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. 

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. 

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.

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.

Amen.



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