The Quote -

"Nope, I don't really have anything new to say. but then, I always have something amazing to tell about things that you already know!!"


Friday, December 14, 2012

The Honest Woodcutter- Fiction (Aesop's Retold)

“You are not honest.” The angel sighed. “Not even close to it.”

The wood cutter’s hand tightened around the three axes as he stopped walking, turned and looked up at the angel. His hardened face skewed into welt lines lashed with the abrupt accusation.

“But I did the right thing… Didn't I?”

“Oh …. Really? So, tell me, my dear man” She taunted “What happened? And what did you do, that you think is so right?”

“My axe. It fell into the river. My mistake. Was not handling it properly. And just as I thought that it was done for, you came forward to help but retrieved a golden and silver version of my axe before coming up with my own. And yes, as honest as I am, I owned up to only my own axe.”

“And then…” she prodded.

“You gave me all the three as a gift to my honesty. Right??”

 “Well, that’s true.” She paused, her warm red lips dipping into a delicious smirk.  “But wouldn't a really honest man simply refuse the other two axes given as gifts. And what’s the point of being honest, if you start accepting bribes for the very act, the one you deem to be in accordance to your own moral principles.”

She calmly shook her head, her soft flowing hair reveling in the mellow breeze.

“Oh… please…… Didn't you see this coming? What are you… a thumb sucking kid? You are honest because you choose to be; not because someone greases your palm now and then for your good deeds.”

The wood cutter blurted out. “But it was a gift.”

It was then that she started to laugh. Her luscious voice raining through the entire valley, her guffaws drizzling with the dew of her mirth, her dark eyes exploding with a million teasing tinges, she turned around towards the bottom of the river. And just before leaping in into its arcane depths, she gave the bewildered woodcutter one last look and sighed.

Another wannabe. A honest one at that.

Author's note-

Another attempt in twisting the Aesop's with regard to a more skewed version of morality. The argument that is made by the fairy is ambiguous and questionable but I think it is still valid in its own right. If we are not enjoying something and doing it just for the end result- then that I think marks the first step in the decay of human purpose. (Well, that went too philosophical than I intended to. Pardon me.) And I would love to hear what you guys think of my version of honesty.

Also, If you guys are interested to check out the other Aesop's that were retold by me, kindly check out this link. Also, the original tale of the honest woodcutter can be read in the following link.

Sunday, December 9, 2012

Always late - 55 fiction

The Snap-

The Tale-

“Always late”
They stared at her in silence.

“Irresponsible jerk!” 
She looked around defensively.

“Oh, Trust me……………… I should know.” Her tart voice pitched up.
“He was late even for our marriage”

She nodded to the others.
“Wait till he gets here. He is going to wish; he crashed the car once more……But now Alone.”

Author's note-

The theme of the 55 fiction is Ghost. I wanted the fiction to be vague and cryptic in the first read. But subtly humorous during the second. I hope that you guys like it.

When I read in my comments page- that a 55 fiction contest is being conduced by Sasi, I felt that it was just tailor-made for me, as I was not getting time to write a good post for almost a month now. I wish him cheers and all the best for his venture.

And I loved that picture I found on Google  Damn. She is hot, cute and at the same time angry. Now, that's some girl. :P

This post is written for the Best 55 Fictionist Contest, hosted by Sasikumar Raja Blogs at Beginner

Thursday, December 6, 2012

"Her nightmare": My entry for the Get Published contest

The Idea-

Yes. The fiction is about love. Not just that ephemeral string of amber tones between the lovers themselves. It is about the tight bonds that are strained between the parents and their kids involved. A youngster in the final year of her engineering graduation gets caught red handed by her mother while chatting with her lover in skype.

Of course, she is placed in a well reputed MNC. Her career is secure.
Of course, she has always been given ample freedom to make her own decisions.
Of course, her parents have always been more friends and guides than the conservative meaning of the word.
Of course, the boy she loved is a senior executive working in management sector, is a responsible guy earning handsomely, not just loved her but cared about every aspect of her and her family.
Their love was heartfelt.

But, all that’s for naught, when her mother confronts her with the raw fact that she had to find out about her daughter’s love like a third person. Just by accident.

What Makes This Story ‘Real’

The first serious problem lovers face, confrontation with their parents. It’s inspired by my own friend and her parents – as they try making sense of the spiraling realities of love.


“What were you doing?” her mother’s crisp voice prodded
“Nothing” She said staring at her mother standing at the doorway.
Do you want me to believe that” her mother asked as she came into the room and sat down on her bed.

The clock stuck two; its chimes ringing across the silent room, jumping from one blank wall to another slowly dissolving into the darkness of the night. The fan continued in its merry go round, a dull creak with every other round, probably just not merry enough. And despite all those swirls of air, that it threw forth, she started to sweat.

