Painting is my first love. A picture on Unsplash.com lead me to create this sketch.
Out of all the birds I have seen here, I have always missed the unassuming little sparrows. There was a time when they abounded Indian cities but the loss of habitat led to a devastating decrease in their numbers. I hadn’t seen any in ten years. So, this year, I was pleasantly surprised when I saw them hopping around at a cousin’s place in my city.
This article shows how we can help them survive.
This story is now part of a short-story collection. I will share the links soon.
Fairytales are made of
Love…
Romance…
Grand marriages…
And happy ever afters…
Basically, a lot of
Lying through the teeth.
Their spy network is the best in world. Their eyes are everywhere looking for hidden contraband. We have tried hiding ‘stuff’ from them in places never heard of before, but without success. Somehow, they always find it, and confiscate it for further investigation, and then detain it to run the smell and taste tests to ensure they are indeed edible.
Long story short, we never see it again.
It is indeed a war of wits between me and an army of passionate foodies. Once I open a box of anything edible, I spot one of them scouting around. I try hiding the food, immediately covering it to break the spell…the smell. But it is already too late.
Within seconds, a chain reaction begins. Each of them tells another on the way, and a line begins forming around the box–sharp eyes, sharp stings, shopping bags at the ready; looking for a way to break through the barriers and reach the on-Sale items within.
The trick is to move the ‘stuff’ around so it isn’t sitting in the same place for more than a few minutes.
Sometimes I win, but mostly, I try to act like I don’t mind them gobbling down my food. As if I can stop them if I want. Just a perspective change rather then admit defeat…
Free image by Maksim Shutove on Unsplash
This nutcase needs Psychiatric help, not a gym. He told me he needs to lose 80 pounds in three months! While I am the best gum instructor in the town, I am no magician. While the goal is herculean for a 30-something, this guy is ancient…
I asked him what the hurry was, and he said that he must be able to go down the chimneys on Christmas; that even his ‘magic’ cannot squeeze him through the too narrow chimneys in modular kitchens. Initially, I wondered whether he’s a thief, but if he is, he must be a retired one…no fitness whatsoever. His belly overflows out of his red gym pyjamas and his red shirt is the size of a picnic tent.
Did I tell you, he has a fetish for red colour–red gym clothes, red cap, red shoes and red overcoat. I even got a glimpse of his red underwear while he was tying shoelaces one day. Seriously, who does he think he is? Santa Claus?
Maybe he’s Schizophrenic…he even registered his name as Nicholas, you know Santa Claus’s real name…and no ID to go with it. And the first day, he came on a sleigh with a reindeer that caused a traffic jam. Thankfully, he comes in a car now…a red car with reindeer print.
With his white flowing beard tucked into his pockets, so it wouldn’t get stuck in the Treadmill, he walks at a snail’s pace. And begins complaining of the ‘strenuous regime’ after five minutes. He says he is too old for cardio, and doesn’t have the muscles for weights.
Not sure how he’s going to lose weight before I lose it. Yesterday, I had to take him aside and clarify that he should either up his game or go for a weight-loss surgery.
That didn’t improve his walking, but at least, he is not complaining anymore.
Thank god for small mercies!
Free photo by Jack Hunter on Unsplash
The story is now a part of a short-story collection available both in print and as an ebook. I will share the links soon.
It is 12.02 IST. I just saw around fifty buttery-yellow-white butterflies and several bees flying in the same direction.
It wasn’t a Let’s-go-on-a-community-picnic flying…
It was Gucci-has-90%-off-on-all-products and Hugh-Jackman’s-in-the-shop-signing-autographs flying…
There was a race in small groups with a lot of jostling and I was wondering where the party is. I saw it all in a couple of minutes at the window.
I wanted to stay longer and to see if there are more butterflies in the area and wait for them to return with bags of autographed merchandise, but I had a virtual meeting exactly at the moment. Sigh!
