes your loved ones; and even if I wouldn’t quite make it on some days, in those big shoes I had to put on, I’d still keep walking. 
So here I was, ten years later, all grown up (well, for the most part!) when I watched this movie about a little boy and girl, who were just like I was, ten years back. The boy had got a hand for art and the girl had an imagination bigger than all her years. They fancy their way out of their troubles – conjuring up a world of fantasy in the woods behind their backyard, (that she named Terabithia); Imagining firefly warriors and battling giant trolls and saying to each other: 

“if we could beat that, we could beat that prick in school who keeps bullying!” 

They both had a vivid imagination and even though he couldn’t “draw up keys” like his father reprimanded him once when he lost their greenhouse keys, Josh (the boy) knew that it meant something. And Leslie (the girl), with her short wispy hair and runaway eyes, was the girl full of her own metaphors; who built her own fairytales from scrap: a tree house for an ancient castle ruin, a backyard-wood for a magical kingdom of elves and trolls and treetop fairies. She was also the fastest in school, by the way and even beat the guys at a race. She wore blue pants and not pink dresses. And she was also good at “building stuff…”for a girl.”(she made the treehouse renovations, for example) And to that, she’d reply, “Same way I’m fast… ‘for a girl‘ ?” And she’d certainly tease Josh (psst, the art guy) about that, saying,  “Well, you’re pretty good at art…for a boy” and smile suggestively, until he’d be like “okay, okay, I get it. Truce!”
I didn’t set out to fall in love with this film. I just needed something to clear my head. So when Leslie died, I couldn’t stop myself from crying. I sat up on my bed and started crying like I went back ten years in time, when this was allowed, (as a kid, to cry). I kept telling myself to (wo)man up! That it was silly to cry over a Disney movie. . .
But when the Packers and Movers van took away Leslie’s home and Josh chased the trucks carrying the last of Leslie, when he asked her father if he could use the lumber they left behind – I knew right then, he was going to build her a bridge. Leslie had died when the old swing rope that used to take them across the stream to Terabithia, gave way. She fell into the stream before their treehouse and died. That day Josh wasn’t there to save her. She had gone into the woods alone! 

So when Josh builds that bridge over the creek in which Leslie died, he branched together two old trees from either side of its bank and hung a board over it in the shape of a shield, painted on which in golden letters were the words:

“Nothing crushes us”.
Maybe that’s the bridge we need to build sometimes. Even as adults! Because no matter how many years you leave behind, it never stops hurting. When the world feels too much, when you feel like it’s the end,

you always need an escape.

And maybe, it doesn’t have to be death. Or the scars in your wrists. Or the noose hanging over your bed. 

Maybe you don’t NEED to think about anyone else. 

Maybe you just need to think about yourself, and a better place that you can get to. 

The mind is a vast expanse of space and if you let it, maybe imagination can be that escape. 
This is for everyone who felt like giving up at least once in life. Last week when I was talking to a friend, we somehow got started on the topic of existentialism and he went on about how hope is the only reason why people are still living.

And I said, “Yeah. Why would I even want to wake up tomorrow otherwise? I’m nothing without the dreams I have.” 

And maybe we don’t always realise the power that dreams and a lil bit of imagination can have; the roles they have to play. As Josh takes his little sister May Belle over the bridge he built after Leslie’s​ death, he tells her about his place of escape. Their Own Personal Utopia: his and Leslies‘. 

“It’s an ancient forest May Belle,  full of magical creatures and friendly giants and anything you can imagine. But you gotta look really hard and keep your mind wide open.” 

Because that’s what Leslie used to say. 

May Belle in her little crown of twigs, grips Josh’s hand even tighter as they slowly make their way across the new wooden bridge. She takes one last peek behind and it’s not the wooden creaky bridge that Josh made anymore –

it’s the golden bridge to Terabithia of her dreams with  “Nothing Crushes Us” plated in gold, right above it. 

“Nothing crushes us”, 

We need to remember that, sometimes, you know. 

But we keep forgetting!

When we feel like giving up, we need to build that goddamned bridge. 


