All in a Train's Day - 55 Fictions

"Four Different Stories - Four Different Times - Four Different Emotions - About One Character - The Train"

0600 Hours:

A moist breeze laden with wet promises of the day rushed past the speeding train. A few early risers and a few empty cabins floated past a city rising to the embers of the sun.

Littered out on the roof tops and on the window sills, a few kids alone stared at the passage mesmerized.

1200 Hours:

Nobody knew who dropped their lunch on the entrance of the carriage; Warm rice and curry, still steaming and thrumming along with the rhythm of the train; its spicy flavor and fragrance flicking the roiling appetites of the passengers.

The passengers jumped across the spilled food, their attire and their hunger neat & intact.

1800 Hours:

The train started to sweat. It’s every orifice enamored with the crowd returning from their jobs to their homes. Humans hung to each and every piece of holding and standing space available; jostling at each other; their parts and pieces hanging out of the vehicle; squirming with life;

The train plodded on.

2400 Hours:

A few beggars moved from compartment to compartment; picking up whatever hooped their fancy. A red kerchief, a bottle with some water left in it, a few news papers, a couple of ear buds. Carrying the echoes of life left behind, the train clanged hollow.

Amidst these empty ensembles, those beggars compared their today’s loots with glee.

Author's Note:

I have been wanting to start blogging again for quite a while. For that, I was looking for an idea both interesting and also challenging. A jump start of sorts. And when i was playing football today evening, I had a eureka moment about what I was going to write.

A group of 55 fictions, that would all stand alone as separate fictions but when put together can evoke a singular narrative. A single character narrative.

And hence, the story! after some deliberation, I decided to take train as the character. (Last Week, I visited Chennai by train and had an awesome weekend. Hence the inspiration.) I hope you guys like it. Also, I got a few amazing photos while searching for nice snaps of trains. Do visit again to read the stories I frame on those images. Cheers. 

If you are interested in reading my similar fictions, kindly visit use this link.

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

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.

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-


“WOW”

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.

“KICK”

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.

Fin


*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.



PS-

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

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. 

Lyres of Lust - Poetry

The Snap-

The Poem-

1.  

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;

2.  

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.

Blights-

Ten fingers blind;

Fumbling to find;

Thy elephant’s kind.

Nobody’s wiser; nobody cares;

When,

Her warm lips, in relishing zips,

Do care.

3.  

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.

4.  

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.

5.  

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.)

PS-

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. 

Another love, lasting?? - A short story

The snap-

The fiction-

“So you loved her?”

“hmhm”

“And she loved you back??”

“hmhm hmhm”

“But it did not last!!”

“hmhm”

He took a deep drag at the cigarette hanging from ridge of his mouth reveling in its crisp vapors, sighed. “So good!!”

“Huh!!” he looked at him flabbergasted.

“Good….. Good for you!!” He blurted out, once again trying to empathize.

He started to laugh. “May be… May be not. But that doesn't really stop the pain. Does it?”

For once, his friend fell silent. 

Author's note-

I watched the movie- The swingers yesterday. I loved it. Its an awesome movie that follows a bunch of wannabe actors, their love lives and their careers. An honest depiction. No mushy stuff, just the bare truth. Do try it. And I was  inspired by the same movie to write the above short fiction. Hope you guys like it.

Soak no more !! – a short fiction

The Snap-

The fiction-

“But mom, I just wanted to save you time.” A tiny voice justified.

“So, you soaked the clothes yourself.”

The rain drenched kid looked up with pride. “Yes, yes, just like you do before washing”

 “Yeah” she said with a suppressed grin “but I usually don’t wear them when soaking…”

“Okay” her kid said quite obediently. “Next time I will remember it”

It was then she burst out laughing. 

Author's note-

I wanted to write a small but a sweet fiction for - The Surf Excel Matic #soaknomore Contest. And I wanted the kid's gender to be ambiguous so that more people can relate to the fiction. Hope you guys like it.

Saving the Sun – A short story.

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 30; the thirtieth 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 Following fiction won the Silver at Blog-a-ton 30. A warm thanks for everyone who voted for the same.

The Snap-

The fiction-

“Papa papa, the sun is drowning….. The sun is drowning…”

Shouted the small girl as she came in tears, her outstretched hands searching for him. Her pink frock peppered with wet sand tussled around making way for her tiny feet scrambling forward. Her tussled hair swayed around, flirting with the roaming swirls of wind.

He bent down to greet his five year old, his calm fluid gaze meeting capturing her exquisite child eyes. Eyes that right now were filled with concern, a whole hearted concern tinged with passion, an intense burning passion, a kid’s passion held with all the abandonment in the world. Her voice tumbled out of her in parts, not waiting for her to get her breath back.

“Papa….. Papa…….. The sun’s drowning. The sun ………. drowning”

She paused and raised her tiny arms towards the coast.