Who were you chatting to” her mother’s voice was eerily calm.
“No one” She blurted out, the words tumbling out of her and slipping into open.
“No one??
Yes, no one”

Her mother sighed. “You forgot to switch off the modem and the web camera. The computer itself is still running.” She paused and looked at her daughter’s widening eyes.
Was it in Skype?? Who was he? You were chatting with

“Who??” she mouthed back. The actual words never crossed her throat; they just suffocated themselves rather than lying to her mother again. She looked up at her mother, tearing herself up into pieces, not knowing what to say. She felt her fingers through her loose hair, caressing with all the love and then a stifled tear shot across her cheeks.

“It’s okay. Please don’t lie” her mother shifted herself to hold her head to her bosom.
“It’s just that ” her mother paused “after all the freedom I gave you, after all the open environment I provided, after everything” her voice wavered for the first time “I ….. I had to learn it like this.”

Endnote: This is my entry for the HarperCollins–IndiBlogger Get Published contest, which is run with inputs from Yashodhara Lal and HarperCollins India.

Monday, November 19, 2012

Love her smile- A poem

The Poem-

Of Latin celebrated;
Coliseum scarlet painted;
An epoch of aristocracy sainted;
Dagger tips tainted;
Lips regal anointed;

Matins of a Red satin empire
A culture cooped on attire;
Sung &
In a land of Caesars departed-

In Rome –
The home of glass blowing;
Silica Silver warm & glowing;
Fair slivers of-
Flair Rivers;
A million colors; them pillion weavers-

Raining away those brush strokes of light;
Loaning away lush rainbows in flight;
Glazes of glass;
Lazes in class;
Shades shivering in pastels & all ells;
Shimmering allure; their simmering azure;
Such a lovely art; of arcane sort;
Simply lost!
Quite simply lost!!

All the etchings; plaid in pane;
Glass blowing in plain;
Simple lost!
Quite simple lost!!
Its mystery lost-

And all she did was simply smile.
Just smile.

The dip of her lips;
The curve of its nips;
The Dew drop dimples;
The few prop pimples;

Her crimson smile
Thy blooming isle;

With summer's sparkle;
A bit of winter's crinkle-

Just let her smile-
Just once, Oh please-
Just... Let her smile

Oh!! for 
I love her. 
I love her. 
I love her smile.

Author's note-

I wanted to write a poem where the smile of a girl is put in a sublime and poetic way. Hope you guys like it. I learnt the facts of glass blowing and the influence of roman empire on it from wikipedia. Kindly look into it, if interested further.

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

The shopping safari-

The snap-

The Tale-

I was out shopping with my mom and my sister last weekend. And as always, it was one of the most enlightening and enriching experience, I am destined to have as a guy with a girl (be it mom, girl friend or wife). It’s not just about lugging around their purchase, trying to keep up with their trails that that tend to follow no known path. It’s not just about the ample amount of time that you are going to wait for her to make her choices. It’s not about you always having the right supportive comments even if it’s about obscure things like which is the best color for mattress mauve or amber (Yeah, yeah- I have been educated by the women in my family, those are indeed colors.) It’s not even about all the money that’s being eased out of your pocket with finesse. Ah, and there comes the punch line, putting forth the corner stone of shopping.

It’s not about you, at all. It’s about her.

And no, no questions are entertained by women on this part. Period.

I am pretty confident that shopping can be used as a litmus test to see whether you are ready to tie the knot with your girl. If you can sustain the slaughter for the entire day and still manage to smile at her when she calmly asks you, with a thoughtful pause whether she has bought too much, then hats off dude - you have just been perfectly potty trained. And hey, better hang on to her. You don’t really want to undergo the cumbersome training process once again with the next girl down the line. Do you??   

And yes, the trickiest part of the shopping yet- One that has stumped generations of men, one that’s still going to trip the unwary, the oldest problem in the book, the choice con. It all starts with a simple vacillation that she has and cannot decide between two colors and asks you for your comment. Of course you don’t really know the colors and knowing is not really going to help you when you are shopping for a garden hose but then this is the holy grail of shopping. And what you are going to do here- she is going to remember forever.

Whether you were there for her or not?
Whether you care about her selection or not?
Whether you are interested in her purchases?
Whether you were paying any attentions at all or not? (Of-course that question’s rhetorical)

My mom can spend all day trying to decide what color hose to buy and she would still need some more time. She might even purchase the damn hose and then will have a feeling that the other hose was aesthetically much better. It’s like being mesmerized by the bottles of a juggler. The women, they are too skilled in this arcane art swindling their choices and tastes around their limber minds leaving us men totally lost.

And to know that it all started with those few words my mom uttered with genuine puzzlement “I think red hose would be good but I am still thinking”.

And how are you going to face this?
How are you going to claw yourself out of this one?
How are you going to prove your mettle to her?

Tough questions-

And no, I don’t know the answers. If I would be that lucky bastard who knew the right reply, I would be out there teaching it all those men in need out there, not writing this blog post.

And yeah, a final question begs to be pondered.

 What’s so unnerving about a women selecting a sari* -

May be it’s the way she makes the sales guy show her almost every single sari in the store;
May be it’s the way she asks exactly what is not available in the store without even realizing it; May be it’s the way in which she asks for the first sari she was shown after making a huge pile;
May be its way she looks calmly at the sales man after causing all the ruckus in the world to select a single sari and then demand a discount with all the cool and reserve in the entire universe.

