Posted in Random Thoughts

The power words wield

Recently, I was listening to piece of poetry by a Hindi poet. It was about a small yet important incident in Ramayana–a revered Hindu epic. It is a tale of love and resilience about four stepbrothers. I have read and heard it so many times by so many writers that I was sure there isn’t anything left to move me anymore. I was wrong.

By the end of this piece, I was shaking with righteous indignation and extreme pain of both Bharat and his mother.

The piece that I heard was a short one where Bharat, having just returned from his maternal grandfather’s kingdom with his youngest stepbrother Shatrughan, realizes his mother has schemed to exile his stepbrother Ram (and Laxman who went with him), so that Bharat could ascend the throne. He confronts her.

The mother welcomes him home with joy, telling him to carry out last rites for his father and ascend the throne.

The son starts with a wave of angry words while his mother truly believes she can ride it out. He calls her sinner and murderer for killing their father (who died of a broken heart after exiling his beloved son, Ram).

You can feel the crescendo rising as he calls her a conspirator against the family for killing its roots and a traitor to the country for leaving the kingdom without the king, for he would never ascend the throne.

He blames her for bringing him public disrepute and unlimited pain by separating him from Ram. He wishes aloud that she should have killed him the day he was born. His anger is palpable as he declares he would kill her at that very moment…

…but, then, he breaks down. He can’t kill her because Ram would, then, disown him because Ram loves his stepmother Kekai more than his own. Bharat is blinded with rage and his helplessness at his inability to set things right. He storms out of the castle vowing to never return.

The poet has so far concentrated on Bharat’s righteous anger, but then, he moves to Kekai’s realisation and remorse.

The moment Bharat steps away, Kekai breaks down.

In poet’s words, “Santati ki khatir jo pahado se bhi bhid jati hai, par jab beta thukra de, us pal maa mar jati hai. (She can move mountains for her child but when the son leaves her, the mother dies.)”

She was once a warrior of fame who had faced huge armies and fought with bare hands. But in this moment, she is just a new widow who lost all four sons in a single moment of insanity. She shatters to pieces in front of all. She is calling out after Bharat, crying on the floor in front of the world–all ambition forgotten and regal demeanor lost–pulling at her hair at the realization of what she had done.

While coming from me, it is sounding like a narrative, but the poet has created a scene so intense, you can feel your blood boiling and insides shaking, and you feel her pain, her shame, her angst and her helplessness. Tears trickle the sides of your eyes…

That is the power words wield…

That is the power I wish I could have…

Posted in Random Thoughts

Choosing one good thing out of three

I was recently writing a science fiction short story. By recently, I mean that I have been writing it for an year and it is still not finished. The reason it is not finished is that I have three probable ends and I am not able to decide one.

The story has been created out of a dream. It was a surreal dream and I wanted to use it. But as I progressed, this one developed into something totally different and I am unable to decide where to take it in the end. Does the heroine get her hero? Was he really the hero? Did he really exist and on what level did he exist?

So many paths to take,

so many turns await…

I take a step to where my heart moves me…

but my heart moves at a fast pace…

How do you decide what life to live today?

Author’s note: I feel in my bones that whichever end I choose I will never be satisfied. I think I am in too deep. I am living this story in my mind!

Posted in Love, Nature

My Neighbour: The Earnest

Author’s note: This post is based on a real incident…well, more or less. I was looking out of the window and witnessed what looked like a clear case of eve-teasing. I am just trying to look at it from the victim’s perspective.


Jeez! How many times do I have to say ‘No’ for someone to understand it? Here I am pecking quietly on the tin shed, eating the grains supplied by the human working below, when this jerk flies down and lands close to me.

So, I think, “Oh! He wants to share”. I move aside and make space for him.

And what does he do? He scoots closer…so close, I can smell the enticing smell of peppermint leaves on his breath.

So, I move further away. And his trots closer.

Sheesh! I jump on the closest low wall, and he follows like he is stitched to my shadow.

I run on the wall, and he follows calling after me, “Hey! Wait up. You are too fast! I can’t keep up!”

I am like, “Dude! That is precisely the point. I don’t want you to keep up with me.”

And he’s like, “Huh?” And he flies and lands too close yet again.

What the heck! Can’t he just go and eat some wheat grains, groom his feathers or sleep on a rooftop somewhere else…far, far away? I can’t be caught talking to him. I’ll be a laughingstock for a lifetime! So, I take flight this time. And he stupidly chases me in the air!