“We need to do something.” She turned and looked at him. “Don’t we??”

He moved a few loose strands of hair away from her eyes and stuffed them in her easy braids, dried her tears in his neatly pressed shirt sleeves, lifted her of her chubby feet and started to walk following her hand’s direction.

The evening beach was a multitude of activity. A few late joggers plodding across the sand, quite a few bunches of kids playing, some along the coast running with the waves, a few industrious ones building sand castles, some just chasing each other, a few teens playing football with the goal posts marked in sand, people just sitting, relaxing taking in the dusk, it’s simmering colors washing along each rushing wave’s frolic and froth, ample echoes of laughter and joy mixing with the warm wind and it’s moisture laden fingers, the beach was brimming with life spilling at its seams.

And amidst them, he reached to where his daughter was leading him; a few teenagers sitting around in the waves, joking among themselves, laughing at the world, at themselves, at anything and everything, that picked their flight of fancy. Their pretty beach shirts stood out, vibrant and playful, a bold display of their gay and festive mood. They turned around just in time to see the girl say in her voice laden with anxiety.

“Look papa…… The sun’s drowning. It’s sinking, sinking slowly into water”

The youngsters sitting around started to laugh, seeing that their prank on the kid was working just fine. One of them teased.

“A sad day indeed, for the sun to drown.” A few wild guffaws followed.

The kid shouted back. “I have brought my father.”

“Oh Really!! And what’s he going to do.” They challenged back her innocent claim.

“He will save the sun.” his daughter’s chirpy voice sounded firm and decided.

He looked across at the shimmering expanse of water. The sun was indeed in its last phase of the day’s travel. A shower of orange hews silhouetting the world against itself, a lavish splash of shadows running along the line of the coast. The last embers of the sun’s ring were resonating from the other end of the horizon, from its drowning depths perhaps.

He looked at the people teasing his daughter and herself stout & defiant making her stand against them, holding on firmly to him. He couldn’t help but smile to himself and iterate to her in a calm voice.

“Yes, my girl we will save the sun.”

He calmly looked around at everyone laughing and repeated the same slowly, tasting each and every syllable, relishing at the mighty sound of its absurd claim.

“Yes, my girl we will save the sun.”

“But, how shall we do it??” he quizzed her.

His daughter replied determined. “Lasso it papa……”

“Like wonder women”

“Yes papa”

“Hmhm……. For that, we need to bring the sun closer to us, to reach out and lasso it.” He paused thoughtfully for a few seconds. “What we will do is dig a large pit here, so that the water will flow towards us, creating a slant and the sun will roll towards us along with the flowing water and then we will get a chance to lasso it, once we get it near enough. Okay” He asked her.

His daughter hanging on to each and every word of his, his confidence, his easy charisma voiced his full consent. “Okay Papa, we do it.”

He settled her down, loosened his tie, rolled his shirt cuffs and pants and set down digging with his bare hands. His hard fingers furrowing through wet sand, shoveled up large wet lumps of earth with each and every hearty scoop. His daughter joined him at his side moving the earth her father’s digging up away from falling again into the pit.

At first they laughed. The youngsters who pulled the sun’s drowning prank on the kid stood around the toiling father and daughter and laughed heartily. A few even teased. Harsh comments on the silly charade. And then after a few minutes, they simply stood there, witnessing this strange spectacle.

A crowd started to gather.

All the small kids playing nearby joined in the effort, their laughter splaying over the wet sand, just for the fun’s sake; Someone who was building castles nearby supplied with a few bucket and small plastic shovels; People gathered entranced by the sight; stood around captivated by the strangeness of the tall tale; A father and daughter trying to drain the sea in an effort to roll over the sun towards them, so as to lasso it and save it from drowning; Utter ludicrous; a preposterous attempt to pacify a kid; a grown man behaving like a raving kid;

Many just stood gaping at the effort the father was working up with his daughter, the multitude of wet sand flying in all the direction, the pit growing in leaps and bounds with each and every passing second, the sheets of water rushing into the pit, the unfaltering faith that the kid showed on her father, half her anxious eyes set on the drowning sun, half on her valiant effort, her small hands going about their formidable quest, the sun ever so slowly sinking, gently suffocated and smothered by the expanse of blue water despite all their herculean efforts.

“Papa…. It’s gone.” Her voice wavered. “It’s …….. gone.”

Everybody fell silent.

Her father sat down exhausted, looking at the rapidly darkening horizon, an empty horizon, his breath still coming in spurts with all the hard physical work.

“We have to do something papa” she shouted, her voice broken and shrill.

All around, people stood stupefied. Not knowing what to do, not knowing how to confront the honest chagrin in her voice, not knowing how to explain to her it’s all but a ruse to have fun on her innocence.

He stared ahead thoughtfully and said. “It did not work.”

