"Every child comes with the message that God is not yet discouraged of man." 
            -Rabindranath Tagore.

The children lay down beside each other. They formed a bond together which was difficult for the adults present there to understand. They laughed together, they smiled together. Three of them found comfort in the presence of each other.

One of them, the youngest suddenly got up as he spotted a butterfly and was curious to see what was. The eldest scolded him and asked him to come back. The middle child laughed and went behind the youngest to help him in his mission.

They were only 10, 8 and 6 years old. Not their purest but their simplest form. Their mind was not yet ruined by the cruel world outside. They were not bothered by the politics going on inside their families. They thought of each other as together and 'One'.

This 'One-ness' was hard to break by anyone but themselves.

And they? They couldn't yet break it, as they only knew how to stay together not how to stay apart.

As the youngest touched the butterfly, it flew away flapping its wings.

The youngest tried to follow it, but the eldest scolded him in her own sisterly way and called him back. She made him sit beside them, while the two sisters were busy imagining their own characters and reviving them to life with colours.

It was their routine time, to go to the park with their grandmother and play there, while their grand-mum would sometimes sit with other ladies and talk, or she would just sit there watching them or she would join a group of old people, doing yoga and some basic exercises.

Usually, they would either just grab their skipping ropes and go with her or would go with her empty-handed, without anything.

This time they decided to ditch the usual to bring with them, instead, they grabbed their painting requirements and some sheets to paint on and went with her.

Arriving there, they sat down under the dome of the sliding swing, dangling their legs they took out their papers and paints.

In their incompetent ways, they did the first stroke of their brush. Slowly, their painting came in this world, not so much as a world-class high creation, but as value creation for them.

They looked over the sky and the trees that they were painting and the caricature they had created.

They knew they couldn't draw the perfect pictures they'd seen in the books, but they were satisfied.

They shrugged and went over to their grandmother, sitting with some of the other old ladies present there, and were discussing the 'condition' of their household.

They showed their painting to their grandmum eagerly, but she just took a peek over them and sent the children away.

They again didn't mind, and put their brushes and sets in their respective places and went to play.

The sun was setting and the orang-ish hue was reflecting upon them. The sun slowly looked over at them, admired their ignorant attitude and with a final bow, it went to his own dark world again.

It is weird, how we actually get hyped up over small little things, how we actually get angered over certain things, which might really not matter to us.

Were we always like this? Did we always react to those little problems and rejections? Or did we not?

Did they also become like us?

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