Can’t he see I am not interested? There are better things to do in life than date a stupid pigeon who goes by the name “Rapunzel”! I mean, what woman would ever want to date a guy named Rapunzel!?

I don’t want to be mean, but he leaves me no choice. So, I sit down on a stone archway to the next-door temple and say what sounds like the greatest cuss words ever known to the pigeon-kind, “Rapunzel! Go away!”

He sits a little farther this time, “Not you too! I am NOT Rapunzel!”

“What do you think I am–a chick-just-hatched? I have heard that human girl call you ‘Rapunzel’ at least a dozen times.”

“How do you know that? Have you been keeping tabs on me?” He asks, looking smug.

“I am not keeping tabs on you,” I hope I am not blushing like stupid human girls. “I live here. I hear things.”

“Well, then you know that she calls all pigeons ‘Rapunzel’.”

“Liar!”

“Well, I am a bit wrong there. If you sit on her windowsill in a group, she will probably call you Rapunzel and the rest of the group will be Ella, Snow White, Elsa, Bella and other Disney princesses in that exact order. She can’t tell that some of us are Prince Charming!”

I am intrigued now, “Are you ‘Prince Charming’ then? I mean, it is nearly just as bad!”

“Ugh! No! I don’t have a name. You can just call me ‘Hulk’!”

Eww! “I think, I’ll pass.”

“So, will you come out with me? I know a really cool place with loads of fresh grain and an amazing view of the river,” he says as he carefully moves closer to me on the top of the stone archway, looking a little unsure of himself this time.

Good! I like him better when he is not being haughty…

I mean, I don’t really like him like that…

Well, at least not yet

Sigh! Who am I kidding? I have been keeping tabs on him…

Still, I roll my eyes, trying to play hard to get, “You really don’t know when to give up!”

He has probably sensed I am giving up, because he stands up a little taller, “I know exactly when to give up, which is why I am not giving up on you yet.” He tilts his face to a side inquisitively, which makes his neck shine in a multitude of colours. “So, are you coming with me before all the fresh grain is gone?”

“Well, lead the way. I will probably dump you after we have eaten anyway, Rapunzel!” He rolls his eyes and smiles, and we take off to the nearest fields I have already visited alone this morning.

I know it will be better with him by my side, smelling minty and looking like Prince Charming. But I am not telling him that. At least, not yet!


Author’s note again: To learn more about how my daughter named Rapunzel (poor dear), you can go through my other posts here: Meet Rapunzel and Rapunzel 2.0

Posted in Random Thoughts

I do: The Indian Way (Part 2)

Author’s note: Pun intended

Before jumping into this article, I would advise you to visit the original post I do: The Indian Way (Part 1) so that you can understand the beginning of the madness that we Indians lovingly refer to as “arranged marriage”, which is a complex process to simplify the process of finding a man for every girl and a girl for every man (usually 5-10 years older than the girl, henceforth incorrectly termed as the “the boy”). Had the process been in place in England and USA, books like Pride and Prejudice and Little Women 2 would have not existed in the first place.

In the original post, we have already covered the first seven steps of the process.

Step 8: The meeting preparation and the approval of the bhabhi

So far, the stage is all set for the big reveal. The girl (probably in early twenties) and the boy (probably in his thirties) are about to meet for the grand finale. The entire khandan (extended family big enough to fill a football stadium) is either already there or waiting on Zoom and Whatsapp to hear the good news.

The house is in a general state of disarray with cousin’s running around, children crying, father and uncles on phone, grandfather and granduncles pacing around, mothers, grandmothers and aunts cooking and discussing the various scenarios that can possibly unfold–What if one of them is diabetic? Do we have something for them? Do we have green tea? What if they want more dowry? What if they see one of the prettier cousins and choose her instead?

The dining table is creaking under the combined weight of fruits, various types of sweets, pakodas, samosas, namkeens (various salt savories), lemonade, cold drinks and the best possible crockery loaned from concerned neighbours and relatives to serve it in. The kitchen is busy with lunch/dinner preparations high on matar-paneer, daal makkhani, dahi-bade and dhaniya ke aaloo to be served with puris, an assortment of sauces, pickles and fried papad.

