As the sun dipped low and the golden hues of dusk painted the sky, I found myself nestled in my favorite armchair, a cup of chamomile tea in hand and the latest mystery novel perched on my lap. Little did I know that the evening held an unexpected gift in store—an unassuming package at the doorstep that would unveil a delightful surprise: a doll, a replica of me. The house was quiet, save for the gentle ticking of the antique clock in the hallway—a relic from my mother, who always swore it held the secrets of time itself.
Just as Miss Marple was about to reveal the culprit, the doorbell rang. Startled, I glanced at the clock. “Who could it be at this hour?” I mused aloud. With a mix of curiosity and caution, I made my way to the door, my sandals tapping rhythmically on the wooden floor.
Opening the door, I was greeted not by a visitor but by a brown package sitting innocently on the doormat. It was about the size of a shoebox and wrapped in plain brown paper. There was no return address, just my name written in a neat, unfamiliar script. I picked it up, feeling a strange combination of excitement and apprehension.
Back in the living room, I set the package on the coffee table and carefully unwrapped it. Inside, nestled in a bed of tissue paper, was a doll. But this wasn’t just any doll—it was a replica of me! Her dark brown hair was styled in the same soft curls as mine, and she even wore a miniature version of my favorite floral dress. My first thought was that my granddaughter, Sushi, had sent it. She’s always been a bit of a prankster and knows how much I adore dolls.
I lifted the doll out of the box and marveled at the craftsmanship. It was eerily accurate, down to the tiny reading glasses perched on her nose and the delicate lines etched into her porcelain face, mirroring my own laugh lines. I chuckled, the sound echoing in the quiet room. “Well, hello there, Mini-Me,” I said, holding the doll up to the light.
Sitting back in my chair, I couldn’t help but wonder who had sent this delightful little doppelgänger. There was no note, no clue as to its origin. I called Sushi, half-expecting to hear her laughter on the other end, but she was just as surprised as I was. “Granny, that’s amazing! But it wasn’t me,” she insisted, her voice bubbling with excitement. “You should keep her. Maybe she’s a lucky charm!”
I placed the doll on the mantelpiece, where she could keep me company. As the days went by, I found myself talking to her more and more. “What do you think, little one?” I’d ask as I debated which flowers to plant in the garden or what book to read next. Her presence was comforting, a silent reminder of the unexpected joys that life still had to offer.
One evening, as I sat knitting by the oil filled heater near my favourite rolling arm chair, I glanced up at my miniature counterpart and felt a warmth spread through me. She was a testament to the passage of time, a tiny tribute to a life well-lived. I decided then and there to name her Pushpa, after my own mother who had taught me the art of knitting and the importance of finding joy in the little things. Now after naming her after my mom, I could see how much i resemble my mother. Oh, I am her replica, I thought.
Weeks turned into months, and Pushpa became a cherished part of my daily routine. She even accompanied me on trips to the garden, where I’d prop her up on a stone bench and tell her about the flowers blooming in the spring sunshine. Neighbours and friends were fascinated by her, and soon, she became somewhat of a local legend.
One day, a letter arrived in the mail, written in the same neat script as the package. It was from an old friend, Kusum, whom I hadn’t seen in years. She wrote about how she had found a dollmaker who specialized in creating lifelike replicas and thought it would be the perfect gift to reconnect us. “I hope she brings you as much joy as you have brought to my life,” Kusum’s letter concluded.
I smiled, my heart swelling with gratitude. Life has a funny way of surprising us, even in our golden years. That little doll, a replica of me, turned out to be much more than a gift. She was a reminder of the enduring bonds of friendship and the beauty of life’s unexpected moments. So, here’s to Pushpa, my miniature companion, and to the surprises that keep our hearts young and our spirits lively, no matter our age.
Do you have a unique or unexpected story that has brought joy to your life? Whether it’s a special gift, a cherished memory, or an extraordinary experience, we would love to hear about it! Share your stories in the comments below or connect with us on social media. Let’s celebrate the little surprises that make life wonderful together!
Looking forward to your stories readers!
Neerja Bhatnagar
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Such a happy story and I liked how you named her Pushpa.
Oh I loved your interpretation of the prompt. A happy one instead of a spooky one. So good Neerja!