You find an old trunk
In the attic of your nani's house.
Bravely braving the dust and
Creepy cobwebs, you tip toe,
t i p p y t o e
towards this testament to the ages.
On the heavy, heavy lid
lie the introductions of old stories -
tucked beneath discarded truths
and gilded lily lies.
You push the heavy lid up
like the brave, brave child that you are.
The only sounds -
a massive groan,
and the absence of your breath.

Tucked within are treasures.

The first layer -
a thin film of castles
royal drawbridges,
a high tower,
several dozen horses,
gold necklaces,
of Kings and Queens,
and the in-betweens.

A second sheath
Decorated with tales of conquests,
a victory here and there,
tales of rigid tests,
a problem to be solved
by the truly good,
and the uniquely pure.

The last layer sits happily at the bottom.
An age-old invitation to all
who seek solace.
Mumma's old dolls sit beside
Nani's soft sarees,
faded like her hair,
and like her memory.
This layer gives warmth.

No, it is warmth.

The last layer awaits your weary heart,
It holds the secret art of
curing every bad day.
This layer will caress your worries
And fold them into
itself
         into oblivion,
or perhaps
into a Happy Ending.