The Prince Who Questioned Stories
“Once upon a time, there was a prince…”
“Ammaaa,” he groaned, pulling the bedsheet over his head, “why does every story start with a prince? Don’t you know any stories about accountants? Or vegetable sellers?”
His mother paused dramatically, as if she had been deeply offended.
“Because,” she said, tapping his forehead lightly, “you are my prince.”
He peeked out from under the blanket.
“I don’t even have a kingdom.”
“You have a room.”
“With peeling paint.”
“Royal peeling paint.”
He tried not to laugh. He failed.
He was not like other children.
He didn’t fight with cousins over TV remotes.
He didn’t lead cricket teams.
He didn’t even argue loudly.
In family functions, he was the boy who stood near the water drum holding a plastic tumbler, pretending to be busy. If someone asked, “Why are you so silent?” he would smile politely and think, Because someone has to maintain peace in this noisy country.
His best friend was a red rubber ball. It had survived more conversations than most humans.
Every evening, he would take that ball outside and play alone. Throw. Catch. Miss. Chase. Repeat.
Once a neighbor aunty asked, “Why are you playing alone?”
He replied honestly, “Because if I play with others, they’ll ask me to field.”
The aunty laughed for five full minutes. He didn’t know what was so funny.
His world was small.
School.
Home.
His mother.
No dramatic adventures. No secret friendships. Just quiet days and loud thoughts.
But his mother filled every silence.
When electricity went off, she would start stories.
“When I was small,” she would say, “I also wanted to be brave.”
“You weren’t brave?” he asked once.
“I married your father. That was brave enough.”
He blinked. “Was Appa a villain?”
“No,” she smiled. “Just… a different kingdom.”
He didn’t fully understand, but he knew one thing — his mother carried both love and strength in her voice.
Years passed quietly.
He grew taller.
The ball became smaller in his hands.
The stories remained the same.
“Once upon a time, there was a prince…”
But now he didn’t interrupt.
He just listened.
Because somewhere inside, he liked believing it.
When he completed his degree, the house felt proud.
His mother made payasam even though it wasn’t a festival.
“My prince is now a graduate,” she announced to absolutely nobody — but with full confidence.
He smiled shyly. “Don’t tell everyone like that.”
“Why not?”
“They’ll expect royal achievements.”
She winked. “Good. Pressure builds diamonds.”
“Amma… I am not a diamond.”
“You are still in mining stage.”
He laughed again. He always laughed at her jokes, even when they were terrible.
Especially when they were terrible.
That night, he lay awake staring at the ceiling fan.
Graduate.
It sounded big.
It felt… small.
The world outside was larger than his room with royal peeling paint.
And for the first time, the prince wondered —
Was he ready to step outside the kingdom?
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