A stylish bhabhi (brother’s/cousin’s wife) has draped the girl’s sari so all her curves are visible to lure the boy in while the skin is covered so as not to provoke the boy’s parents. Every bit of the girl’s face is covered with 9 -10 layers of cosmetics, each one smelling of different flowers, making her feel like a walking flower shop with no visible flowers. Her blood pressure is increasing with each make-up application and the friendly advise:

  • Don’t rub your eyes. You’ll smear the mascara.
  • Why didn’t you tell me what shade of Fushia your sari was. Now I got a lipstick three tones lighter!
  • Don’t move your lips. You’ll mess up the lipstick.
  • Don’t eat. You’ll mess up the lipstick.
  • Only drink the cold drink I will set in front of you. It will have a straw.
  • Don’t speak, you’ll mess up the lipstick.
  • Don’t laugh. Indian brides don’t laugh. Besides, it puts wrinkles on the makeup.
  • Don’t sweat, you’ll mess up the makeup.
  • Act shy. Don’t look at anyone straight in the eyes.
  • Don’t ask too many questions.
  • Don’t ask about his girlfriends.
  • Don’t tell him about your boyfriends.
  • If he asks your hobbies, say that you like cooking. Don’t tell him you play football and ride a motorbike.
  • Just stay quiet. We will manage the rest…

By this time, a low growl can be heard starting from the bottom of the girl’s throat, which is bhabhi‘s cue to take her baby for a diaper change. We will not discuss the case she doesn’t take the cue, because this is not an article about mass murder.

The blood pressure is at all-time high when the cousin who was posted at the gate comes running inside and stage-whispers through the door, “They are here!”

Step 9: The joint approval of khandan and neighbours

All the noise stops suddenly. Even the children who had been throwing a tantrum a second back suck in a breath and wait with abated breath as the boy’s party approaches the gates. Father, uncles, grandfather and granduncles wipe their brows and run towards the gates to greet the party at the gates and smile with hands folded in “Namaste”. After this, their hands are forever folded in their laps as they stand around obediently taking orders from the in-laws.

As the boy’s party along with the middleman is ushered in, the mother, aunts, grandmother and grandaunts greet them indoors and show them where to sit. The stylish bhabhi, together with a party of well-trained cousins, brings in water and beverages. Someone quietly clicks the picture of “the boy” and posts it on family group on Whatsapp for the rest of the relatives to approve. The bride, who is also part of the group, looks at the picture and is petrified, for the said “boy” is at least 7-8 years older than the picture shared by the middleman.

The parents seem unaffected. They probably expected the situation and have already decided to fill the receding hairline with extra zeroes in his salary. The boy is now the new animal in the zoo, inspected by the girl’s younger giggly cousins and accosted by the younger children of the house who want to climb on his back, try on his glasses and check if he knows how to give a piggy-back ride. One of them has already pulled out his uber expensive pen from his shirt pocket while he is trying to explain to another child why he cannot play on his iPhone.

And he is bearing it all with gritted teeth and a smile that shows he would rather be at office drinking horrible coffee. His parents are trying to pick children off him one by one on the pretext of asking their names before the boy runs out shrieking bloody murder (He too has been through a grooming experience mirroring the bride, except the makeup part, but we will not talk about that. It is not his story).

The neighbours are now beginning to show up under various pretext following the trail of the variety of food fragrances, knowing well exactly what it could mean. They all express curiosity that goes beyond the girl’s parents and ask questions missed during the earlier interrogation, including growth opportunities in the boy’s line of job, frequency of salary hikes and where they see themselves in 10-years time (hopefully, in Canada). Once the khandan and neighbours have expressed their satisfaction at the responses they have received, a cousin is sent to “bring the girl in”.

Step 10: The big reveal and boy’s and girl’s approval…sort of

Now that everybody else in the known universe has agreed to the match, the girl “is brought into the room” by the aforementioned bhabhi. The boy is more interested in the bhabhi who is curvaceous and confident. He is looking at her with an interest but when he realises all eyes are on him, he moves his eyes towards the girl (because he is supposed to). The girl is a bundle of nerves and shivering as she “is settled” in front of the boy so that he cannot touch her. He is scared witless and trying to act confident but his parents beat him to it–they begin talking to the girl, who keeps her answers monosyllabic, as instructed by bhabhi to keep the make-up intact. His parents assume it to be shyness. The girl’s parents assume it to be nerves. Only the bhabhi really knows as she places the cold drink with straw strategically in front of the girl.

The discussion is generally about education and interests, which is mostly loads of lies.

