Kshama Rao
In a little house at the edge of the village, there lived an elderly woman named Babbi. She had a collection of antique dolls.
Among them were three special dolls: Feni, Tanush, the wooden soldier; and Babita, the rag doll.
As the clock struck midnight, Babbi’s backyard transformed. The dolls came to life. Feni started dancing. Tanush stood at attention, his wooden rifle held high. Babita started laughing. They had waited years for this moment.
“Why are we here?” Feni asked.
“To fulfil our purpose,” Tanush replied. ” Babbi loved us, and now it’s our turn to protect her.”
Babita nodded, her button eyes wide. “But from what?”
Babbi had grown frail, and her memories had faded. The dolls remembered her though.
Feni pointed towards a dark figure.
“Back, foul thing!” Tanush shouted. “These memories are not yours to take.”
The dolls fought with determination. Feni’s porcelain arm cracked, Tanush’s joints strained, and Babita’s stitches separated, revealing her stuffing, but they kept fighting.
Finally, the creature disappeared, in the mist. The dolls collapsed. Babbi appeared at the window, her eyes wide with wonder. She saw the dolls lying in the grass, their life fading.
“Thank you, dearies,” she whispered, tears in her eyes. “You’ve kept my memories safe.”
As dawn approached, the dolls returned to their places on Babbi’s shelf. Feni’s cracked arm healed, Tanush’s joints tightened, and Babita’s stitches closed. They settled into stillness and waited for another moonless night.
And so, the dolls continued their silent vigil, guarding Babbi. For in their wooden hearts, they knew only about love and sacrifice.
-Kshama Rao
{Author}
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