The Helpless - A 55 fiction

The Snap:

The Tale:

“I don’t want to go to the dentist” Her chubby voice gurgled.

“hmhm”

“Please papa….. Please….”

“hmhm hmhm”

The kid pulled his hand gingerly.

“I really don’t want to…..”

“hmhm.... Okay.” he sighed.

The kid calmed down for a moment, a bare moment before then her voice crackled as she sobbed.

“I am sorry, papa but my tooth .......... still pains” 

Author's Note:

The idea behind the 55 fiction is to emphasize the unsaid reality that is left out of the story-

 the kid who did not take care of her teeth despite the warnings of the parent, The helplessness that chokes her father when she is suffering from pain, the innocence of the kid when she is apologizing for something as simple as taking care of your teeth.

This is a part of Colgate's IndiBlogger Contest. To know more about the Colgate initiative and their expert articles on teeth and gums, kindly visit the following link.

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.

"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.

Extract-

“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.

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. 

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.

Good bye my love - A poem

Snap-

The poem-

Oh! I will forget, just like them fingers in my hand, babe-

As they strum thy guitar strings

Rapid strokes of mambo jambo-

To the rhythm my heart rings.

A single solo I sing,

Of a man gone hollow-

Breathing sorrow- with each and every ping!

Oh … Yeah!  We danced around with words, babe;

Of the few that were said;

One or two- here and there; Nothing more than that;

Too much a-bare; too much to bear;

Like the distant stars in a lonely sky;

We scattered them too much-

And in darkness, they were.

Waiting for you, girl- Just waiting for you.

To reach out with your hand- babe, them five member band;

Thy strumming; ramming at my heart;

For with each and every move, your warm eyes tend to move;

I root alone for me- for you to look at me

And say something- girl.

My jumping parts are praying thy lord;

Say something girl; Just anything, my girl.

Oh yeah! I am just a fool;

Laying in my pool of a few bitter tears- dried long ago,

My last words to you- a simple song for you;

Hewed broken sods- just if you may;

Just before I leave, somewhere away,

Ahoy in a sway!

But my girl- Don’t you worry,

I am never sad- Nothing’s ever bad.

My love for you will always be there; so bitter and so sweet;

Not that I notice- my own parts; of those young and jumping sorts,

Just like I forgot the fingers of my hand,

Strumming along with me,

Humming alone with me,

Good bye, my love –

One last good bye, my love.

Author's note-

Last night as I was listening to Bob Dylan, It stuck me how simple and lucid his lines were, yet so sharp and honest that they carried his pain, anguish, thought across. And hence I was inspired to write the above poem and I dedicate the same poem to his legend. I tried to model the theme of the song around one of my own favorites "Don't think twice, Its alright" by Bob Dylan. I kept the lyrics quite simple. Hope you guys like it.

And for people, who haven't listened to Bob Dylan, Guys, you just don't know what you are missing. Bob Dylan is the guy who gave the lyrics not just meaning but soul. His songs "Blowing in the wind" and "Times they are a-changing" are anti-war revolutions. The man is a cultural icon, his music an ode to the times that there were, the times that will be. Do listen to him.

PS-

Well, I have tagged - New technique, since I wrote the poetry more as a song to be sung rather than a poem to be read and yeah, I tagged the same with social problems. I mean what's more than a social problem than a heart break nowadays. What say?? :P

The wounds will heal- A 55 fiction.

The Snap-

The fiction- 

“Hold still.”

“Hmhm.”

“I will be done in a minute.”

“Hmhm.”

“It will take a couple of days. But it will heal.”

“Hmhm.”

“Try not to strain yourself until the wounds heal.”

“Hmhm”

And just after he bandaged her, he stammered “I….. am sorry”

Silence fell hard, for once harder than his thrashes.

Author's Note-

When people read my post - Two minutes- A short story, I was asked whether the fiction was about domestic violence. While answering back to those comments, I was inspired to write a shot fiction about the same topic. I wanted the story to be brutal, realistic and hard hitting. Hope you guys like it.

ps-

I am experimenting with my blog's appearance, so guys I would like to have your comments on the topic. Thank you.

Short Stories - Topic "Thy Exam, Thy Fever"

Author's Note -

Quite a while back, I experimented with writing short fictions based on a same theme. I just wanted to explore the same in a mildly different way- Different faces of the same issue. In this case exams. This being the exam season, hope you guys find my fiction relevant.