How do women get away with it? When I asked my mom, she just smiled and answered me –“hey we are women and we are entitled to certain things”

“Like” I quipped

She calmly looked at me and just smiled for an answer. Go figure that.

*Sari – the most common attire that women wear in India. It looks real good on a girl. Trust me on this one.

Author’s note –
Though the post can be construed as a puerile attempt at humor, I would like to stick to the idea that truth can also be humorous.

And guys, I would love to hear—your take on the topic.

Saturday, November 3, 2012

Celebrating Diwali – A short Story

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 33; the thirty-third edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is 'Celebrations'

This fiction won Silver in Blog-a-Ton 33. A warm thanks for all the readers who voted for this post.

The Tale-


The twelve year olds gasped as the bottle rocket leapt up into the sky, drawing an arc of glittering sprinkles and burst into a million lights. The inky night’s sky carried around the echoes of the bloom, still reverberating on the lucid eyes of the playful lot, as they stared up into the void waiting for the next dazzler. Anticipation welling in their chubby faces.

He looked at his street peers and sighed to himself as he walked to light the next cracker. He couldn't help his chest swelling a bit in pride, with each and every fancy cracker that he set ablaze, with the swirling showers that bound forward into the celestial heights, the litany of colors that shot out of his hand held sparklers, swirls, twirls and the light pearls, the middle of activity and celebrating frenzy. He let loose another bevy of fireworks and turned to look at the fascinated faces of the street kids. Pink, Violet, Amber and Magenta – a bunch of curious eyes followed the myriad lines cruising from the spilling sparks seething unbridled into the darkness of the night.

“Burst some more!! Burst some more” the street kids shouted. 

He sighed melodramatically pleased with himself, at the magnificence of the firecrackers that he was bursting and at the bevy of requests that piled up at him for his consideration. He smiled and responded. Once again, the street exploded into a plethora of colors brimming with incandescence and life. The poor kids jumped with their hands up, floating up along with them; their faded clothes raised and riveted, its torn rims scuffling in the passing wind, their dirty hair puzzled but still pandering to their delighted leaps, their lucid voices tethering in jubilation. Somewhere beneath their bare bucking legs laid forgotten the dirt sack- filled and tied tight with all the thrown away pieces of clothing and the bits of recyclable plastics, still rank with lurid fungus, an assemble of things that they thought was worth something from the streets and the occasional dustbin, their bag of scavenge, the bag that was to pay for their latter supper, if they were to get one.

But then, when in bliss now, why bother about later.

And just when the volley of crackers went down, he took out the real big ones, the 1000 walas* and held it out to them like a showman magician putting forth some object of great mystical value and a brief proud smile glinted down his lips just for a moment. And just as he sprang to the middle of the road to light the crackers, the kids scampered with frantic cries and hushes to a safe distance, just safe enough to be at the foot of the excitement. And the crackers did not disappoint. Even as he scuttled away with heroic sweeps of his legs after he lit the fuse, a jumble of drums rolled pitching and patting ripping out from a litany of lights skewing the borders of fun and festivities.

The Snap- 

And then finally, he brought forth his last show piece for the day; His most favorite of the lot; the last pack of bottle rockets; with special double shot; ones that exploded not once but twice in the sky sending out reels of lighted petals. And with each and every whoosh, boom and boom of every single rocket, he savored with vigor the fireworks, all the attention sweeping around him, the joy he threw open for everybody and most of all, just the bumbling binge of life that pumped around him.

After bursting all his crackers, he turned to his house with a dazzling smile and walked in, his strides smart and confident. His mother was in the kitchen cooking, his father as usual in front of the television with the news channel playing, its volume tuned up.

“Papa….” He whined “I want to see cartoon network…”

“Not now chotu*” his father retorted “Don’t disturb me. You can watch your cartoons later”

“P… L… E…. A….. S…. E….” He pitched up his voice dragging raw the bare legs of those syllables.

And just as his father turned at look at him, with irked lines crossing his face, their home went dark; A power failure. His father cursed to himself, got up and went out to look at the fuses. The house shone a melancholy amber, bathed in all the liquid light that the array of Diwali lamps put up; its hallowed luminescence drawing sweeping arcs of their shadows as he went along with his father to the front porch. And just then, he heard sharp jubilant laughs and yells coming from the street.

He went and peaked outside the courtyard gate.

Amid-st the dust being kicked up and the bunch of legs that warred with each other, a rough version of football was being played by the rag-picking kids. They pushed about each other trying to get their ball into some invisible goal, their ball that rolled around with gusto, their ball that clinked and rattled with each and every bounce, their ball; the bottle, his bottle, his own bottle, the one he used for lighting the fuses of those rockets, the one he got from his father after quite some tantrum, the bottle he simply forgot and left in the middle of nowhere, skittered across the street bumping from one tiny feet to another, chased and paused by the same bundle of feet.

And just then, the bottle rolled and landed right in front of him, kicked by one of those kids still soaked in the slime of their celebrations. They turned and looked at him, their brown limpid eyes expectant.