Shadow Lines

What makes up stories other than the living residues of human memory? Shadow Lines by Amitav Ghosh, explores this shifting world of memories as one flashback leads on to another, much like the labyrinthine network of thoughts. Like a mind in back-gear, the novel builds up on recollection of events from the narrator’s past as he unwinds the corpus of his mind, telling his stories in analepses and one thought weaves unto another, living behind an enmeshment of life like he saw it now, through the looking glass!

The novel which is Ghosh’s second, won the Sahitya Aademi Award in 1989. Undercurrents of political vendetta are resurface time and again in the novel – set against the backdrop of events such as the Swadeshi movement, Second World War, Partition of India and Communal riots of 1963-64 in Dhaka and Calcutta – as it serves to highlight the influence of political catastrophes in the lives of the individual and how the personal is never free from the political.

The book dissipates the bounds of time and space, juxtaposing​ events from different time frames and geographical coordinates next to each other in a jigsaw fit of an assimilating whole. Begining with his own experiences as a little boy in Kolkata the novel moves back and forth in time to Delhi and London both through the stories of others and his own experiences there as a student. The world of the novel revolves around the two families of the poet’s grandmother back in Kolkata and his grand-aunt’s back in London along with their family friend, Mrs Price’s family. As the two families, displaced in time and place, mirror each other in a progressive intertwining of events, Ghosh brings out the futility of such constructs as those of language, race and place which are but “shadow lines” cast on the canvas of an essential identical humanity.

The book is divided into two parts- “Going Away” and “Coming Home” and evokes the fundamental nature of all displacements: “what goes around, comes around!” The central character of the novel is the narrator himself who is portrayed as a splitting image of his uncle Tridib whom he idolises. Growing up under his shadow, the young narrator looks up to his uncle who taught him how to unlock the secret portal of imagination thus endowing him with worlds to travel in and eyes to see them with long before he ever leaves Calcutta.

The novel is a compendium of the lives of its characters who have lived separate yet identical lives fulcrumed on the common anvils of relationship, tragedy and love from three points of the globe- India, Bangladesh and England. The old sisterhood of the author’s Thamma and Mayadebi brings together the two families of the narrator and his cousin thus setting an interconnected web of narratives in action. The narrator’s love for Ila, admiration for the world of ancients, affectations for May Price and her family and idolations for his uncle Tridib whom he ultimately loses in a riot in Dhaka, spin from the same yearn of sisterhood that sprung long back at the heart of Bangladesh before the partition – a yarn displaced in both space and time from its spinnings in the present! Thus, Ghosh in his novel uses a sort of spin-off on the stream of consciousness method of writing as he propels the plot forward and backwards, recollecting the past, using flashbacks and travelling zigzag in terms of narrative time and space evoking ghosts from the past like he says himself:

“They were all around me, we were together at last, not ghosts at all: the ghostliness was merely the absence of time and distance- for that is all that a ghost is, a presence displaced in time.”

For Ghosh, the world is a web of narratives in which each strand leads on to the next in the web. Our thoughts both shape and are shaped by our interactions with this world.

Perspectives are born out of complex overlapping of memories that defy all notions of disparity based on social constructs of culture, race or religion.

The book stems out of mesh of lines that criss cross across time and space to drive home a poignant message: Of lines that bring people closer or drive them apart; lines that are obvious in one perspective and nonexistent in another; lines that exist in ones memory and therefore in another’s imagination; lines that rip through the contours of love, friendship and relationships, swerving all ties and bonds in wanton disregard of anything other than their own fanatic footholdings.

“It is a book that captures perspective of time and events, A narrative built out of an intricate, constantly crisscrossing web of memories of many people, it never pretends to tell a story. Instead, it invites the reader to invent one, out of the memories of those involved, memories that hold mirrors of differing shades to the same experience.”

Thus, the author seeks to paint the picture of a heterogenous global world that smashes the fodders of reified nationalism. Peering through his looking glass, the world doesn’t seem to fit squarely within its borders and any such claim to constriction or encapsulation behind man-made barrier lines and fences are made impossible by the global view of narratives, lives and happenings that inform the narrators view of the world. The constrictions are thus made to dissipate as mere “shadow lines” of an ancient world on whose blood and ashes rise the hope for a better world, devoid of these boundaries.

