A Salute to Arnav, Khushi, The Viewers n The CVs

Home she brought her Arnav dead

He neither swooned nor uttered a cry

All thy maidens watching said

She must stop or we will die

With his pigmy ego, barely did he survive

She drenched him in her oppressive love

Slid he through all her muck

She blew him hot, she blew him cold

And all thy maidens watching said

She must stop or we will die

Then they praised him with might and low,

Called him worthy of highest honor,

Truest friend and a noblest foe;

Yet she neither understood nor showed wonder

Stole her aunt, from her place,

Softly to the warrior stepped,

Taking the mask off his face,

Lightly uncovered a heart so pure,

Yet she neither fathomed nor accredited.

Rose the mother of gentle heart

Set her child's heart bare

Like summer tempest poured her tears

Her heart melted at his generosity

He laid his quivering love at her feet

Like A glorious spring's first offering

Thus he spoke, now vanquished

'Sweet my love, I live for thee.'

She had contested him, harassed him, she defeated him in his den and all he did was to just smirk. Then she dragged him in her turf, rallied him, paraded him and he hardly cared; he showed them all the Man he was not budging from his stance. But a word of admiration invoked him what a thousand tears failed to do, it melted him –o dear! His love for her he could no longer conceal.

Here, I offer my humble salute to the indomitable spirit in Khushi, the warrior in Arnav; the incessant loyalty of all the fan who saw applauded the good and bore with patience the inferior and the CVs – the heart to do 'that thing they do' weaving a fantasy!

Below, is the original poem by Tennyson. Notice the parallel and the contrast drawn from the poem.

Tennyson's maiden is my Buaji (read viewers) who through their astute observations have unraveled what lay hidden deep within Arnav's overbearing persona.

Tennyson's nurse is my mother (read the CVs) who have facilitated Arnav to view Khushi in a new light and to see himself through her eyes…

Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead

--- By Lord Alfred Tennyson

Home they brought her warrior dead:
She nor swooned, nor uttered cry:
All her maidens, watching, said,
'She must weep or she will die.'

Then they praised him, soft and low,
Called him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;
Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place,
Lightly to the warrior stepped,
Took the face-cloth from the face;
Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years,
Set his child upon her knee—
Like summer tempest came her tears—
'Sweet my child, I live for thee.'

------------