He looked at them and at the bottle and felt himself torn with indecision. Some part of him wanted to get his bottle, his bottle from these kids. Some part of him urged him to kick the bottle again and join in the game. But how can he?? It’s not like he hated them or don’t want to play with them. It’s just that, it felt somewhat awkward, him playing with them, the rag pickers. He stood there caught in a rut vacillating, his heart pounding in his ears, licks of sweat lining his underarms; his fingers pulling tight his shirt tails.

He looked down at his bottle once again, his bottle, his own bottle and then at the kids. It was not like he needed the bottle. But, why should he give it to them? He was not there playing. He was not there in the middle of things. He was not even involved. Of course, he was the one who forgot the bottle. But then it’s still his bottle. Right? And he doesn't really need any permission from anybody to take back the same bottle? Does he? Why shouldn't he? 

He started to edge towards the bottle; measured steps; One eye still on the bottle; one on the street kids. The bottle shimmered alone in the distant light of the diwali lamps. Its once smooth contours, now a parable of scars and lines, its fine features chipped and nipped in countless places, the bottle kept its silence for once, maybe it sensed the drama unfolding around. And just as he got near the bottle, he heard the clear voice of a girl from the bunch shouting.


He paused and looked blank at the bunch of kids staring at them; as blank as a deer caught in the severe lights of a racing truck. He just stared; lost for thoughts. The kids, like the kids they were jumped into the band wagon and chorused “KICK…… KICK…… KICK”. Their eyes alone shining in the darkness, along with those few diwali lamps still left with oil to continue burning.

Their throbbing voices flooded him in waves, their joy, their openness, their friendliness and the easy invitation to their game. He suddenly felt beaten, ashamed. He had wanted deprive them of their ball. He had wanted to stop all this fun, all this delight and rejoice, all this warmth and games; Just because he wanted back his broken bottle, his old wasted, broken bottle; His bottle that was going to end in the dustbin anyway; His bottle that was a another piece of litter for him; his bottle that he did not really have any lasting interest in, His bottle, his own junk bottle but their coveted ball.

His throat clenched with emotion and his young eyes welled up. He looked at their them warmly. Their eyes alone shone in the darkness, sparkling with rapture and exalted delectation. A fete embellished and garnished with innocence and life. The kids were wanted their balls. It was their ball. He took a deep breath and moved forward to kick the bottle to them and to join them in the game.

And just then, the power came back on. The front porch lights blinked suddenly illuminating the expanse of the street, replacing the kind and warm lights of diwali lamps with the harsh and static shine of electricity. The new brilliance spilled the realities that the diwali lamps had kissed and missed; The torn dirty ragging clothes flapping free in the wind, their dry dejected hair, their dingy bare feet with nails rimmed with grime, their noses dripping with phlegm and their bundle of dirty rags left to stink in the corner of the street. And as he hesitated, in that split second, he heard the sharp voice of his father calling for him.

“Chotu*, where are you?”

He turned and walked slowly to his father, leaving the bottle right where it stopped in the first place. His strides thoughtfully slow.

“Hey… Why the long face? What happened?” his father quizzed.

“Nothing” he said.

“hmhm .... Really!!”

“hmhm hmhm” he nodded.

“Okay, come on” said his father as he led him by hand into the house. “I am hungry. Let’s see what your mother has made for dinner.”

And as they went inside hand in hand, he could help but hear the rampant jubilation of the street kids and their game of football, still celebrating Diwali.


*1000 walas - a firecracker that is made from 1000 smaller pieces and it very famous in India during the celebrations of Diwali

*Chotu - Colloquial call name for kids. (translates as small one in Hindi - an Indian Language)

Author’s note-

When I first contemplated this tale, I was thinking of giving it a happy ending with the kid joining in for the football game. With Diwali celebrations ahead, I wanted to write something that will uplift the moods of everyone reading this post. My sister, my first critic – did not like that ending. She simply told me that you cannot sacrifice a good story, in order to provide a happy ending and a cliched one at that. So, I revised the story – to work in a more practical manner and that gave me this bitter sweet ending. Hence, I share creative credits of this story with my sister.

Also, I take immense joy in wishing a very happy and a memorable Diwali to each and every one of my friends, reading this post and their families. I bid you guys’ good health and great spirits in this festive season. And ample luck to all my buddy - blog-a-ton participants. Hope you guys have a great time blogging this holiday season.


Diwali is an important festival of India that usually comes around in November.  It is celebrated with bursting crackers, exchanging sweets and savories that are home made and decorating nights with rows and rows of Diwali lights (trust me, you should see the resplendence of the them. Its from these lamps that Diwali also gets the name as Festival of lights ).

