From a Die-Hard Fan

(To the honourable school Principal next door)

Dear Father,

               I love your kids. I really do. I love that they bang away on the drums and give erudite speeches in the wee hours of the morning. Amazingly talented kids. Day and night they regale me with the latest film songs and keyboard recitals. Speaking of which, why do all the kids play only Fleur de Lis? All huge Beethoven fans, eh?

             I must admit, nothing beats the high of a few thousand kids bashing away at my ear drums.

     My heart gently weeps when Independence Day arrives and the children put their heart and soul and kidney into band practice. And then when I think I should let them be, gentle little lambs that they are, the duffmuttu begins. Of course. The district-level youth festival is coming up! Each passing moment I feel even more blessed when I listen to these wonderful children yodelling at the top of their lungs. And when that is done, it’s time for the State level fest. Margamkali, Thiruvathirakali, Oppana… I’ve heard it all. And the drums! Oh, did I mention the drums yet? And when your darlings win the first prize in each and every competition after beating the living daylights out of us; I feel damn proud for being their invisible neighbour. (Forgive the blasphemy, father!) What spirit! What passion for art! I may not be cheering them from the stands, but believe me my soul sings for them. The feeling lasts for a rather long time… almost three hours. Then it’s time for the Republic Day parade! Ta-da-da-da-dum!!

Father Chacko, I love your kids. I really do.

Please tell them that I, their all-hearing neighbour, am their die-hard fan.

Regards,

Your well-wisher

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Published by

Cinthya

Crazy. Boring. Unpredictable.

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