Then someone suggests that the boy and girl should be left alone to talk! And everyone moves out of the room. Everyone, except the said bhabhi and the bhaiya (elder brother/cousin) standing close enough to the door to eavesdrop and remain faintly in sight so that the boy doesn’t gets any ideas.

Now, the sudden retreat of the people leaves the girl and the boy conscious and tongue-tied and it take a couple of minutes to gather their wits, another couple of minutes to get through the basic introductions and they are still discussing education when everybody decides to return to their posts in the room. And someone mentions lunch/dinner.

Immediately, the girl is whisked away to her previous hideout since obviously she can’t eat without ruining her make-up.

During the lunch/dinner, the bhabhi in girl’s room is dropping hints about how a well-paid boy with medium looks is the best proposition because he is more willing to keep the girl happy and has the means to fulfil her dreams. (What those dreams are is never discussed since it could be riding a motorbike to the highest mountain pass in Leh-Ladakh.)

The girl, having no opportunity for a real conversation with the boy, relies totally on her family’s opinion. Already overwhelmed with all the attention and performance pressure in front of the entire family and neighbours, she nods her head with exhaustion. Right at that moment, the bhabhi relays the news to the mother, who is overheard by the grandmother, who calls her husband aside and reiterates it to him, who instructs the girl’s father. The girl’s mother, meanwhile, congratulates the girl for her perfect choice and hugs her, and the girl’s fate is sealed.

Someone sends a message on Whatsapp and everybody expresses their opinion of how rushed things were but how happy they were that everything came out so well.

Step 11: The boy’s party’s approval

The girl’s father immediately starts dropping hints about their willingness in front of the boy’s family. The boy’s family is already prepared for engagement ceremony. But they still state that they need time to think this over (because they really can’t show that they came prepared for the ceremony and lose their bargaining power). They go to the middleman’s house after the lunch/dinner while the girl’s family is chewing their nails.

On the way, they talk to the boy about the virtues of marrying in a well-to-do family and praise the girl for being homely and shy; and that living on outside food is bad for health; and that it is high time he is married so he has someone who can cook a proper meal for him wherever he lives. The boy, having no opportunity for a real conversation with the girl, relies totally on his family’s opinion. He is dealing with similar family pressure where his own khandan is waiting on Whatsapp for the good news, nods his head (he still doesn’t know about the football and motorbike).

The boy’s family take another couple of hours until the girl’s party calls them to ask for their verdict again. They reply in a long-suffering tone that they are okay with the match and would need to prepare for the ceremony. They sit around doing nothing on the pretext of preparing for the “roka ceremony“, second guessing if they had been too rash or whether they should have delayed a bit longer. They make a move to leave the middleman’s home at least an hour later than promised.

Step 12: The approval of the girl’ side of the world

The boy’s party reaches the girl’s the house famously late, where the entire house is crazier than before and, yet, stands to attention at their arrival. Suddenly, hands are being wrung, the boy is crushed under the hugs of all of girl’s male cousins (including those who had been earlier waiting on Whatsapp). The female cousins are looking down from the roof or waiting at the threshold giggling and whispering and adding to the general conundrum. The boy’s own cousins are back in his city, so he is alone to deal with the attention.

The house is filled to gills with people, ready to burst at seams. Cousins are pouring in and pouring out (for arrangements). A photographer, arranged to create proof of the ceremony, is busily arranging lights. A bunch of cousins are busily spreading chandani (white silky cloth) on hired beddings across the floor to arrange enough sitting space for all the invited (and uninvited) gentry. People keep getting in each other’s way apologizing with smiles, and trying not to get irritated with the way sweat drips from their forehead because no number of hired fans is enough to kill the heat generated by breathing of so many people.

The boy’s party produces a basket of fruits and a large box of sweets arranged on the way to the venue.

The girl is being prepared again by the same bhabhi along with the instructions along the same lines–don’t eat, don’t drink, don’t speak, don’t breathe… The girl has given in and is not growling anymore, so the bhabhi shows her exactly how to eat baby-sized bites without smearing her lipstick and drinking with a straw (because she had smeared her lipstick the last time). The heat is making the make-up runny and the women in the house are suggesting all the possible ways to make it steady…none of which is possible anymore since the make-up is already done.

Someone comments that they should have hired a bridal artist rather than a novice, at which the bhabhi helpfully reminds them that they are free to bring one in if they think so which effectively shuts everyone up. The girl’s hair is done in elegant curls and has more make-up than she had earlier that day and she shivers at the woman she sees in the mirror. But everyone is telling how wonderful she looks and she trusts them because that is all she can do. The girl is then “taken” (you would think she can’t walk on her own) to the room where everyone is sitting.