In my native, Tamil Nadu- the festival marks the victory of Lord Krishna over the Demon Narakasura. It is said that the demon himself when dying at the hands of the Krishna, requested to him, that he did not want to be forgotten and would like for his death to be celebrated with the bursting of  noisy crackers(the tale as told by my grandmother). There are several other origin stories for Diwali and to know more about them and to know more about the festival itself- Kindly visit the given link.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Introduced By: BLOGGER NAME, Participation Count: 05

Saturday, October 27, 2012

The Puberty Talk-

The following contains material of mature discussion between my sister and myself and reader discretion is strongly advised. The author does not intend to hurt anyone’s ethics nor their cultural perceptions. The issues raised are but a fragment of quite a few pertinent questions that creep around the fringes of our mind, concealed, camouflaged and forgotten but still breathing, pulsing and very much alive.

The Snap-

Sis- “I wonder why it’s that hard for parents to teach their own kids about Sex, their menstrual periods, related stuff. I think they don’t really know the kind of misinformation that’s rampant among teens especially girls.”

Myself- “Misinformation really. I honestly thought that with internet, face book, chatting and stuff, kids today are more knowledgeable than ever.”

Sis- “You THINK??”

Myself- “Wow, you sound pretty raw!! Why what happened?”

Sis- “hmhm… My friends and I were discussing about our first periods, the way our parents handled us, the problems that we faced, our first education on hygiene during periods and so on …………. and I heard some pretty fucked up stories; Stories that I know to be true but just cannot digest the reality of them.”

Myself- “Okay….”

Sis- “you do know my old roommate! Right? Did you know that she actually believed that she had cancer when she had her first periods? She misinterpreted her bleeding to be associated with cancer and assumed that she was going to die. Imagine her terror as she struggled mentally for 2 months with that misunderstood fact! Thankfully, her mother caught her bleeding during the third month and that put an end to her misery.”

Myself-“Wow- that’s pretty hard to take in”

Sis- “Okay, then you are not going to believe a word of the next one. Happened to one of my class mates. She had her first periods. Her mother helped her clean up. They had the usual ceremony* marking her first menstrual cycle. Then they went on with their lives. They never really talked about what happened. And now again, imagine the state of the girl when her second period starts. She was not just flabbergasted with the unexpected bleeding but ill equipped to handle the situation when it occurred to her in school. Sordid chagrin of a memory.”

Myself-“I…..... I don’t know what to say!!”  

Sis-“Yeah, it does feels daunting! Right? To acknowledge that matured adults are pretty much fumbling in the dark when it comes to dealing with issues on teaching their own children stuff such as periods and sex in a sensible manner. It’s not like I want to generalize but I think the majority of those who rant about the preservation of culture fall under this same category.”

Myself- “hmhm… yeah, that argument can be made. And yes, honesty with regard to such issues between kids and parents are pretty low. But still I am at loss for words. How can such extremes of ignorance exist?”

Sis-“hmhm…  It’s hard to reason it out or explain. In a society such as ours where people want to preserve the idea that they are culturally enigmatic, sometimes gives rise to some pretty messed up scenarios. Some even hilarious!! You know, what happened to me!! ”

Myself- “WHAT?? ”

Sis-  “After my first period mom was explaining to me about hygiene with regard to tampon usage and its proper disposal. You know how she is – quite a stickler for keeping things neat and compartmentalized. She was explaining to me that the best way to manage the stuff to be used during periods was by keeping a separate bag for all the pads and wipes being used. Then she gave bag for me and instructed me to start using it. It was then that I saw a similar bag on the credenza and asked her about it. She shrugged nonchalantly and told me, it was her own bag for her own periods. I looked at her appalled and blurted out “You too have the same periods!!!”

* In Tamil Culture, the first Menstrual cycle of the girl is celebrated as a customary ceremony of welcoming her into adulthood. 

Author’s note-

This is not an effort to impart any knowledge, nor any solutions to  bridge the gap that exists between the parents and their child when discussions pertaining to issues of sex, menstruation, hygiene and such are concerned.(I am hardly hardly an expert.) It is just a confirmation of the issues that are at hand and are eating away at the rims of our society. I just want people to take notice. Just want them to ponder for a few seconds. Just want them to be aware. Nothing more. Nothing less. Hence the succinct and sharp tone of the post. 

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

Navratri - 55 fiction:

Note - This post is dedicated to Navratri, with each story depicting one of the nine forms of Goddess Shakthi.

The Snap-

Story 1: Durga – The invincible:

They waited; hyenas relishing the anticipation of the kill. The waiting game will pay. She will get exhausted; will break; will deliver. They have the whole night.

Moments melded into minutes; minutes into hours.

The dawn broke. They ran leaving 2 of their buddies at her feet bleeding, the knife still in her hand, her eyes still burning.

Story 2: Bhadrakali – The auspicious:

The kid raced through the fields laughing at the top of her voice. The wind swiveled through her loose hair as she tumbled into her father’s open arms. He lifted her over his shoulders with a surplus smile on his lips. 

Nothing new; Nothing much; He did not really care when celebrating his daughter’s youth.

Story 3: Amba – The Mother:

Her child slipped and fell down with a tearing shriek. The pain jack sawed through his tender body. She rushed to her child, dried his tears, cajoled him, checked him for serious wounds, cleaned the mud off him and she left him alone.

Left him alone to pick himself up once again.

Story 4: Annapoorna Devi – The Provider:

She could never breast feed her baby. The doctors were kind enough to explain with patience. But all she heard in the damning silence was her own soul wailing.