Free Photo by Nandhu Kumar on Unsplash
My three-year old daughter demands me stories nearly all day. I try to wave off the requests most of the times, since it means overusing my brain, which is already fried by listening and singing nursery rhymes, and dealing with petty quarrels regarding property rights over various animals, dolls, lego blocks and kitchen set, apart from building the training courses for clients.
My favourite way to wave off the request is to ask my daughter to tell me a story before I tell her one. Usually, she asks me to excuse her to deal with an ‘important matter’ and leaves the vicinity until I had forgotten the request (my daughter through and through). A few days back, though, after multiple requests, she acquised to tell me a story of the Hare and the Tortoise.
As most of you would know, the original story was about a race between a vain but fast Hare and a humble but slow Tortoise. The vain Hare underestimates his competitor and sleeps off half way through the race and wakes up to find that the Tortoise has reached the finish line. I was expecting a retelling of the same tale.
However, this is the tale she told me (in Hindi).
There was a Hare 🐰 who was going to market to buy some carrots 🥕(?), because all Hare love carrots 🐰💕🥕.
He met a Tortoise 🐢 on the way who asked him nicely if he could join him–he needed to buy some carrots too 🥕 (??), because all Tortoise love carrots too 🐢💕🥕.
So, off they went merrily 🐇🐢. (Not sure when the race will begin!)
On the way, they met an Elephant 🐘 (???) who asked them not so nicely to carry him to the market because he wanted to buy some carrots too (because, obviously, all elephants love carrots too, 🐘 💕🥕). Or else he will step on them 😡.
So the Hare punched him 👊 (That was one strong Hare!), and then, he pulled the Tortoise on his back and ran to the market. 🐇🐢💨 (AHA!!!)
Then, they, bought carrots🥕, and happily ate them.
Author’s mother’s note: Well, what can I say, I love carrots too…🤣🤣🤣
Author’s note: The story doesn’t intend to disrespect anyone based on their parentage. It just speaks of a person who has been raised in the society that gives more credit to birth than ability.
Karna is a central character in Mahabharata, the longest and most revered epic in Sanskrit. He is the illegitimate son of the Sun God and Princess Kunti. He faces too many caste-based prejudices because he is raised by a low-caste Charioteer. Visit Wikipedia to know more about him. This story is set in the morning of the longest day of his life–when he joins the greatest war of ancient history.
Karna was fuming after his conversation with the Sun God–his real father. His entire life was a lie.
For nearly seventy years, he had believed he was the son of a lowly Charioteer. He had struggled with casteism for every privilege reserved for higher castes: education, power and rightful recognition as the world’s best warrior. But the world had jeered at him, declining him a single chance to show his true mettle, simply because he wasn’t born in a Kshatriya family. If it wasn’t for Prince Duryodhan who made him the king of Angadesh, he would be scrubbing horses and sleeping in stables.
And today, when Prince Duryodhan has given him the chance to lead his army in the greatest of all wars against his illegitimate cousins–the Pandavas, the war that may finally give him the recognition he had always craved for…
He had arrived at the river to pray to the Sun God as usual, and there he was, standing in all his glory, to tell him that he was a Prince, a Kshatriya, a demi-god…
And a bastard!
He couldn’t remember how many times in his life had he wished to have the royal blood, so that he could be an equal of his best friend. Now he did–as the eldest son of Rajmata Kunti, born while she was still unmarried. She still has a brood of five similar sons, the Pandavas, ‘blessings’ from five gods after her marriage to the impotent King Pandu. Her husband had approved of them. He, on the other hand, was born before marriage and she had cast him away in the river.
He had never hated Arjun so much before–his arch-enemy was now his step-brother. She had kept him and the other four sons, raised them as kind princes and capable warriors who were respected and loved by all, while he lived his life as Duryodhan’s lapdog. He might be a king, but his subjects clearly didn’t approve.
