In an age of much progress and urbanization, we are losing our imagination. Modern man cannot give easy answers anymore. “ The Little Prince” by Antoine De Saint- Exupery is a celebration of the innocence inherent in man. The innocence that finds adults strange. The innocence that is often misunderstood.
After coming to Earth the little prince saw hundreds and thousands of roses. But he understood that only one rose was special. It was special because he had cared for it. The care, the love is what fills most things with a magical quality. Nobody knows this better than the children do. They care for rag dolls, weather beaten teddy bears and broken tea sets. Somewhere in the process of growing up, we forget this. We forget that it is not the object at all which is unique by itself but the feelings that we have for it that makes it so special.
“ The Little Prince” is a book that one reads and then goes on reading. As children, we identify with the little prince. However, we grow up to realize that at some point in life it is important to repair the aero plane engine and fly back to the safe, known world. It’s useless to wonder about the uses of the thorns of a flower if the sheep can eat it all the same. Still even if we do grow up, sometimes without even wanting to, De Saint- Exupery offers a gentle reassurance that somewhere in all of us lives the golden haired little prince too.
Throughout the fable, the child in us comes out and questions us. What happened to the belief, which could find a village well in the middle of Sahara? What happened to faith? Have we all neglected the deadly baobab seeds and let them get so big that they are threatening to consume our own small worlds?
All of us know this little prince. Like the author, we have held him in our arms too. Holding our selves, alone in a strange desert and wondering “ the lands of tears is so mysterious”.