Of Whispered Secrets
When she was but a child, she was told that the multitude of Gods would grant her any wish if she whispered her secrets to the full-time gatekeeper and part-time messenger that was conveniently placed at the entrance of even the smallest of the mythically holy shrines, offering easy access to any believing passer-by. Soon thereafter, it became a peculiar habit of hers to make regular visits to this austerely dressed bull-statue and whispered into his detailed ears her shyest dreams and whimsiest thoughts. Though it was mundane – and utterly fanciful – it was a quirky habit that she became particularly addicted to. It was her throwing of the gauntlet; her cynical method of questioning these invisible puppeteers to prove their existence in the only logical way a child would recognize. It was her selfish and personal concession to the supposed Divinity – to the broken-tusked elephant of obstacles and mountain-moving monkeys, to the peacock-riding heroes and musically-talented cowherds. It was amongst the other quirks that she indulged in as a mostly-silent child, like saving the smallest scraps of clean paper for future hypothetical use or her avoidance of walking on grilled-gates that sometimes covered Bombay’s haphazard sewage system due to an absurd fear of falling deep into the Earth through any open orifice.
Out of fond familiarity – or perhaps childishly wishful thinking – she bent down to the stone bull years later, ready to impart her dreams into the cold and unmoving ears. As she leaned closer, she paused and closed her eyes, focusing on her warm breath escaping through her lips and dissolving into the mist. She reopened her eyes and gently pulled back, shaking her head at her own momentary foolishness. Some dreams, she thought, are not meant to be wished for.
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