The boy’s eyes zeroes down on the bhabhi (wearing a magenta sari that shows all her curves and plenty of skin) holding the shivering girl (shivering from nerves being close to nervous breakdown). Then again, he realises the photographer is shooting his reaction and slides his eyes to look at the girl. The girl “is sat” next to the boy this time (where he can touch her if he dares to take on an entire family of feral brothers). The girl sits as delicately as possibly for the fear of causing a tear in her silk sari. The boy’s party think of it as shyness. The girl’s party thinks of it as nerves. Only the bhabhi knows the truth as she carefully arranges the pallu of the girl’s sari.

The mother-in-law remarks how lucky her son is to have bagged her, while also reminding her that her son was her best bet and that matches are made in heavens. She then produces a heavily embroided sari she had already bought in her own city but wrapped in a wrapping sheet to hide the fact that they had come prepared. She also presents a gold ring (that she had carried in her purse for three years in the hope of getting her son married) and the said box of sweets. The other women in the boy’s family who had come with the party present cash envelops (or if they were also prepared–silver ornaments).

Each action is followed by the photographer’s blinding flash and clicks of photos on various mobile phones. Someone is live streaming the event on the Whatsapp group.

The girl’s father does similar stuff for the boy, presenting clothes, a ring and sweets. The considerably larger family on the girl’s side ensures that by the time the ceremony is done, the boy is considerably richer than what he came in with. And this is only the beginning of a lifelong supply of goodies, as long as the girl is happy with him.

Note that the girl and boy had no real opportunity to talk yet. They are playing blind. By the time they realise their mistake, it will be too late, and they will live erringly happy ever after!


To be continued if I see people showing interest in the rest of the process. Let me know if you survive it and dare to know more.


Disclaimer:ย No part of this story is fiction, may be a little exaggerated but, in spirit, accurate. I have seen it happen to most of my cousins, even played the giggly cousin part quite a few times. I have been the internal messenger, salad arranger, dahi (yogurt) whisker, chutney (sauce) maker and the uninvited cousin in several such events. Not all these events come to an agreeable ending, and sometimes the boy and the girl might have to go through several such experiences before the said roka ceremony, but each one is just as crazy.

Posted in Blogging, Random Thoughts

Inspired

My hands are smeared in wet flour from my semi-finished dough when the inspiration strikes. I look around for somewhere to write it. I can spot a paper. Now, where is that pen?

My daughter must have taken it to draw…why can’t she draw with her own pens is a mystery to me. She must have pens in all the colours ever created by humanity and yet, it is my pen she seeks every single time an inspiration strikes her.

I frantically search around, lest the muse leave me behind to be with those better equipped to deal with her. Where could my daughter have kept my pen…or her pens, or pencil, or pencil colours…? Where does she hide writing equipment after using it is another mystery I am yet to unravel.

Suddenly, I spot a crayon lying under the bed and reach out for it. My back is complaining as I grab for it! Now it is covered in dough as well as the bed where I had put my hand to support my weight and the floor where I picked it from. Ugh!

Well, at least I have the crayon now. Okay, where is that paper? I try to write but anyone who had ever kneaded dough can stand witness to what I experienced next. The tiny crayon was slipping from between my fingers that were still smeared with dough. But washing off dough and drying them will take time.

I need something longer.

I lunge for my husband’s pen–this one with a special grip. He is better organised than I, and, for some reason, my daughter doesn’t take his pen. There is a silent treaty between the two of them–I buy you toffees and other stuff, and you leave my stuff where it is. So it is right where it always is.

So, I take his pen quickly and dash for that scrap of paper. The pen behaves as all reasonable ballpoint pens do during the times of need–it splutters several times creating illegible indents on the paper without much ink to call it writing. I feel like a viking trying to write on rocks with a chisel. I have to create loops on the piece of paper to make the pen work properly.

Now, my paper is ruined with indents and smears of dough. But I don’t have the time to look for another. I will have to write in the corners or wherever I can find the space.

Okay, so what was that I wanted to write?