The book could be seen as a descriptive anthropology of a world embedded in fiction that constructs the vision of a global world, exploring the narrator’s recollections of his life and times, in a global field of conflicting narratives. Out of a miraculously intricate web of memories, recollections and images, Amitav Ghosh builds an intensely moving story that ripples with the abundance of human experience – the innocence of childhood, the stories of growing up days, the passion of a love unrequited, the idealisms of youth, political violence, the stab of tragedy and the catastrophes life hurls its way.

All in all, it is a must read for anyone who considers them a lover of books or literature. For like Khushwant Singh acclaims,

“This is how the language should be used…This is how novel should be written”

this appraisal undoubtedly forms it’s highest recommendation. 

Poetry and Paraphernalia 

Poetry and Paraphernalia 

On Cultural Cocktail and Chameleon Lights. 

There are very few things in life, that poetry cannot cure. It percolates like rain in a rocky terrain, seeping, washing, leaching out through its crevices, life’s tired residues. Like drizzle in a desert, “Chameleon lights” by Ayushman Jamwal, is a metaphorical balm over life in a city wrecked by the cornucopia of camouflaging lights..

Image Courtesy: Kunwar Viyogi Memorial Trust

Exposed to a lifetime of witnessing the best and worst in humanity and indeed “every shade in between” like he himself was quoted saying in an interview in Author’s Corner it is little surprise that the Senior Output officer of CNN-IBN would take the final leap to liberty and eventually find love and solace in poetry. Thus “Chameleon lights” is the first book of this twenty seven year old journalist based in New Delhi and his debut into the world of literature. It is a collection of twenty poems written across a period of ten years that capture the various distinctive moments from the author’s life, right from his school days,to life as a journalist – a concoction of the myriad splendid encounters in life. “All these poems were tucked away in word files and notes,” confides the poet in his interview, who egged on by his friends then put them together. Thus, “Chameleon Lights” was born.

Image Courtesy: Kunwar Viyogi Memorial Trust.

His poems pan across a variety of hues: from friendship, first loves, regret and remorse to peace, revelation and moral struggle, all wrapped up in one bittersweet mix that truly replicates the transcendental, ever changing nature of a chameleon. A kaleidoscope of emotions spills forth in every line as the poet promises his readers, that somewhere at the turn of a page, we’ll find ourselves. With sentiments that everyone can relate to and an universal appeal that only attributes to it’s significance, Chameleon Lights with its emotional-potpourri is the ideal recipe for a life of blaring citylights.

The book is published by Authorspress. The aesthetic cover art takes after the succinct journey through the blur of city lights and a range of hues owing to its chameleon-effect! The book launch at Delhi was subsequently followed by the book launch at Kolkata. The launch of the book at Oxford Bookstore, Kolkata was a one time event partnered by Kolkata Bloggers and supported by the Kunwar Viyogi Memorial Trust which is named after the author’s grandfather, the celebrated Dogri poet and Sahitya Akademi Awardee Kunwar Viyogi, whom the book has been dedicated to.

Image Courtesy: Kunwar Viyogi Memorial Trust. 

It is a trust which supports art and culture and promotes them in the field of indigenous languages, especially Dogri – a mountain language of people living in Jammu. As a part of its mammoth campaign Save the Language, Cultural Cocktail (which included a wholesome spread of art, poetry, dance and drama) was initiated and curated by Ayushman Jamwal. The programme was put together by like minded young people with their cultural roots tracing back to Jammu. Sanchita Abhrol put together Ghar, a dance performance with Ayushman Jamwal as the narrator. Anmoal Jamwal perfomed a contemporary jazz performance while Ayushi Thakur Rana adapted Twelfth Night in Hindi for the event.

Kunwar Viyogi Memorial Trust has embarked on a five-city Save the Language Campaign Tour. It is about trying to revive regional languages like dogri that are dying slow deaths and are on the verge of extinction. Hindi sahitya utsav was also held to try and revive the treasure trove of this ancient language. Save the language campaign is a five city tour campaign. As part of this tour, Cultural Cocktail, was conceptualized and created by young artists with roots in Jammu and took place at the Showshaa Hall, Kingdom of Dreams, New Delhi on June 17. 

