Vermilion

Vermilion

Our neighbor, tall and smiling and generous, the
wife of one and mother of three, is sick. I did not
know it until I saw her in the garden, plucking
white jasmines for all gods she kept in her shrine,
beside that her long hair was short, and her skin
pale as yesterday’s old flowers, her forehead
without the big round vermilion dot. Nothing unusual
in her voice when she, in her regular cheerful tone,
asked me to visit for lunch. Continue reading “Vermilion”

Jungle Book of Nostalgia

Trip to nostalgia

“The reason the beasts give among themselves is that Man is the weakest and most defenseless of all living things, and it is unsportsmanlike to touch him.”- Rudyard Kipling, The Jungle Book

It’s Sunday. All windows are open to welcome the sun in the house. I can smell French toast in the air. My mom is talking to the help in the kitchen. Four eyes glued on the TV. Dad and I, not ready to move an inch from our drawing room. On screen, Shere Khan is threatening Mowgli. There is an argument going on in the wolf family about the acceptance of a human being. I’m thinking of moving to some jungle. At least it won’t be this sunny.  I’m allowed to have half a cup of tea with sub-merged biscuit today. My tea is already cold. But I don’t mind. I look at my dad and whisper, “Now what?”

Continue reading “Jungle Book of Nostalgia”

Bougainvillea

Bougainvillea

“How quick and rushing life can sometimes seem, when at the same time it’s so slow and sweet and everlasting.” ― Tomorrow

In my side of the world, spring passes quickly. If I haven’t been out with my camera for two weeks, I find trees in floral. If I don’t see those trees for another week, the trees hide themselves in light green leaves. And then in another week, there are so green that suddenly the world looks summery. Continue reading “Bougainvillea”

About the Story

The story

“How odd I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words.”  ― David Foster Wallace

My diary opens. Lots of white pages. Lots of wordy tales.
People come out, stretch their legs, and
talk to me on starry nights. A plot wanders.
An old gossip wakes up from deep sleep.
A narrow lane meets the crossroad.
Years float. Blue ink greets red ink.
Life plays hide and seek with cloud and rains.
Rain. Countless rainy days.
Too many months of summer too, and landscapes of
of other lives left exposed.
Some boxed dreams under scrutiny.
A loud chapter about love and yearnings.
The wars within and without. Continue reading “About the Story”