Hard decisions; harder to live through them; Months passed.

She never breast fed and her kid’s still healthy. She sighed. Love cannot be breast fed.

Story 5: Sarvamangala – The joyous:

She always laughed loudly; especially after arriving there. Her voracious mirth; verbally signed; Deep and sonorous; lucid and warm guffaws; brimming with unsaid humor; listless possibilities and life in abundance; the happy echoes reverberated not just with air, sweeping through corridors of the old age home, touching and cuddling the few listening souls.

Story 6: Bhairavi – The Fierce:

The sickle in her hand moved with a practiced rhythm as they went through all the unwanted weeds. Their dry roots were torn apart from the earth without mercy. After going through the entire field, she sighed with satisfaction.

The land owner paid her in full without any questions. She still had the sickle in her hand.

Story 7: Chandika – The Supreme:

Chaos reigned. Chairs were thrown. Curses exchanged. Parties formed. Favors fished. Violence sought. Bullies brought. Politics played. Nobody was listening to nobody; Bedlam on riot.

She came into the room with a brisk walk. A deep hush was followed by a warm greeting of the kindergarten kids wishing their teacher Good morning.

Story 8: Lalita – The Beautiful:

She sat on her bed, staring at the mirror. A frail old woman stared at her back with drooping breasts, generous age lines, white wisps of hair, pale pallor, wrinkled skin, over her bent body. She sighed to herself.

“The years had been kind”. Her husband whispered to her “you still have the brightest smile”

Story 9: Bhavani – The merciful:

Her chubby ten year old eyes looked at him with a sad glint.
“I am not able to break the chocolate into two.”
“Oh” his squeaky voice responded, his eyes caught between her and the small spherical candy.
“Shall we wait” she asked thinking for a while. “For another same chocolate,... then share.... eat??”

Author’s Note-

I wanted to bring out the different faces of Goddess Shakthi - with simple everyday women. I took the help of Wikipedia to get to know all the forms of Shakthi and then, wrote stories that best suited the various shades of their nature. I wish all of my friends, reading this post- a Subh Navratri. 

For people, interested to know more about Navratri - a prominent Indian festival, kindly follow the link here. I have avoided putting many pictures, so as not to disturb the flow of the fiction and also, no to disrupt the respect for the Goddess that the festival and the idea of the fiction is based on. 

Friday, October 12, 2012

The Fox and The Crow - Fiction (Aesop's Retold)

The snap-

The Tale-

Rich, Sweet & relishing goodness; the cheese slowly tumbled down falling from the open mouth of the crow, bouncing along the tree it was perched on and landed right in front of the fox. The fox suppressed a malicious grin, as it moved to pick up the piece of cheese. What a sucker!! Still falling for his “you are so beautiful, do you also have a sweet voice to match” scam. The crows, they just can’t resist direct flattery and just like their ancestors have been doing for generations now, they always end up cawing. What a dumb bunch!!

And just as he started to taste his loot, he heard the crow laughing; laughing in roaring guffaws. Curious, he looked up at his victim.

“Still pulling that two bit scam with your flattery eh??” the crow rasped. “Grow up. Think up something new. How long are you going to be nicking crows for cheese, you pathetic moron?? Do you know if you can find the right person and flatter him, like may be the one who actually made this cheese, you can have a shot at something better!!  ”   It calmly sighed. “Where do you think, I got that cheese? How the fuck do you think, I ended up with such a big piece? 

The crow paused and suddenly felt sorry for the gaping fox. “It’s okay, you can keep that piece, and I am not really hungry anymore.” It calmly shrugged. “And just in case you were wondering, why I let you have the cheese in the first place, it’s just that, I couldn't help bursting out laughing when you tried that silly old scam on me. I just couldn't help...” 

Author’s note-

I have always been fascinated with the Aesop’s fables from when I was a kid, simple, interesting and always inventive. I have been experimenting with the same Aesop’s fables for quite some time- Writing up skewed up versions of the same tales with twisted morals. Do let me know, your take on my version guys. Also, do check out my other Aesop’s tales retold in the same manner in this link.

For those interested in the original Aesop’s tale, kindly follow the given link.

Saturday, October 6, 2012

Rest in Peace - A short story

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 32; the thirty-second edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is 'An Untold Story'

The snap-

The Fiction- 

Even the most daring and the desperate of the prostitutes avoided that alley, its dark shadows and its depraved inhabitants, for no better reason than the simple fact that they wanted to; Not that it did not have its share of leering customers with sleazy money and even sleazier sexual appetites. The alley, if it could be still called that was dead, decadent and decaying. Its crumbling walls, the dank paint with its edges pealing, the spewing drainage, its putrid stench wafting about, the street hewed into loose stones and broken pot holes, murky puddles slurping in the darkness, a broken streetlight flickering dipping in and out of life, A few crows pecking at the rutting garbage and its contents. A more perfect stage could not have been bargained for, for all the blood that was going to be spilled.