His daughter nodded; her eyes still staunch, too stubborn to cry, to whimper.

“Are we going to give up” He asked, touching her flushed cheeks with his fingers.

“No” she shouted back with an animal ferocity. “No, we are not going to give up”

“Good” he said calmly nodding. “There is always another chance.”

His daughter looked at him, each and every single of his words etched into the solidness of her heart. Nobody in the crowd dared to breath. A few last passing sea gulls were heard, their cries clear reaching out to their fledglings. Even the kids playing with the sand stopped to listen. Parents, teenagers, joggers, picnickers, people who were just relaxing, A couple of old men in their evening walks, each and every one of the motley group that had gathered leaned forward, not wanting to miss anything, anything at all.

The kid’s father continued. “The earth, in fact is round, we can go in the opposite direction and save the sun from drowning from the other side” He paused waiting for his daughter’s reply.

She stood up from her father’s lap, pulled him up, dusted the sand off him with her tiny hands and said in an urgent voice “papa… Let’s hurry.”

And as the crowd slowly parted, allowing the couple to continue on their adventure, the kid stopped.

“One minute papa….” she told her father and turned back and went straight to the teenager who first put her to saving the sun and said in a clear crisp voice.

“I will save the sun.”

And then the father and daughter left, their walk vigorous, unfaltering, towards the sun.

And yes, for those who are still wondering, on whether they saved the sun or not, rush out and see the rising sun. If you look close enough, rally hard enough you might notice the lasso around the corner of the mighty sun and the sun itself being slowly pulled out of the distant horizon. And of course the father and daughter, if you are lucky enough.

 Author's note-

I loved thinking up and writing this story. I am thankful for the image and Blog-a-ton for putting me up to this.  And this story is for my sister, who is always the first to hear all my flights of fantasy. 
PS-

If you loved this short story- then you might want to try reading another one of my similar story - The spring. Both are strongly dependent on nature to bring out the theme of the fiction. 
Have a great day. :)

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. I’m thankful to BLOGGER NAME, who introduced Blog-a-Ton to me, and I debuted in XX edition.

Credits Image - Shades of Orange by Harsha Chittar Courtesy - Curious Dino Photography via www.blogaton.in

Her primary Colors- A set of 55 fictions

The Snap-

The fiction-

His deliverance- (the blue story)

“Go on…” she nodded.

A few shadows turned back shocked at the dry nonchalance pouting from her voice.

He left. Not once did he turn back.

Perhaps guilt finally saved him from her burning eyes.

Tears poured along her remaining tatters but then she was not going to build her family on another one destroyed.

The snap-

The tail/tale of the giant asshole- (the green story)

“Go on…” she nodded.

“That’s it” He retorted.

She sighed. Men can be giant assholes at times. Perhaps they are all the time. It just misses getting noticed.

“No” she calmly replied. “There could have been more but then, didn’t we just find out you have a wife. Now get lost. I am nobody’s substitute.”

The snap-

Cookie jar delicacies- (the red story)

“Go on…” she nodded.

A kid caught with his hand stuck in the cookie jar. He blinked at her and his wife standing at her doorway.

“What’s happening?” His voice wavered slightly.

“Oh, I called her. Nothing personal. It’s just that” She paused. “I hate it when men play women for fools.”

Author's note-

Some time back, I wrote a similar set of 55 fictions, with the same starting theme but ending in different ways. I tried the same with the idea to write responses of women on finding out that the guy they were seriously dating was already married. I wanted 3 of them, so that they will each represent different reactions based on primary colors, hence the name of the title. I wanted the endings to be bitter sweet, not a totally morbid one.

Practice makes a (Wo) man perfect - A 55 fiction

The Snap -

 

The fiction -

It ended abruptly. No scratching, snarling, rank abusing, tearing of clothes, pulling of hair, biting, nails trying to plough through skin like any other cat fight.

A single blow to the jaw was all it took.

“You can ….. Really Punch” The spectators stammered amazed.

“Yeah” She shrugged. “I have an elder brother to practice on”

Author’s note - 

Quite a while back, I asked my sister what she will do in case someone’s trying to hurt her, really hurt her. She thought for a while and said that she will use her nails on him. But then, nails won’t really do much damage and it will never save anybody in case of a physical skirmish. In fact, I told her that the only thing long nails are good for is to look good her. That’s when I talked her into learning a few basics of self defense and how to punch.

The easy part was teaching part - how to make a strong fist that will direct the punch, not divert it, how to maximize the force of the punch and so on, the hard part started when she started to practice on me and from there it went to worse and worse as she got better and better. And nowadays, when I anger her, she sweetly lets me know with a sharp punch or two. Courtesy - of course my own selfless punching lessons.

The 55 fiction was hence inspired.

But then, jokes apart, I think basic self defense is something each and every woman should know. No need for full blown karate or kung fu lessons but it does not hurt to know how to throw a good punch. You never know when it will need it.

