Short Story of Mother Daughter – The Little Princess
Image© Anand Vishnu Prakash, YourStoryClub.com
‘“You mean to say we’re moving and I’m leaving my Ballet class?”
“I’m sorry, my little princess, but yes, we’ll be shifting to the new house we built out in the country by next week.”
“You are not to call me your little princess.” ’
She reflected on the thought as she tied up the ribbons of her shoes in Opera House Ballet studio, tucking in the ends neatly out of sight as her mother had taught her, glancing around at the flashy tutus, satiny Ballet shoes and determined mouths of the competing girls as she did. She then looked down at her own sequined tutu and silk shoes, not quite certain whose were better.
She let her mind float back into the past again. All those years ago she had yelled at her mother. She remembered the first time she had attended Ballet class, grasping her mother’s hand tightly, not a doubt in her mind that she wasn’t going to let go.
But then, if it hadn’t been for her mother, all this wouldn’t have happened. She hadn’t wanted to join Ballet class; it was her mum that had pushed her to do it. And now Ballet was her life. She loved it more than almost anything imaginable. In fact, she had loved it to the extent that she yelled at her own mother. Looking back now, she couldn’t believe she had done such a cruel thing.
A stage hand, with noodle-like hair cascading down her shoulders, entered the room with a clipboard and called out her name. She followed her out onto the stage remembering the thrill of being shown her very own Ballet studio, built underneath the shed, to make up for missing her Ballet class. For there was no one teaching Ballet in the quiet, peaceful country side.
When she first saw the trap door that led to the underground studio, she remembered the delicious thoughts – of treasure maps, yellowed through the years and golden chests, bursting with precious stones and ingots of solid gold – that wafted in and out of her mind.
She looked out into the buzzing audience, trying not to see all the individual faces which would make her nervous, but the audience as a whole, as one person. She recalled all the practice, the hard work, the injuries. The times she had wept and had wanted to give up Ballet for good. Her mother had been there for her and everything was alright then.
All the hard work was going to be unleashed in this one dance. Hopefully it would pay off.
‘Of course it will pay off. Just think good thoughts.’ She comforted herself as she thought back to her own practice area with its polished oak floor emitting the softest glow that was further reflected by the dazzling mirrors that encircled the studio.
Instantly she felt better. She remembered how her mother had helped her perfect her movements, making sure every one of them was graceful and in place. It looked graceful but oh, the pain she had to bear every morning. The stiffness of her joints.
It was said after all, that if a ballerina woke up one morning without the sense of pain, that she was more or less dead.
The judges called to her to begin. She had chosen a beautiful piece from the ‘Swan Lake’ because it made her feel like a princess. It was also very special to her, because she had watched it for the very first time, cuddled up on a couch with her mother.
Those tearful memories hurt so badly, yet they were the best times. Now it was her dream to grow up and become a Prima Ballerina. She was going to give everything and put every last bit of effort into it.
So letting loose her emotions, she struck a pose as the music began and because she knew all the moves by heart she took her mind back into the times of yore once more.
She bore in mind how her mother had cared for her when she once fell heavily on her right ankle, during practice, spraining it. All those days her mum sat at her bedside helping her, comforting her, saying that she would be well soon and that it would do her good to take the break anyway for she worked way too hard.
Now she forced her mind to come back into the present, where she was about to do one of Ballet’s most challenging, yet breathtaking moves. She was to jump into the air twirling and land, still twirling. She counted to herself as she always did. It helped her concentrate. So she jumped pirouetted three times ‘A one, two, three,’ and landed on her the toes of her left foot, while still spinning ‘A one, two and three.’
And then she curtseyed. There was silence for a moment. The sudden hush after all the gentle buzzing chatter made her heart stand still. The quiet was deafening. Had she done something wrong?
And then, the audience erupted. Almost everyone was on their feet. The pillars trembled with the applause that echoed through the Grand Hall. Someone threw a bouquet of roses at her feet. She looked up, realizing it was one of the judges, who had tears of utter wonder trickling down his cheeks. Some mothers, and even fathers, were dabbing their eyes delicately with lace handkerchiefs.
And there was her own father, standing up proud, with bittersweet tears gushing down his cheeks. He let them fall without brushing them off.
A lump formed in her throat and she slid her eyes to the empty seat beside him.
She looked up into the sky through the glass ceiling of the Opera House and saw a faint image of her smiling mother.
‘I did it for you.’ She whispered.
‘And you did it well…my little princess.’ Her mother whispered back before fading away into the blue, blue sky.
THE END
