A persian carpet, the finest weave in white silk, shot with gold thread here and there, sparkling white gems and the gentlest white pearls adding to the luster, designs built on the waft of a breeze and a whisper-sigh, patterns that shimmer and change with the light. You see what you want to, a mosaic now, an intricate floral pattern next, the sky and stars and universe then, for it has taken master craftsmen their lives’ blood to fashion this offering, but a dream, nazrana.

A tattered tarpaulin, paint, oil smudges, age, grime, old folds apparent, the cloth worn in parts where a frayed backing is visible, used till one day it withers to threads, its eventual destiny rags and then some landfill. Reality.

Once upon a time, a prince had been unable to distinguish between an ingeniously crafted pond and a rich carpet, so fine was the craftsmanship. A queen had laughed sarcastically her voice cutting past centuries, “ The son of a blind man is but blind!” Then, much blood had stained the rivers; so many widows had shattered the silence of the dead with their screams and curses.

One wonders what would happen now.
For in this game of one-upmanship, jabs and slights, deceit-mirages and reality, not much has changed.