An umbrella event for a full course of cultural spread, the event is aptly named “The Cultural Cocktail”. So steal away from the heat this weekend and soak in the taste of what could be your favourite sip of summer this year. The programme in its efforts to conserve and resurrect dying languages also forms the pulse of a process of preserving indigeneity at an age that’s so crazed with going with whatever is foreign, “cool” or popular. The commendable efforts of  the trust to save the language is indeed noteworthy as it is an ultimate rescue-attempt for the dying languages and to bring them back to the cultural mainstream. Equal in significance is the ushering of the second book by Ayushman Jamwal which was much awaited and is scheduled to launch by the end of the year.


Desperate. A word spread across the mouth like a bitter aftertaste. Acerbic and wanting. The children from my sixth former in school who had just hit puberty or stood on the fringes of growing up, said it like a cold revenge. Their mouth curled around the word silently, gaining momentum, before unfurling it in neat, straight pellets, hurling it at their targets: the fat girl with curly hair, the girl who was better than them at something, the girl who was too ugly to be their friend. ‘Desperate’ lurked out of their dart-like mouths, like plastic arrows moulded from epics, slashing through the contours of friendship and rickety insecurities. 

At eighth former, I learnt of the word when I fell in love with a guy with scurrying eyes. Unrequited love was always desperate. His girlfriend with long tresses smidged it right across my short, auburn, in-the-face hair and just-bespectacled eyes. But she couldn’t have been “desperate, even to tumble a river of giggle across his shoulders or drop in his arms at the slightest inconvenience. She even got him to braid her hair. I cried and then I grew my hair. I hated ‘desperate’ and how it made me feel: hurt, scared and wanting. Almost like they described ‘falling in love’. 

At twenty when I chopped off my waist-length hair, ‘desperate’ didn’t seem like such a bad word. I knew now how it was to be unloved. And that no one could do it right unless you showed them how to do it. And I had come to like ‘alone’. Desperate, now became a word that was too ambitious to make it unloved. I liked that about it. Most ambitious things are hard to love. You don’t want to get caught in the whirring madness of their striving. The whizzing-wheels of want, always in momentum: restless circular motions. Fast, rapid, uncompromising. Desperate was the relentless pursuit of something that never learnt to leave. Desperate was the full potential of desire, to want something right in your bone with every fibre of your body,  to crave something with every thought. It was scary and dangerous. I had read once about the ‘calling thought’. That if you want something with all your heart, you call it to yourself. You send an unseen message out into space, a call of desire that pulls the object of your desire in your direction. The universe sets in motion with the calling thought, pulling you towards the weight of your desires. Desperation for me was the calling thought. Desperation knew that the depth of love was bottomless and was too scared to settle for anything with a visible horizon. Desperation found it hard to give in, to settle too soon for too less. Desperation never knew of the words quit. Desperation never heard of “let go”. It was like an all encompassing spirit-word in the large compendium of languages. It knew of no other words – no synonyms, no alternatives, no back-up plan. It was the only truth: get it or get it! Desperation, was what kept me going. 

At twenty, I look back upon all the times I was truly desperate, all the things I was really desperate about. The ones that kept me up at night with salt-stained cheeks and hurried texts to confidants. I was too anxious about the future. I had a panic whirlwind inside the place you call heart. “Desperate” went in like a bomb-diffuser, right into the eye of the storm.

“I get what I want when I am desperate”, I sigh out loud. A long relief-sigh. The clouds are gone. The sky is clear. The whirlwind subsides. I don’t feel so scared anymore. 

When I think I don’t have it in me, remind me that I’m desperate.

Revolution 2016

The cursor blinks on my screen as the premeditated text beckons: “share your story here…!” Above it a grey line separating the content from the name records in little grey letters “Post Title”. Once you try to maintain an active blog, you’re familiar to these usual way of things in WordPress. “Share your story here…” as the blank page stares at you, somehow makes itself into one of the most inviting things anyone has said all day. “The paper has more patience than people”, Anne Frank had said to me from the pages of a fat volume when I was thirteen and wondering. At twenty and still wondering, I reckon perhaps it’s not just that. Paper unlike humans is a safe portal to unload. Perhaps safety comes way before patience in this age of stepped up insecurities and trust issues. Or is it just me?
A white sheet of paper inked with symbols that make sense to a particular linguistic register, is capable of holding in its vacuum the complexity of the inkers mind and kept by itself, still convey the same state of mind after days and years of it’s first being inked. What’s more amazing, the same set of symbols on paper when held by someone other than the aforementioned inker transports by some magical connexion the same state of mind in the viewer, activates the concealed buttons of feelings so much so that it makes us react to a whole set of emotions: crying, smiling, overwhelmed, ecstatic or weeping with the fervour of being torn in between!

