Posted in Random Thoughts

You bug me

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Ever since I saw you,

you bug me lady.

Red lips, sharp eyes,

long hair left open to dry,

standing in the balcony

sipping a cup of tea,

a treat to every eye…

Damn! Why can’t I?

You bug me lady,

for I’d never wear red lips,

or Kohl my eyes…

You bug me lady,

So slander I about your character

to anyone who’d hear,

I just wish you’d care enough

to stop looking the way

I can never….


Photo by Alexander Andrews on Unsplash

Posted in Fiction

A Writing Challenge: Opposites

#OppEmo

Maggie from fromcavewalls.wordpress.com has posed a challenge that involves a photo prompt story. We have to use the emotion this story invokes to build two stories with opposite emotions.

Here is my take.

Birth of Joy

For the first time in his life, he was bummed. Being an orphan, he had filtered all strong emotions out of his system, knowing they would only make him susceptible to pain and humiliation. He thought himself above all this.

But the moment, his wife’s cries turned into a baby’s wail, and he saw his daughter for the first time…

Death of Pain

I never asked you to hold my hand

in front of the world who wouldn’t understand.

But never even in my dreams

did you ever abandon me

till death makes us meet.

Posted in Fiction

Retired

Been alone for long,

ever since the storm

blinded me,

and pitched me

against the rocks

too many times to count.

Waves who had

caressed me

left me behind to die

away from the sea.

My home now

a dream to me,

as I lay abandoned

by those who had

once cared

because now

I serve no purpose.

My heart’s cold,

I am now a ghost

they are unable to see.


Photo by Ammpryt ART

Posted in Nature stories, Poetry

Honeymoon

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The long quiet walk through the sea of sand with you by my side…

The sight of warm air blowing through your long eyelashes…

The jingle in each step you take…

The walk to work now makes my heart skip many a beat, as I take each step with you, everyday, forever…


Photo by Fynn schmidt on Unsplash

Posted in Nature stories

My Neighbours: The Fairies

A lot of our neighbours have been visiting us during lockdown, inspite of Government directives against it. Others we see from afar through our numerous windows.

There is a fairy tree across the road. It is not a secluded tree in the area, like it is in Ireland, since India is a tropical country and trees grow in abundance, but it definitely is a fairy tree. How do I know that?

All the year round, it is brown and barren, but come spring and it grows leaves overnight. The flowers come next, white and fluffy, covering every inch of space until there is no way to peek through. All of a sudden, the entire place smells like fairyland. That’s when the fairies arrive from across the city following the laylines, dressed in all white.

Everyday for a month, at 10.15 AM, nearly a hundred pair of pearly wings begin fluttering around the tiny tree. They gather around the flowery feast halls waiting for the doors of the court of the White Queen to open (for this century is for the White Queen to rule until the Red Queen takes over in 2097). At 10:45, they all dissappear inside the fairyland…all except the few stragglers.

After a day-long feasting, late in the night, hidden from prying human eyes, they emerge from the enchanted lands, drunk on the nectar, trying to find the laylines home through their blurry eyesight. Sometimes, they stagger into human dwellings across the road…mine, curious of the tinkling laughter of the tiny Princess that is my daughter.

Recently, one of the fairies who ventured too close was attacked by Hariya, our resident Dragon, and the Princess had to intervene. She shooed the Dragon away, apologising profusely for the misbehaviour of her guard. Cradling the Fairy close until she was fit to fly, she spoke softly to sooth her troubled heart. Once ready to leave, she escorted the Fairy to the open window and gave her blessings for a journey without perils.

We never saw that Fairy at close quarters again, but ever so often, I see a flutter of white wings at my window and I know, the Princess, now, has a new Godmother.


Author’s note: First year in the city, I was surprised when all of a sudden a small dry tree became green, then white with flowers. And the overwhelming numbers of butterflies that tried to cram in it every day from 10.15 till 10.45 AM for a month in spring. I tried filming the daily half-hour fiasco. But my camera lens is not strong enough to capture the tiny neighbours from across the road. So, you will have to take my word for it. :D

Posted in Poetry

Laurel’s Way

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Being humans wasn’t working out for us.

One black, other white.

ย 

Hence, every night,

Hidden from the spiteful world,

We would sit side-by-side,

Fingers entwined,

Watching the stars together,

Waiting for one to fall.

Wishing the universe

Would stop trying

To pull us apart.

ย 

Until a star did fall.ย 

ย 

Now, forever,

Hidden from the spiteful world,

We sit side-by-side,

Fingers entwined,

Watching the stars together,

One black, other white…


Photo by Lucas Sandor on Unsplash

Posted in Poetry

The Exile

The forest was full of early morning noises as Rishi Valmiki walked to the river for a bath before the daily Yajna. His hair, tied in a bun above his head, was white with the experiences of a life full of sin and, later, hard penance. His beard was long enough to trip him, but his agility belied his advanced years. A sound of someone tripping alerts him of a presenceโ€”not an animal, for sure.

He squared his shoulders, expecting a Danava or a Rakshasa. He called out, โ€œWho goes there? Show yourself.โ€

โ€œI am Sita, Sir.โ€ A petite woman appeared around the thick trunk of an ancient Banyan tree. In the pre-dawn light, he could see that her clothes were torn in places. She had angry red bruises on her bare arms and face, probably from stumbling around in the forest all night. She seemed several months pregnant.

Concern filled his voice now, โ€œDear lady, how come you are alone in this forest full of wild animals, and bare-handed? Are you lost?โ€

โ€œExiled would be a better word.โ€

โ€œExiled? And your crime?โ€

โ€œI have not been informed of the crime, just the punishment,โ€ she said dejectedly.

