August 28, 2004

A stuffed teddy bear in fawn coloured furry coat with button eyes and stumpy limbs, sat listlessly on a shelf in a toy shop. Gloom was written all over its face as it woefully surveyed the crowd of frisky little children who flocked around automatic toys. According to the mood of the century, they were crazy about toy weapons — toyish imitations of TT pistols, chattering Kalashnikovs and helicopters, plastic models of popular dancers going into action to the tune of taped music at the touch of a button. But the wistful teddy bear sat alone on a shelf, forlorn and forsaken. The poor thing looked tired for its hopeless existence.

It could not move a limb. It could not turn its neck. It longed to be picked up by a child, to be cuddled and tossed and lovingly embraced. That it was made for, but the crowd of children in the shop ignored it. They never even looked at it. Sometimes it was mimicked and ridiculed.

The pitiable loneliness must be unbearable for the teddy bear, and yet it must bear it with a frozen grin. The shelf must look like a blind alley, an endless tunnel with no light at the end of it.

Something moved me towards it. Silently, the lonesome teddy bear moved my sympathy. Its beady eyes conveyed to me its feelings. Something compelled me to pick it up from the shelf. I selected it as a birthday present for my two-year old niece.

She was overjoyed! She danced with delight when I presented it to her. She hugged it, kissed it and she danced with joy. I could see a glint in the teddy bear’s eyes. I imagined I could share its shiver of happiness. The teddy bear must be as happy as the little child for whom it was made.

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