Books like humans, stay silent unless you bump into them, just another passerby in the mindful sidewalk of life..Stretch a finger over the tough ribbed centre of its spine, run your fingers through the pages, take in that ancient smell of parchment and stories or feel your way softly over the velvet of its cover. Before long, you move in comfortably in your chair and speak to it over the smoke of coffee: “Hey, man what’s your story?”

And countless inkers from the other end of the world would count petals (“he’ll read me, he’ll read me not!) in eager apprehension of that one chosen question. As you sit back in your recliner and start reading the book, somewhere a writer “happy-sighs” in his sleep. Somewhere, at quite another end of the world perhaps, an inker of magic symbols called words, who had stared long and hard at the static reading (“share your story here”)  on his screen, wondering what his story ever was before getting about the same anyway, just name a shooting star after his wish. As people over the years shut themselves down like huge volumes of ‘fictions-you’ve-never-read’, perhaps it’s time to get to the fiction first before you can ask that of a person! Perhaps our bigger volumes of literature are indeed in a way, an essential unwinding of humans, of getting into the most inaccessible corners of someone’s mind and coming back with a vertigo of feelings, thoughts and emotions that the writer has never before dared to respond in answer to one of those small talk questions (“Hey man, what’s your story?!”) and yet felt the need to come all out with it at the face of a paper – to submit to the ancient treaty of trust the paper promised  the person, and perturbed by the heavy burdens of mind, found an outlet and unloaded! As the paper stands filled now, inked with words that may or may not make sense, it rests in the dusty shelves of the bibliophile’s haunts waiting upon a shooting star wondering if he’ll ask over the hot steams of coffee, “Hey man, what’s your story?!”

(PostScript: I write this on the evening of the last day of the year 2016 probably the prey to one of those things they call the “writer’s block” at the moment, unable to make new resolutions as nothing of consequence is to be gained from following New Year’s cliches and  somehow substituting the lack of resolutions, instead, by a need for revolution. The pen has always been more useful than a sword and perhaps I’ll carry one for all my battles..So this New Year as I dwindle between the futility of making resolutions, I’ll ink a revolution in the name of reading instead. “I resolve to revolt against the nature of my times to not pick up the book from the shelf. This New Year, I resolve to read!”)

Musings on the mountains

​ It’s six pm and I’m cuddled up in a room that breathes of mountain dust and cold. The ranges gape upon from my cottage window, it’s wooden doors and walls and ceilings draped in the same majesty the Kanchenjunga exhibits from across the balcony… So far and yet so near!

I spend my evening reading under the blankets because it’s cold outside and pitch dark with only animal noises from the forest around us. Also, I’m a social ambivert, only rooting for deep, meaningful conversation instead of small talk and there’s no one here that I can have that with. So I stay in my room, cocooned up in blankets, book in my hand: light read for travels! A couple of hours spent thus I start to imagine. I love and hate this thing about me. I think a lot. I over imagine. 

So I recall that part from beauty and the beast where the Beast is introduced to the magical world of reading and he would spend the evenings with Belle, together by the fireplace, reading. I imagine having someone to read with, cocooned up in the blanket beside me and almost immediately hate myself for the thought. What of feminism and the superpower of single hood? I liked being alone. My solitude was sweet. When did I become so needy? 
I look at the mountains. They look back at me, the all-knowing grand fathers in their all-perceptive grandeur! Do the mountains have answers? I look again!

Companionship is not sin. And yet as I write this now, of the primal wants of humans since Adam, of my own lonely insecurities, I feel guilty! Of what I wonder? 