Uhh…

umm…

I was saying that…umm…

Ugh…

It will come back to me, I swear it will. It always does. I will just have to prepared this time. I will carry a pen and paper in my pocket…

Only my dresses don’t have pockets…

I will take notes on my phone…

If I can only remember where I kept it when the muse arrives…

Sigh! I pick up a rag and begin cleaning the dough–now dried–from my hands, the bed, the floor, the crayon and the pen, wash my hands again and go back to my dough…

Author’s note: From years of working in a highly creative field (Instructional Design), I have realised that inspiration strikes at the most unusual moments when you don’t have a pen around–cooking in the kitchen, taking a bath, driving a scooter, hailing a taxi, preparing my daughter for school and, especially, when sleeping!

Posted in Random Thoughts

The Itch

Scritch…

Scratch, scratch, scratch…

I try to scratch the idea out of my head.

It is stuck too deep inside

Where it itches

But doesn’t show itself.

Scratch, scratch, scratch…

Waiting for the tease to fall out

Where I can see it…

Urgh! Can’t reach it right!

Fine, I’ll just ignore it

And write something else…

Scritch…

Scratch, scratch, scratch…

Posted in Blogging

Sorted | Lost all Subscribers: Are the Aliens Behind it?

Hey everyone! Thank you for the responses!

I finally found the list of subscribers somewhere in the Stats page. By that time, I swear, I was about to have a stroke! It is not the fear of losing readers but losing friends…your comments keep me going.

You see, I am a work-from-home Instructional Designer by profession.

The job itself is lonely since I just keep looking at the documents trying to decide how to best design them for the maximum impact. And I am working from home, so my only connection to my colleagues is via once-a-week virtual call which often gets cancelled. I do have a joint family, but not everyone understands the rumble inside my brain! ๐Ÿ™‚

Your messages keep me afloat. Since you all have a creative streak, it is like having our own Writer’s Club. You remind me that I am more than the work I do. I joke with you. I often reply to message not directed to me and it makes me smile.

So, losing all of you is not an option. I just realised that I don’t thank you all enough for standing by my side through all these years!

Thank you! I love you all!

Posted in Life and After

Deserted

Disclaimer: This story has reference to graphic violence. Reader’s discretion is required.

All that I can say about the place is that it is neat. No dust, no wares.

Only an old cash register and a couple of phones sit on the table. Not sure what she uses the cash register for since there is nothing to sell. But I’m sure glad to find herโ€”anything is better than walking in the desert with an open wound that still drips blood after several hours.

I wonder why I had assumed I could find my way through the desert alone without the guide. I shouldn’t have killed him until I reached my new hideout. But he had somehow realised who I was and I acted on instinct, which was to killโ€”I was already wanted for 17 murders; one more wouldn’t change anything…

Or so I had thought…

I slit his throat with the penknife at the same moment as he stabbed me with a screwdriver in the side. At least, he died quickly. I, on the other hand, have been in agony ever sinceโ€”as if he is still twisting that damned screwdriver inside even after the hours I have spent blundering around in the desert. I’m sure I had a phone when I started the journey, I can’t find it anymore. It probably slipped out of my pocket when I fell on the way, several times. I can’t think who to call for help and where to call them anyway, for I have no idea where I am now.

The pain is driving me mad and I would welcome death if it would bring relief. But death seems to be avoiding me for some reason, drawing out the torment. My money bag feels like it weighs a tonโ€”I can barely move my feet. I feel like taking it off my back, yet for some reason, I cling to it like a lifeline.

When I finally found this office in the middle of nowhere, I was too relieved to care about the consequences of entering a building. My wound isn’t conspicuous and anyone helping me would certainly enquire. Thankfully, with more than a million dollars tucked in, I had enough hard cash to bribe my way out of any situation. I just hope they aren’t too honest to bribe, or too corrupt to kill me while I sleep.

This office doesn’t bear any sign, nor can I see any stuff to sell. Honestly, I don’t even see the point of having an office in the middle of nowhere anyway; I haven’t seen a single soul on my way in the past five hours. So, who would drive all the way through this hot-as-hell desert to reach this office?

I stand at the door indecisive as the old hag manning the register eyes me with open curiosity. For her sake, I hope she would help me without causing a trouble. “I need a doctor,” I whisper. My mouth feels like a sandpaper and my voice comes out raspy and breathlessโ€”I could kill for some water. I just hope it doesn’t come to that.

“I’m sorry but we don’t have that facility here.”

Her drawling voice sets my teeth on edge. I don’t have forever. Her eyes have a dreamy look with no care in the world, which is weird. With the blood on my clothes, I had hoped she would be scared. That way, she’d do my bidding. But, you can’t have everything, I guess.

