There are things more beautiful than words can describe. Like a child falling asleep, about to dream in her mother’s arm. Her arms wrapped around her mother’s neck as if the whole universe is within her reach.

Catherine had held her dreams for as long as she could remember, and she held Hope like she was holding a blissful dream. Hope forced her to unravel new secrets in the form of bedtime stories every night, while Catherine’s mum, weakened by years of alcohol abuse, dozed into sleep in the next room.

With an innocent voice, stroked gently by the colour of drowsiness on canvass of excitement, Hope asked, “Mum, what story are you telling me today?

“Do you want to help a little Bulbul find home?” Catherine tried to infuse a little more excitement in her daughter.

“Wow, does she fly?” 

“Oh yes! And she also wants to tell you why she is as beautiful as you are.”

Hope giggled. Then she listened to her mum intently, trying to grasp each and every word that fell from her mouth.

“.... And after flying over half the world Bulbul chirped, ‘It has not rained in the Atacama for more than 400 years. I flew in search of rain and rainbow and finally found them here, with you.’”

By the time she reached the end of her story, Hope was still smiling, although deep in her sleep. Catherine kissed her forehead and whispered in her ear, “Hope shall always be there. Sweet dreams”.

II

As a child Catherine rarely got to sleep with bedtime fables and stories. She was raised by a single mother. She would peek into her mother’s room at night, only to find cheap wine being poured in what would be a regular milk glass the next day.

“Mom, can you please tell me a story? I can’t sleep”. If she was lucky enough, she would actually get to hear one. But it would always be the same story of a hare and a tortoise. And extraordinarily, it would never end.

“Once there was an arrogant hare who decided to race with a tortoise,” her mother would start. But the race between them would extend into infinity like Zeno’s paradox. It would momentarily come to interruption, as her mother would start slurring and finally fall flat on the bed, only to be revived some other night. 

Later she would make up an ending of her own.

“Hare and tortoise abandoned the race and became friends. And then they lived happily ever after,” She would murmur, smiling at the stars peeping back at her through the window.

Catherine hardly remembered the face of her father. The only thing she remembered of him was his voice that often played in her mind like a bad dream. At school, Catherine was everyone’s favorite. She would take people by

surprise with her kind and giving nature. She was a voracious reader, albeit a creative one. Teachers would often make her read stories aloud in class only to find that the endings had been changed. All that the teachers could do was smile at her and she would smile back.

And years that followed turned like pages. Some years later, Catherine started telling bedtime stories to her mother instead. And most of them would be her own creations unlike the ones she’d read aloud in the class. She was on a journey of words and thoughts, trying to imbibe and jot down all the mischief that goes in the universe.

With passing years, Catherine’s mother was noticeably losing her charm. She had become paler, thinner and her eyes looked as if they belonged to a corpse. She had quit her job due to ill health, and by then, Catherine was the one supporting their family of two.

She toggled between work and university.

3

“Time travels unnoticed, doesn’t it Catherine?” Mother murmured one day.

“Yes it does mum, what are we but creatures trying to keep up with it.”

“See how you have grown up. But you still have....”

“There is something you want to tell to me. Isn’t it, mum?”

“Yes, before I leave.... “

Catherine was shocked already, Leave where, Why? But she chose to let her tongue embrace silence.

“I would have killed myself had I not seen your face when your father left. You were the only rope  to hold on to.” She stopped, deciding not to recount that painful episode.

“Had I killed myself then, I would have killed both of us. But now, even this disease inside cannot kill me. I think I will never die.”

Catherine concealed her tears and began, “Mum, I will tell you about Pandora’s box today.”

Mum closed her eyes as Catherine started the story that she had told her several times. It was mum’s favourite and she never got tired of listening to it. But that night there was an eerie silence about mum. It seemed as if she was not in a mood to listen to the story anymore. Catherine could not decide if her mother was already asleep, and carried on with the story.

The next morning, Catherine found a piece of paper by her lifeless mother’s body. On it was scribbled, “Hope is the last thing inside Pandora’s Box.”

Beep

Before she could even grasp the tragedy she was distracted by the mail alert. The mail read:

Sundial Publication has agreed to publish your book...

 It was from the editor of the publication house.

She whispered to herself, looking at the distant rising sun: “Thank you mum.”