There was a cold silence, a calculating silence. The three men stood there simply staring at each other, trying to get a sense of each other, daring the other to make his first move. The knives they held glinted wickedly in the moonless night, its sharp counters cutting the few shards of light from the broken tube light. One of them, the one wearing a dull red shirt stood on one end of the narrow lane facing the other two; the other two who were here to kill him. Bloody mother fuckers. Who did they think they were dealing with? Some street punk! He was not going to be easy. Fucking dammed, if they think this is going to be that easy. His fingers tightened, closing hard on the handle of his knife, turning his knuckles white.

 “MOTHERFUCKERS” He shouted and rushed at them both with his knife in his outstretched hands. He was going to do them, do them both real good, cut through their fucking innards. Nobody gets away with this. Nobody gets away after pulling a fucking knife on him. He sped up, his feet plodding across the rubble, his face slowly widening with a loathsome mirth. And then he tripped. Tripped on some left over debris and was down with a dull thud. He laid there on the bare lifeless gravel, with his own life slowly ebbing out of him along with a warm worm of blood trickling out of his broken forehead.

The other two looked at each other and exchanged a smirk.

 “What a lovely fuck up!! Went down and died even without putting up a decent fight.”  

Remarked one of them, the one who seemed to be the sadistic leader as he slowly came forward, measuring each of his steps, eyeing the red shirt for any sudden movements. “Pathetic Bastard !” He thought to himself. A waste, A criminal waste. Now, he was never going to get his arousal.  He never really got them, until and unless he heard his victims cry and beg for mercy. Just for a few minutes as he played with them and the dull end of his knife. And when he was denied that, that simple and basic joy of killing just because this asshole couldn't wait to get iced, made him mad, quite a bit mad.

He kicked with his heavy soles into the abdomen of the victim and heard him cry out in ripping pain with delight.

"Fuck, the ponce is still alive!!"

The tormentor grunted his approval with a malicious grin that lit his face in the dead darkness of the alley. He turned and looked at his young partner, beckoning him to join the fun. He sighed to himself. After all, he was just getting started and the more the company, the more the fun. Right!!

But then fate took a sharp turn.

The blow to his shin with the knife was so hard, it ruptured a few veins that blood didn't just ooze out but gushed out to paint the alley road a dense dark crimson. Instinct took over all his senses and he simply bent over reaching for his leg. A mistake and even before he realized that, the red shirt thrust-ed his knife all the way through his left eye, tearing apart the softer tissues of the brain. He fell down dead.

Exhausted with his vengeance, the dull red shirt laid there panting and fighting for air in the stagnating cesspool of blood. The third guy, quite shaken but still holding on the side of tough edged towards the dead and the nearly dead. The Sweat was pouring from his face and every fiber in his body was pulling taunt with fear, as he slowly bent over his partner and tried to rouse him.

Then it happened.

The red shirt in his final attempt to breathe opened his mouth wide and all the gathering blood rushed in and he choked, his last breath escaped with a ghoulish guttural splurged in his own fluids.

That low haunting sound broke whatever remaining guts, the third guy had. He stood up and started to run; away from there; Away from the alley; Away from everything. He simply ran until every single muscle in his soul was totally exhausted, his lung palpitated and his mind numbed. Right in front of a speeding truck. He became one of those hit and run casualties, dead even before hitting the ground.

The sky slowly darkened as if in mourning and the sound of the rain mixed with the sirens of the ambulance in distant echoes.

Three were dead.

A few untold stories, some dreams and some distant tears rotted away along with those carcasses and but what told aloud in a solemn voice by the priest as he presided over their joint burial ceremony was that all the three were but the children of god who were pure in soul and though good in character, had been corrupted in life and forgiveness was sought, for the almighty is all forgiving and benevolent.

And the dead would finally rest in peace. For after all, the dead rarely lament.


Author's note-

If you guys liked the dark theme of the above fiction and do have stomach for much grittier and wicked stuff, stuff that could really get to you- do try this one. ( Darkness in its most wicked form guaranteed.)

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Introduced By: BLOGGER NAME, Participation Count: 04

Monday, September 24, 2012

Lyres of Lust - Poetry

The Snap-

The Poem-


Plunderer unpermitted,
Her Surrender –
Pepper minted.
He escaped; with the loot;
Unscathed; his wicked suite;

Without even a trace;
He left, except;
She alone simmered; blushing;
Just for a few moments-
With the memory of his touch;


Her warm lips; Indulgent sips;
Hot & wet; in bartered bets;
Lisps truncated; thy cusps violated;
Shudder & shiver; Blunder & shower;
Her warm lips; kisses; nips;

My eye lids close;
Darkness binds.
Ten fingers blind;
Fumbling to find;
Thy elephant’s kind.
Nobody’s wiser; nobody cares;
Her warm lips, in relishing zips,
Do care.

Very few are thy flowers,
Their buds; Warm suds;
Sodden; unbidden;
Pardon; alone not ridden;
A binge in bed; a tinge of red;

In ecstasy they burst;
Blossoms & Bust;
Blooms in thirst;
Bits of Pollen; bits swollen;
Drips; drops; dew props of honey.
Very few are thy flowers,
That flower first;
& root last.