So, I ask again, “I need a doctor. Call one. Tell him I need stitches and antiseptic. I’ll pay double…triple, if needed.” I add urgency to my voice but it is a struggle, considering the crippling pain.

“You are a little too late for that, darling,” she drawls again.

The pain is maddening and I think of pulling out the penknife again, but she is no use to me dead, “Well, that’s for a doctor to decide!”

“Do you know what this office is for?”

“I don’t care.”

“Oh! I would, if I were you!” Her voice has a menacing edge now and the crazy glint in her eyes gives me goosebumps, which is stupid. I have murdered 18 people with a flick of my wrist…

Why isn’t she scared of me? Is she with the police? No, she is not here to arrest me. Her eyes are cruel…and calculated…and excited at my pain…Is she one of sadistic serial murderers who kill for just the thrill? Just my luck to come across one at my weakest moment!

Should I try bolting? Just the thought of moving my legs any further has me on my knees as the pain seers through my gut again. Then, I am lying on the floor, writhing in agony. The weight of my money bag is pulling at my shoulders and crushing me underneath…

It feels like it is filled with stones instead of banknotes.

I close my eyes wishing for blissful oblivion but no help there. I hear her voice clearly, “Well, darling, since you walked in from the Exit door rather than the Entry on the far wall,” she waved towards the open door on the opposite wall, “I guess, you don’t know yet…”

I wish for death to relieve me. I would beg this woman to kill me now if she wasn’t leering at me like a trapped rat. She probably likes long, drawn-out deaths like mine. I wonder how many dead bodies she has buried in the desert sand.

She smiles at me like she is doing me a favour and calmly continues. “They probably brought you in via a shortcut and dumped you directly. These kids now-a-days have no patience for formalities,” she shakes her head indulgently. “I have told them so many times, they must follow the procedure. Explain to the people where they are going and what to expect but…”

I want to shout at her to kill me now. I don’t care who “they” are. Nobody brought me here. I am not interested in chit-chat. I just want to die so the pain would stop.

But she continues, still smiling cruelly. “Well, you see, this is the receiving office of Hell. You have already been here for at least several hours, as you will continue till eternity!”


Author’s note: This story has been sitting in my WP account for three years. Since blood and gore isn’t my favourite theme, I couldn’t find a place for it in my book. I opened my drafts yesterday and there it sat at the bottom, looking at me with accusing eyes. So, finally I decided to unleash it on the world! ๐Ÿ˜€

Photo by Jakob Owens on Unsplash

Posted in Blogging

Writing Tip: How does that line sound?

As Instructional Designers, we design instructions. We create courses about how to do certain things, may be run a software, mobile phone, or a crane… To ensure that learners remember the said instructions, we make them easy, and at the same time, interesting and strong, and professional. Formatting words correctly plays an important role in the process.ย 

Have you ever wondered why a certain line you wrote sounds different than you intend? Somehow it sounds, sharper and angrier? Why the person you sent an email to never saw the link you shared? Or why they are suddenly avoiding talking to you?

Have you been using CAPITAL letters a lot? Or may be boldfaced it with an underline?

Read through the lines below to see the effect of each formatting.

You may leave now and need not come back. (Statement of fact?)

You may leave now and need not come back. (Order?)

You may leave now and need not come back. (Order?)

You may leave now and need not come back. (Angry order?)

YOU MAY LEAVE NOW AND NEED NOT COME BACK. (Shouting?)

The same sentence sounds different in our mind when formatted differently. While you may be using different formatting to bring certain actions to people’s notice, they may read it as an angry order or shouting. When not meeting a person face to face, people find it difficult to interpret their mood. Make it easier for your audience to understand, by following the formatting rules.

  • Use boldface only to highlight certain words not the entire line.
  • Use underline to show it is a link.
  • Avoid boldface and underline at the same time.
  • Use ALL CAPITAL letters where you want to sound like shouting. (I’d prefer it to be happy shouting, like YEEEEEE! But I leave it up to you.)
  • To bring certain actions to notice, just add a boldface ‘Note’. e.g. “Note: Get this done on priority.”

Please note that ALL CAPITAL is considered both unprofessional and difficult to read. I avoid it all the time, only resorting to it when the shouting out loud emotion cannot be captured otherwise. Even then, I use it only for certain words for emphasis.

I hope it helps. Let me know if you disagree through comments.