Short Fiction 1 - The reason to smile !!

"Whats the big smile for?"

The hall examiner asked as he was collecting the answer sheets.

"I just remembered the answer for a question."

"hmhm... But It's of no use. You just submitted your answer sheet & I am not going to give it back to you...

The Student shrugged.

"Yeah I know - But the irony of it .... I cannot help but smile."

Short Fiction 2 - A season of tears

Suddenly she suffocated.

One silly mistake.

Her centum has been ruined by a single silly mistake.

Far once, she felt helpless.

Tears surged. Her vision blurred. Uncontrollable sobs slowly shook her.

Never once - did she cry foul against the education system, that has made her into the memorizing machine that she has become, nor did she find fault with the monstrous emphasis - that has been laid on the exams.

Piece by piece, she slowly broke down. Alone.

Short Fiction 3 - The single right guess !!

The question paper stared back at him.

He gave out a calm sigh.

At peace. At last.

No surprises there.

Of course he knew- he was going to fail. But then, thats no reason to fret.

After all, he did guessed today's subject right. Didn't he???

Fin -

PS- Do try out the original experimentation for short fictions of the same Idea at

http://average-everyday.blogspot.com/2009/04/short-stories-55-fiction.html

A few lapses of Recognition-

The Snap -

The Story-

"I wonder why people from cine field can get recognition & national, state awards so easily. I mean, I have nothing against the industry. In fact I love good movies. It’s just I know so many people who are so good, dedicated & selfless at what they do- in other fields, like engineering, medical, social service and what not."

"I mean, why should actors & actresses be called stars first of all. Acting is a job like any other."

"Why should people listen to their interviews on festival days? What kind of sense does that make? I mean, they are professionals who just portray what’s given to them. I respect them for what they are. But, why I ask, are they given undue importance."

"I love movies. I love the movie industry. But, don’t you think – Most of the times, recognition that is met out to people in the industry aren’t always well keeping in line with their achievements. People from other walks of life deserve more? From the public. From the government. Don’t they?...."

My father shrugged with a calm reply- “ Well we asked them.”

“You asked them.”

“Yeah.” He replied. “When I was there to get the president’s award, which was quite a while back, we were told that, the president was busy & so we will have to receive the award from the junior dignitaries. For once, I was ruffled. I know I have worked hard for what I am going to receive & I deserved to get the award from the president. At least I am entitled to a better answer than the president’s busy.

I blurted out – "But will you do the same if some actor or cricketer is receiving the same award?"

"Do you know what I was answered ?"

My father had a dry smile as he quoted their single worded reply – satirical scar from a wound long forgotten.

“Revenue”

Author’s Note –

There are usually ample reasons for the president to give awards to celebrities by themselves.

Bad publicity,

Criticism from Fans,

Money factor,

Close watch of such issues by the Media –

Are a few of the concerns….. But anyways, it does not really stop me wondering…..

But, people from other fields deserve – better recognition. Don’t they??

PS -

The image I used- may not be exactly in tune to the topic. But It had a few Iconic movies, such as Sholay & I guessed nothing could be a better attention grabber.

Do note that, I am quite a movie buff myself- with Christopher Nolan & Zack Snyder topping my current interests. Counter arguments & opinions are welcome.

Of lives being wasted. -- A fiction.

The snap---







The fiction---



He spoke with a vested passion words pouring out of him. Anger coated, pulsating with agony.

"A pure waste. How can people throw away their lives so easily. In a world where even the hungry and the beggars choose to live..... Teenagers molesting themselves is just too much to bear."


He paused and coughed. The cigarette was at it's end. Todays 12th one.

He sighed. At least he was taking the longer route to meet his maker.





Author's note-


I wanted to write a simple satire on Teen Suicide. I wanted to keep it short and sharp. Hope the tale pricks your conscience!!

Of humans & humanity -

The city-

A city that was found on the banks of the river Musi, A juxtaposition of the magnificence of the old and trendiness of the new. A city whose development in the last decade is not just astounding but mind boggling. A city that still reeks of a rustic charm with the edges of sophistication and refinement creeping in. A city that once courted the Nizams. A city where the beauty of the language Telugu flourishes along with lavishes of Urdu and Hindi added. The city of pearls, of lakes, of a climate red hot and of girls hotter than that. :D

A city which will be my home for the next three months -- Hyderabad.