โ€œYou seem to have a very unjust king!โ€

โ€œIronically, he is the best king the world ever saw,โ€ she chuckled without humor.

Thatโ€™s when the pieces fell together. โ€œAre you the famous Queen Sita, the wife of King Rama Chandra?โ€

When Sita answered, her voice was hoarse, โ€œI was that a lifetime ago. Or was that only yesterday? Time loses its significance when you are abandoned by the man you love. Now, I am just Sita.โ€

He was confused. It was all so different from what he had heard about the kingโ€”he was the perfect king revered and loved by his subjects, who keeps their will before his own; the perfect brother who handed over his rightful kingdom to his step-brother without batting an eyelid; the perfect son who had gone to fourteen years of exile to keep his fatherโ€™s word to his step-mother. And when King Ravana had abducted Sita from the forest, he had collected small wild tribes, crossed the sea and fought the most powerful king of all times to retrieve his wifeโ€”the perfect husbandโ€ฆ

He had always been in awe of that man.

Sita continued, โ€œLast evening, his younger brother left me in the forest on his orders. While leaving, heโ€™d hinted that Rama was following the will of his subjects who are against keeping a woman who had โ€˜lived with anotherโ€™. Even though, after winning me back, he had made me walk on flames as a proof of my purity, it wasn’t proof enough for his beloved subjects. And, of course, he wouldnโ€™t give up his beloved kingdom for me as I had once done for him.โ€ The words left a bitter taste in her mouth.

He chose his words carefully now, โ€œDo you wish to go to your father, King Janaka of Mithila?โ€

โ€œMy father? Who hasnโ€™t checked on me since I returned from a fourteen-years exile? He probably believes I eloped willingly, like everyone else,โ€ she said, shaking her head in disbelief.

He was completely at loss now. But he couldnโ€™t leave the lonely woman on her ownโ€”pregnant and unable to defend herself, would be an easy target for hungry animals. Moreover, the forest was infested by Danavas and Rakshasas. God only knows what they would do to a woman who looked so beautiful, even in rags. 

He made a final effort. โ€œWould you like to return to King Rama and plead your case? I assure you I can get you an audience with him. He will not deny the request of a Rishi.โ€

โ€œThank you! But I will not plead mercy in front of someone who punishes a victim of crime and her unborn child. Anyway, he would have granted me an audience if he had the courage to face me. He knows well that heโ€™s wrong but did it anyway. He may forgive me, but I will not forgive him.

I was a princess, brought up in luxury, when I married him, but when he was exiled, I chose to accompany him to the forest. There were days, we did not have a roof over our heads. To make him happy, I picked fruits and vegetables in the forest, cooked meals, spun cloth, walked until my feet hurt and worked until I was sore all over, only to end up sleeping on the forest floor like a common woman. For fourteen yearsโ€ฆ

When Ravana abducted me, he had offered to marry me. I could have led a life of luxury in his castle, but I refused him and chose to live in a cottage like my Rama. And this is how he repays me?โ€

The fire in her eyes now turned to steel. โ€œIโ€™d rather stay in the forest like Iโ€™ve done it for fourteen years. My child needs no father.โ€

There was only one way to go from there, โ€œWould you like to live in my humble ashram? I answer to no king.โ€

She gave a little smile, full of gratitude, โ€œOnly if you promise to raise my child as a fearless warrior and a better man.โ€

Authorโ€™s note: This story is about an unfortunate day in Ramayana, a revered epic in Sanskrit. It is said that King Rama Chandra grieved for his wife and never remarried. Many years later, his massive army was intercepted and easily defeated by two little boys in the forest. When Rama came to war, Sita finally stepped in and handed over the sons he never knew. However, she declined to return with him.


Photo by Ammpryt ART

Posted in Fiction

Mushroom Day

I had a good yield. Now, if only I could spot the right one.

This was the problem with magic mushrooms. They could camouflage as other mushrooms and spotting them would take a real witch–one that I clearly wasn’t.

So I had gone around the forest feeling around, trying to spot magic that wasn’t moving, and plucked any mushroom in the vicinity. The basket was now humming with magic, even though I wasn’t sure which one was ‘it’.

Anyway, it was essential that I got the recipe ready and right, for I was close to my 39th birthday, a day every witch dreaded…the day we started turning into old hags if left unattended. The recipe was fairly simple: Cook the Batwings and powdered Crow’s toenail with White Wine in a Dragon scale cauldron on the full moon night from Moonrise till Moonset. At moonset, pour in a Deer skull, sprinkle the magic mushroom, wait until it turns pink, and drink.

Everything else was easily available on WitchSupplies.com. The magic mushroom, however, had to be freshly picked by the witch herself, meaning me…

So, even by moonset, my cauldron ready and bubbling, I hadn’t spotted the correct mushroom out of my lot and decided to go with Plan B–poured the Wine in 17 deer skulls I had ordered from WitchSupplies (my apologies to any animal lovers, but my only other option was to call in another witch for help and admit I wasn’t a witch enough.)

Then I sprinkled one mushroom in each Wine. But they ALL turned pink!

Now I had only one option left. I drank ALL of them! It didn’t work, but if nothing else, it made me a very happily drunk witch for a week.

Now, since I am turning into an old hag anyway, I’m planning to use an abridged version of this recipe (white wine with magic mushrooms) every full moon at the same scale.

Any one else who’s game to take a shot?


Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash