A child is like a rose bud, tender and beautiful. Like a rose spreads its fragrance, a child spreads its smiles. Its heart is as fragile as a petal. Both need plenty of love and care, and delicate nurturing. With love they grow up and blossom, without they disintegrate and die. Ironically, their creator and destroyer is neither Nature nor God but the man. One moment he is a saint and the next moment he is a devil incarnate.
Varsha was like a rosebud, tender, beautiful and growing up under the protective care of her father and casual love of a rather casual mother. Like millions of children she went to school, played in the gardens with her friends, read comics and storybooks, watched cartoons on TV and once a while saw a horror movie and then kept awake the whole night thinking of demons, and thereafter when she cried in her sleep, her father rushed to her, took her in his arms and pacified her. He told her there were no demons. It was just a nightmare, a horrible little dream.
(for full story go to short stories section above)............
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