Wine tasting; Thine lasting;
It’s Aroma arresting;
Relish riveting;
Each drop savored;
Each one love flavored;

Wine tasting; Fine yeasting;
A rare finesse;
Flair of rich ease;
Taste buds rejoice;
Chaste duds devoice;
Two cups together;
Wine tasting, in tether.


The sax was played;
 In silence of sorts;
Notes of parts; Keats of tarts;
Held & sled; around thy bed;

Man & women;
Not in parts; not anymore;
Listen close; your ears might lose;
Their embers of melody;
& there lumbers a sweet parody.

Author's Note-

Writing poems about sex and lust in a covert way- in it subtle hints and shy words has always held my fascination.There is I think a sublime line between the aesthetically pleasing and the vulgar in such poetry. With the above poetry, I wanted to make my readers blush and feel warm with love at the same time. And hence I indulged in a tinge of wickedness in the simple lines of love. I leave the shrouded implications to your mind's child. I extremely enjoyed penning the above lines. I hope, you guys- have a pleasurable experience reading them.

Tamil Version of the poem-

Tamil is a beautiful language tailor made for writing poetry. It is the soul of my inspiration as a writer. You need not think in Tamil, words will flow unbridled, bumbling in fountains, simply if you love her, love Tamil. She will entice you with her teasing curves, those sonorous syllables, the fierce passion of her written embers. 

Like most of my poetry, my initial version of the poem was in Tamil and I roughly translated the same to English.(Since a direct translation would water down the poetic allure of Tamil.)


The second poem is a direct reference to the famous story of blind-men and the elephants. If you want to know more about the related story and the John Godfrey Saxe's Poem about the same, kindly visit the given link.

The fourth poem contains direct references to wine tasting. (Though in Tamil, the poem is primarily about how to serve is joy, rather than being served.)

It was quite a task translating the Tamil poems to English. I have taken poetic licence in the translation to keep the wickedness and the joy in the poem true to it's original. For, guys - who could read tamil, I would really like to know - how I have fared.

If you would like to read more poems penned down by me, kindly follow the link.

And finally, I would like to thank my friend Joy for suggesting the title to me and also, asking me to write the English versions of the poem in a more descriptive and elaborate manner so that it will retain the beauty of the Tamil version and do justice to the same. And I hope, you guys can enjoy the Tamil version of it too. 

Monday, September 17, 2012

Of tweets and quirky comments

Guys, a collection of my tweets -- A bit about Politics, some murmurings of love, with the ending touching- the usual satire and the rhetorical. Hope you guys, find the same entertaining. 


Pranab says-Some older people in politics should make way for the young. I say- Nice thought!! Who r U addressing to! Not yourself of course!

100 % of all MPs below age 30 -- in parliament are from Political families- Salam the next Generation of Indian Rulers- #SOS-India

What is Pawar’s favorite thing about both IPL & Politics - Power Play Probably #SOS

Indian Politics is but tight rope walking with all the innumerable tight ropes woven into a comfortable mat. No falling guaranteed. #SOS

In India, it’s mother tongue. After-all the father figures seldom speak. Don’t believe me #askSoniaJi #askmanmohanJi #really?? #saveIndia


She blushed. A red tinge of quirk blossomed. Perfection felt inadequate. #short poem

Hope in love is a strange thing. It’s like during every last beat of your heart, it yearns for another one. #love #pain

The day says a lot about love. It starts fresh; warm- turns hot, sweaty and ends in a bitter sweet purple melancholy. #love #quote

Love is good for health - at least you have someone to kick some sense into U after your hangovers. :P #love

Her Smile was worth a million. But I never expected her to cash in- once I got hooked. #SOS #love #really??

Social Media-

Which crank discovered like in Face book. My friend just posted about his accident & it has 28 likes.  #assholes #SOS

#socialmedia #facebook = the new porn. Nobody seems to get enough of it.

#socialmedia & #facebook are lies you tell yourself that you are actually having a social life. #SOS #hardtruth

No, face book is not your close friend- you should not share all your shit with it. #really? #SOS  

Thanks to my married friends, who post their marriage photos online- I never get to shake of my impending sense of doom #bachelorLife


Girl... Do you believe in love at first sight or do I have to walk past u again? :P:P #SOS

Adultery is fun until caught pants down- Infancy is fun until we remained kid enough to have our pants down. :D #meaningfulshit #really??

Nowadays, I am not allowed to cook. Vegetables, my mother has declared have become too costly to waste on my experimentations. :P #SOS #really??

Of course, I want to offend you, make you to throw not just your shoes & slippers but anything I could sell at me- Thankyou #SOS #really??

The hot sultry summer sun is always my side –Gives girls’ ample reason to put some cotton, show some cleavage. #Blame it on the fact that I am but a male. :P

Author's note-

It has been quite a while since I last summed up my tweets and since I started tweeting after quite some time,  I penned down some 20 of my tweets that I thought were interesting. Guys, do let me know your thoughts. Cheers.

Also, for more shitty tweets do follow me @aarthycrazy.