I didn’t have anything in common with Cinderella, Rapunzel,
Snow White or Belle. I was an ordinary girl, destined to have an ordinary
story.
Today, when my daughter is growing up, Rapunzel has become a
rebel. She doesn’t wait for any prince to climb the high tower, but jumps down
instead. Today Moana is not scared of
the high tide. They are independent and courageous. They write their own
stories. And probably aim to inspire my daughter and her generation to do the
same.
But what if, just like me, my daughter also finds it
difficult to emulate these heroic tales. After all, just like my parents, I also
leave no stone unturned to ensure she has a happy, trouble-free childhood. With
her adventures being restricted to the monkey-bar in kids’ play-area.
I wonder why we undermine the ‘ordinary’ so much? Why is it
not worth writing about? Why it fails to inspire us?
My father could cook a full meal for himself, and for anyone
else who cared to eat. My mother was both highly educated and financially
independent. And thus today I find paying EMIs is as much my responsibility, as
buying grocery is my husband’s. Both my husband and I have clear and vivid
memories of growing up amongst grand-parents and cousins. And we strive to give
the same to our daughter. From soaking in monsoon rains, to coming back home
with bruised knees, from sharing school lunch-box to fighting over petty
issues, we wish the same for her.
I wasn’t swept off my feet by a ‘prince’. Neither did he
travel far and wide in my search. Nor did I win any ugly battle to win his
heart. And yet, I am living the ‘happily ever-after’ of my fairy-less tale. Punctuated
with challenges, troubles, sorrows and worries, the saga of this ‘ordinary’
girl continues.