I’ve more than once laughed at the mushiness of couples, of the arbitrariness of destiny and the futile search of humanity for validation, acknowledgment and love. I’ve looked down upon cheesy fiction and writers who only lived on writing about love. I’ve never written one before, well, except one really awkward personal confession. 

I’ve scorned at clichés, condescended, laughed them off like skittles in my skirt. And yet as I get swayed by the beauty of the mountains my mind plays tricks on my heart in wanting the same things I’ve never wanted to want. Why do I spend my time in such wasteful imaginings? Someone to giggle with as I sit by the window, or point out the peaks of the far distant ranges as I sit outside in the narrow wooden cottage balcony or point out the constellations like the billion humans before us have done to their fellow humans under a starry blanket of sky on cold wintry evenings. I imagine having a fireplace in my room, although there isn’t one and it’s really rather cold and soggy. Everything I touch is wet with frost: the bed, the pillows, the blankets, and it takes sometime to make a human shape of warmth just your fit in the bed moist with winter. I imagine having a fireplace here, and warming hands with someone my age as we talk of books and theories about life and death. Or staying cocooned up by the fireplace, reading or listening to tracks from each other’s playlist, loving and hating songs in each, telling why and failing to explain and exploring yet newer worlds of music in the process.

I don’t know what to write next. Was this as wasteful as my imaginings in the first place? Probably! 

I’m a loner, a recluse, “a-stay-at-home, read-books and avoid-people” kind of person. My solitude is sweeter to me than any human company could ever be and I spend my days as a longer mocking at society’s stereotypical portrayal of companionship and love and humans buying it and making love (not literally!) in the same hackneyed way for countless centuries. Stargazing, hugging, talking and music! And yet on such and such evening, I find myself moved by the mountains, wishing the same, wanting the same! But to quote John Green from the book I was reading, “The world is not a wish granting factory!” and perhaps the primordial wishes of the ancestors survived all loops of the cycle of time and evolution. 

I take a deep breathe and seep in the mountain dust and cold. 

The mountains know!

On Winter

Do you hear the whispers in the air?
The soft chug chug of the winter train,
Or the hooves of a hundred reindeers,
That bring you things to dream again?

The Polar Express is on it’s way
And there’s already a nip in the air,
As the elves go a-packing the season’s gifts,
And the winter fairies circle near.

“What’s your favourite winter thing?”, you ask. 
A thousand thoughts spin in my head,
-Christmas trees, star streamers bright,
My birthday cake!

“What of cracked lips and cold feet,
Parched skin and blue toes,
Midnight blues and frost biting my nose?”, 
You sulk.
‘Don’t you have a favourite winter thing then?’,
I ask. 
You nod a negative!

“What of bed teas and waking up late?
Fuzzy pillows and warm blankets,
Big sweaters and soft woollen mittens?
Pullovers and cuddling to sleep with the kittens!

-Blue shirts and red socks,
Caramel and tea pots,
-Postcards and sweetmeats,
Baking cookies by the oven heat,
-Tales over coffee mugs,
Chocolates and warm hugs,
-Snowflakes and fresh starts,
Misplaced socks and hearts!

-Lazy nights spent absorbed in a book,
Or scribbling poems by some secret nook.
-The sound of the wind rustling through the leaves,
The fall of the snow, soundlessly each eve.
-Misty nights and brumous skies,
Falling stars and fireflies.
-Wishing wells, snowy trails,
Santa Claus and New Years wishes,
-Dream come trues and moonlight kisses…”

And I would have gone on with my list of wintry delights,
But you cut me short and hold my fingers tight:
“Do you mean to say, 
You still believe in Santa Claus?
And Winter-elves, Magic and the lost boys cause?
Of all those things that only come in books,
Aren’t those fiction and children’s flukes?”

I pause for a moment to ponder on what you’ve said,
Fix your scarf and dust the snow away,
Smile and pull you close and bring my lips to your ear,
Whisper the words as I hold you near.
I say, “Books never lie and dreams do come true,
And all the magic in the world really lies within you,
Fairy tales aren’t for children and fictions aren’t flukes,
They’ll give you the strength to battle a hundred winter blues!
And many years from now when you seek warmth in their refuge,
You’ll know that the children of winter, 
Never grow old!