Author’s note: In Urdu, rains are considered a blessing since they are the harbinger of relief, growth, prosperity and plenty. When the first rain of rainy season touches dry land, the land becomes fragrant and touches the very soul of Indians. It beckons children and adults alike to rush out and feel the raindrops on their faces.
4 years back, I decided to give my blog a new lease of life. Earlier, it was created to post silly photos. But I decided it needed more silliness so I started adding stories to it. 😯
Before that, I had only told stories to my nephew and my 2-year-old daughter. I didn’t feel qualified enough to badger the world with what I thought. But then, I decided it doesn’t hurt anyone. I had no followers anyway. 😋
Today there are 502 of us here. Well, I am a part of the crowd too, my own cheerleader. 😊
Thank you for sticking to me, having my back, helping me through my writer’s block, just being there listening to me rant and adding your own perspective in the comments.
Lately, I had been absent a lot. Been busy with my book, looking for literary agents and then, life as usual has been keeping me away. But mentally, I am always here with you, wanting to tell a new story, share what my daughter cooked up (she has been cooking clay food lately. I have seen green Pizza, brown dumplings purple icecreams with pearls 🥘🥟 🍦…) 😋 Please feel free to eat!
Please continue the support as I struggle to get back on the track.
Where is that crazy girl who calls me Rapunzel? I am no Rapunzel. What does it even mean? If someone insists on giving a name, I would say “Henry” may be more suitable to my age and gender. But these human kids have a knack of giving weird names. One of them even called me “Gandalf, the gray”. But I guess it is still better than “Rapunzel” any day.
Hmmm, coming back to Rapunzel, where is that weird girl who used to try talking to me every day, complaining that I wasn’t responding and being rude. I would be sitting quietly on my favourite branch while soaking up the sun on those cold mornings, listening to the loud, raucous, erratic music created by those huge things that humans travel in, when she would open the window of her third floor room and begin chatting up like I’m an old friend. She would ask about my day, my nest and how the kids were doing, as if I would have time to sit there if I still had kids. They have flown away to find their own life–every single one of them since I and Mrs. got together. Now that she too has moved on to the higher skies, I would rather spend my time sitting quietly remembering her rather than play with a pesky kid.
But it still doesn’t make sense. She was always here, playing in this room and one fine day she was gone. I haven’t seen her in so many days. It left me uneasy. May be she too has flown away. But that couldn’t be possible. Sometimes, I hear her voice from lower floors but she doesn’t come to our window anymore.
Is she being kept a captive? Not sure why I felt the compulsion but I had to find out so I tried sneaking into the house–thrice. But I was always thwarted by that big human who said something like “Fan” and closed windows on my face. When I enquired with her about the little girl through the window glass, all she did was look at me like she couldn’t understand me and say, “Rapunzel, Betu’s gone school”. Moron! Fine, I’ll just sit here and enjoy my music.
Humph! May be I will turn my back to the window. That should help the urge to look out for the little inconsiderate brat, worrying an old bird like me because she is too busy to come visit!
“Oh Rapunzel! You were right mom, Rapunzel is waiting for me.”
“For the last time, my name is NOT Rapunzel!”
“Mom, I think Rapunzel is talking to me again!”
What the ****?! Humph! I’ll just ignore her as always. Now where is that music when I need it?
My father loves traveling and having stayed with him for longer than most kids, I have travelled quite a lot. There is something to be said about long roads. The exciting times when you are drinking every detail slowly gives way to quiet times when you either sleep, write poetry and think of world’s greatest problems. I am sure global warming and world’s hunger issues were realised during such long roads.
But if you ask me about the longest road I travelled, I would say, “The stairs to the washroom on the day I had diarrhoea.”
I remember my entire life running in front of my eyes as I tried to run-walk to the wash, wondering all the time what I did to deserve it. Since I had to rush through that road 11 times in 11 hours, the entire experience was surreal. (Not sure who invented the idea of building washroom on stairs. But I am sure, they help reduce my sins by punishment trip-by-trip.)
During the rush (hours), I went backwards in my life and revisited every single second over and over. I wondered if my actions were bad enough to warrant the punishment; what I could have, should have, would have done. Was it too much oil? Too much food? Lack of healthy food? Lack of liquids? Bread? Yesterday’s paratha? Mango and chilli sauce? Mangoes? Mango shake? (It’s summers. Mangoes are everywhere.)
I experienced the same soul-searching that people do during trips to isolated places. Well, I was travelling to an isolated solace, so it fits, I guess! The road felt so long that the sufferings of Frodo Baggins felt nothing compared to mine.
The plains and hills and valleys were all crossed over and over with such thoughts as, “Will I be able to make it?” “Do I have the power to control what was coming?”
Unlike Frodo, there was no Sam Gamgee to keep me company, which was probably good. This road was not for the faint-hearted, especially once I entered Mordor.
The best I can say about this trip is that it was only one-day-long and I got the day off work. Thank God for small mercies!
Not sure what I am writing today. But there are several stories in the edges of my conscience that I am unable to catch and yet unable to ignore, like an errant flyaway hair that constantly tickles me while I am trying to work, talk, cook, teach…
Some are great beginnings with no end in sight. Some are just middle like waking in the middle of journey realising you have come so far but with no recollection of where you started and where you want to go. Others are faint memories of dreams I wanted to turn into stories but never got to it.
I am also in the middle of looking for a publisher/agent for my second book. It has been 4 months with no traction, which keeps me awake at nights. I have mails from people who want me to give them money to publish my book. Why would I do that? I think the whole point of writing a book is to SELL it to a publisher. Or am I missing something? I haven’t even found a literary agent since Short Stories is, apparently, not a great market.
So, if you know a literary agent who might be interested in Short stories from a writer in India, please let me know.
As for the bee in my bonnet, I guess, I will have to deal with it myself.
* I’ve learned that I like my teacher because she cries when we sing “Silent Night.” Age 5