The number of times he had jeered at Pandavas because of their many fathers…it all came back to him. Now, he was one of them. What would his best friend think of him now? Will he still let him lead his army?
As he finished his daily prayers, he could see Kunti at a distance, hesitating from approaching him. He gave the customary bow and waited for her to speak.
“How are you, Son?” She had always addressed him as “Son”. But today, he could understand the true meaning of the word.
“My lady, how can I serve you today?”
“I came to see my son today.”
He could see her steeling herself for the onslaught. He had no pity for her. “There is none here. You should perhaps look a little further in the Pandavas’ camp.”
Undeterred, she continued, “I’ve come to see my first-born, the son of the Sun God, born with the fiery temper of his father–who will be the next King of Hastinapur (Delhi).”
“Hastinapur belongs to the true descendants of King Shantanu. It is not up to a woman to give it away to those who have the blood of several unknown men”, he dealt a low blow.
She stood strong though, “The true descendant of Shantanu do not deserve to be kings. They are vain and self-serving. They do not know justice and their subjects are mere means to fulfill their ends. They keep vile company that advises them to destroy their people and businesses. Their best men are hog-tied by oath to serve the king, incapable of stopping injustice, and they stand by watching women being raped in public.”
“And am I not one of the vile company? As far as I remember, I am Duryodhan’s best friend.”
“You are, but Pandavas–your brothers–are capable administrators and advisors. They had given 26 years of their lives to make Hastinapur a land of opportunity–converting arid lands to fertile farms, and dense forests infested by demons into fruit orchards. They had invited farmers, tradesmen and craftsmen from different kingdoms with a promise of a peaceful and luxurios life–a promise they had fullfilled as long as they ruled. They can do it again, with you on the throne.”
“Ah! Bribing me into changing sides. So that I won’t kill your precious sons…”
“I am not afraid of my sons dying. They are Kshatriyas–born to fight. They have lived a long life. A death in the battle field will only bring them further glory. It is you that I am afraid for. Will you be able to look yourself in the mirror, knowing that you killed able and just kings who were the best chance their subjects had? Knowing they were your younger brothers?”
“You speak as if you know me, as if you care for me…you let me deal with seventy years of humiliation. You knew who I was, and yet, you let your sons disrespect me by calling me a ‘Charioteer’s son’. You never spoke up for me, and yet, you dare to call me ‘Son’? You bribe me with throne and family, respect and metarnal love, and expect me to forget that all this has been denied to me for seventy years?”
“Son…disowning you was a mistake. But I was only fourteen and scared of society. I wanted to own you up later when I saw you at the Royal games fifty years back.”
“Then, why didn’t you?”
“Arjun had called you a Charioteer’s son, but you had held your head up. In return, Duryodhan had called Arjun a “Bastard”. The look of disgrace you gave Arjun at that moment…I realised that it was better for you to never share the fate of being my son.”
Illustrated by Ammpryt ART
Sometimes, you just don’t know what to say to a uninvited guest, specially someone who is all decked up for the occasion.
When this guy showed up on the pretext of ‘just being around and curious of the huge doll house’, it was clear that things were not as they seem to be.
Our cue: He was wearing a tailcoat. I hadn’t invited him to my marriage’s dinner celebration, did I?
The guy was unapologetic as he leaned on one wall and made small talk about the ‘nice green walls’ and improving ecology, clearly not in a hurry to leave anytime soon. I wondered what had actually brought him here, until I found his attention wavering towards the wall behind me too often and his smile becoming too charming…where Stella, the Spider, was weaving her new house that sparkled like a rainbow in the sunlight. It had also caught some cute dew drops from the night before–pearls of finest quality.
The guy dropped all pretence of making a conversation, looking at her unblinking. He had stopped breathing, I think.
I could clearly see where it would all lead. All I can say is that Stella has got herself a very willing catch!
Someone call a priest!
Short Stories | Fish-eye Perspective 