"Pushpa.. We'll call her pushpa",said her beaming father, looking at his daughter's eyes, as sparkling as the summer lake. He held her close to his heart, lest she flew away, falling prey to a gust of wind. She felt so light, like a little flower, delicate and beautiful. Her smile curved her lips to form a silver moon, and for that moment, the sky would have wondered if someone had stole its jewel. She took her first baby steps to life, to a life outside her mother's lap. Her steps had a weak limp, but they were graciously dismissed as her naivety towards walking. Beautiful as ever, Pushpa blossomed to a delicate flower. In the flora-spangled tree of life, she was different from the other flowers. She was not different in the good sense as one would expect. A conventional soul wouldnt call her beautiful, her textures appeared dull to them .But what do the conventions know. They didnt know that her differences were her strength whilst she didnt know that too. She was so delicate that she had to clutch hard to the tree, to escape the impartial gravity. The limp remained on her tread, and those prying looks of the common people around slowly transitioned her into a shy bird. She retreated to the clouds of darkness, afraid that the rays of light would cut off her soft feathers. Pushpa enjoyed those times of solitude in the calm beach, she loved looking at the waters bobbing up and down. No one knew what the patterns she made in the sand resembled. Perhaps it is her crystallized feelings towards this world, for they were as random as those patterns on sand made by the evening showers. She wanted to take her sand dolls to her home, and watch them take a new life at her gaze. She felt like she was one among them, for she felt at home in the realms of fragility. The things that captivated Pushpa always had the delicate beauty carried with them. Those hollow globules of air called bubbles captivated her, it seemed they had a life and world of its own, a source, a journey and a destination. The glass animals she possessed were her only companions. She gazed at those glass animals, holding them tenderly, stroking them mildly. People teased at her fragility and her liking to it. She sometimes felt akin to a twig being bent, any moment it can snap. Ah! Pushpa, what do the commons know? They think they are tough to weather any storm but they are as fragile as you. What can they do on their own, other than watch themselves drift like winter leaves on stream. So Pushpa's journey continued, as lovely as a serenade composition. People watched her limp to her own beautiful world, alone. But she never suffered from the pangs of loneliness, because she was never bereft of love. All the beautiful, delicate things of this world loved her. Finally at her moment of reckoning, a solitary tear caressed her cheek. Whether it was a payment for the sorrowful ending or a hopeful beginning, no one knew.