 This post is dedicated to all sisters and brothers. A very happy Raksha Bandhan to one and all of you guys. Have fun.

True Beauty- The urban myth

The Snap - 

True Beauty??

The Post -

“True beauty”

After a mild chuckle, my sister repeated the words slowly – rather relishing, pronouncing every single syllable of the word separately.

“True beauty.”

“Yeah! True beauty” I nodded. “So what do you think of it?”

“You want a honest answer” She shot back.

“Yeah! Just tell me the first thing that comes to your mind.”

“Hmhm.... OK.”

She nodded. Her thoughtful eyes wandered outside the window, probably pondering on the subject at hand. The road, lit up by the evening sun stood empty other than for a few mosaics of dry leaves & bits of scattered scrap. Week end holidays always leave them, the roads- lonely. None of the rush hour traffic and noise. The frenzy of life takes a back seat, the front ones mostly unoccupied. Rarely of-course, some may break the trend, a newly married couple perhaps- probably lost in each other too much & may be a few boys with cricket bats scouting for a game, the rest peaceful in the closure &comfort of their homes, glued to Computer screens & television sets.

The Question !!

“Hmhm.. You know what” My sister’s voice echoed through.

“What?”

“I don’t know!” she said in an almost mellow whisper.

“WHAT??” I blurted out.

“Yeah!” She calmly told to rather to herself rather than tome, as if she just comprehended the enormity of the truth that she has discovered. “I don’t know what true beauty is? ”

“Hmhm... Really!!” I sighed, clearly disappointed with her candid answer.

Her face lit up with a quirky expression- eyebrows raised with a broad grin.

“Why? What were you expecting me to say?” She asked.

“Hmhm.... Like....  Something along the lines of Mother’s love, Baby's smile & such stuff.....”

“You are not really being fair to the women, who are not mothers... Are you?" She paused "And please - with the baby's smile - how more cliche' can you get??" 

“Hmhm..... Yeah! You are right....” I remarked.  “I never really thought of it in that way. OK... How about a women in love?”

“Once again- you are limiting true beauty to a segment of women? So, What you are meaning is that women who are not in love- aren't truly beautiful.”

“No, I did not mean it like that.." I looked up at her completely baffled. "Then what is real beauty - REALLY” I asked.

“You see.” My sister calmly stated. “Real beauty is elusive. It’s ephemeral. Something that's only possible in fairy tales or so..... I mean... All of us women want Real beauty. In-fact we dream about it. even fantasize about it.” She paused.

“Nice! But of course – Then you don't know... what you guys really want...” I couldn't help grinning.

“Ah.." She smirked "Thank you, for the observation- Genius. I am leaving you with your post. I have got some work to do.”

 Before I could think of something to say, she left.

Simple things are the most hard to figure out. I sighed to myself as I looked out of the window.

The evening was at it’s climax.

The damsel dusk flowing across the blue pavilion in her last tango. Her dramatic finale. Her satin gown dipping & diving on the azure’s sly. A turn, a twist, a trot; Fingers entwined in an embrace eternal, the orange sun’s last embers- infernal fingers, lingers behind in warm cinders. Amidst the sporadic splashes of spectra- the million minions of colors- cyan, magenta, yellow & black- Interlaced in-between white streaks of light laces strut along- dimming delights of hues - honey coated.

The dusk in adieu – on an blue evening’s sky. Full of warmth & life. A free hug from Mother nature.

I sighed to myself. True beauty without boundaries. Full of love & spurting with life.

"So, have you got the idea for the post" My sister came into the room throwing around her warm smile. Her easy smile- Full of life & warmth.


& then it hit me. The simple meaning of true beauty.

It’s a women’s warmth. It’s manifestations- a million.

A mother whose face creases & crinkles with a overflowing smile in every line of her face, when she first sets her eyes on her new born;  A daughter’s gift to her unsuspecting father – a simple play of crayon on a scrap of paper; A wife’s warm smile, as she greets her husband returning exhausted from work; A pregnant women’s jubilation over her baby’s first kick; An old lady’s toothless grin; A little girl’s joyous cry when licked by a puppy, she reached out to pet.

Give or take a few careless freckles & wrinkles. It doesn't really matter.

The warmth of Women

She is always beautiful. Truly beautiful.

Real beauty.  Reaching out at arm’s length.

Just her. In her own smile. In her own skin.

Glowing in her own warmth.

Just let her be.

Let her glow.

Author's Note -

Guys, this post is a submission to the blogging contest on IndiBloggger.in-

On the topic - What does real beauty mean to you?

I hope I have stuck the right chord. I am waiting for your comments.

Also, do check out Yahoo's real beauty Web page.


PS - The photos that are used - are from http://www.shutterstock.com/
Do note the watermark in the images.