A mother dies at the thought of her daughter falling in love with the wrong guy. Conversation between a mother and her young daughter regarding love never feels like a mere exchange of words and emotions. Sometimes it feels like a war that is meant to be remembered like a historical event. And sometimes it feels like a festival of another religion that you can only dream to celebrate. Wizard hormones dopamine and oxytocin don’t fail to cast a spell on the daughter. And experience stood as a mirror in front of the mother effortlessly, yet firmly. When the daughter’s mind has already reached its fifties holding the hand of her lover, mother’s mind travels back to her twenties regretting over her erroneous choice in love. While gazing at her lover, the daughter becomes fearless of drowning and the shine of a different charm in her eyes scares the mother anticipating thousands of reasons to pull her out from that pool. The daughter searches for a home in her lover because now a part of her is hers only and most of her are his. And the mother who homes the entire her as a foetus for long nine months settles at the conception that her daughter is running away from her each day, a little more.
For a daughter, love is a blissful crime that makes her stand as a criminal in front of her mother. And for a mother love is a blameworthy culprit who paves her little toddler in a puddled path,
the path in which a toddler isn’t allowed to walk,
the path in which a girl can’t walk back.