The snap-




A chaotic hub of activity welcomed me when I arrived here, at the junction of Secundrabad one week ago. The buzz of rushing human life played around me, always constant and engaging. Dozens of stores with a million goods of every sort; T shirts, bags, flowers, combs, locks, fruits, trousers, Remote control covers, Cushions, Cushions covers. A multitude of things that were being haggled over for better prices by both the seller and the customer.

Auto Rickshaw wallahs looking out for everyone and anyone coming from inside the junction for a prospective passenger. People with pale shirts clean and pressed rushing over to their destination unknown, offices probably to confront whatever the morning has prepared for them. Students with ties and a twinkle in their eyes hurrying past the milieu, their heavy bags lugging behind their backs. A few teens fooling around; A couple of men in lungis* sitting in front of closed shops reading the news papers; Buses, taxis, Autos and what not zooming past loaded with people and their early morning concerns; A haste of activity, An onslaught of life.

And as I stood there, a kid enthralled by the flurry of whats happening around him; I saw her.


She-

White wisps of hair; greying in the frays probably from the dust billowing from the road, dry and lifeless, a sad shine in it's last days in those old eyes, clothes beaten and faded; colors long forgotten, A face wrinkled blue more with the worry of hunger than of age, A poor old women looking around for someone who would be her savior today; giving her a few coins; winning her today's bread.





And of all those people who moved past her in haste or of even those just loafing around, nobody seem to even notice her. They were too lost in the maze of their own life that they have just become a bit too immune to see the pain and sufferings that's at their door steps.

As I stood there waiting for my bus, I really wanted to see someone help out that frail figure of an old lady. But alas, even though the explosion of activity increased ceaselessly along with the trickle of time and the blooming of the sun, nobody, not even one seemed to mind her. The hunger in her eyes,her dry, parched lips, the streaks of her tears; dried.

A lost soul amongst a million lost souls.

Humans if needed may learn to eat humans to live. But can we be called humans then?

A few more moments crawled by. The lady lost all her hope that she will get to eat something today and sat down with hunched shoulders trying to bear another day of her drab life.

May be I was destined to buy the lady her morning food. I smiled to myself. Quite a destiny.

I gave the lady some money and asked her to go and eat. She looked at me with those silver eyes with mixed emotions. I moved away before she could thank me.

After all, I was just trying to salvage the reminder of the humanism and kindness in my heart & for that, sorry but you don't really need thanks.



Author's note--

This post is but what I felt when I looked at that poor lady & by no means, do I credit the city for the plight she was in.

And Guys, I am having quite a time in here in Hyderabad. Will soon post about my wanderings and experiences here. :)


PS--

Guys, Since I am staying here in Hyderabad in a hostel and doing my blogging from a nearby net cafe, I am not able to keep up with your blogging. So, so pardon me. Will sure catch up soon.

Until then... Cheers.

An Everyday Tale - A 55 fiction

The Snap-




The Fiction-

“It’s the same everyday. What’s the problem with you? Don’t you know how to cook anything else?”

The Television resonated with resentment.

The couple stopped eating, looked up at the television anticipating the wife’s reply.

--- Blip ----

The dining room was thrown into darkness. A power failure. The couple sighed to themselves, lost in their own thoughts.





Author's note-

PS- I left the fiction to be open ended so that people can draw their own conclusions from it. What I have written below is my own general observation.


Sometimes I wonder, Why is that everyone gets married at one time or another. Is that the only course of life thats available or to put it in more blunt terms, the only course of life thats possible?

I have nothing against marriage. In fact, in a way I am happy that the majority of the society still goes along with it. I was born because of it & it does give a sense of order to the society that would otherwise become a chaotic fist fight of which guy gets which girl.

But what completely eludes me is that why do couples who learn that they don't get along with each other after marriage, still prefer to be together.

Maybe, they are afraid of their own loneliness that they choose to live on with their partners, cursing fate for the predicament they are left with.

People are such fragile creatures.



Will meet you guys in the next tale. (I am planning to write a fable next time. :) )

Until then,

Cheers.

A satirical silhouette - a few thoughts tweeted

Guys, This is another collection of my tweets. I have made an attempt at satirical tweets. A few brutal ones, a few silly ones and a few even rhetorical as always.


The Quote -

It is when we learn to laugh at ourselves, we get to know what it is to be ourselves.

--Muthu

Morality -

There is no good & bad. Just a Grey area of uncertain morals. People paint them definite colors with their own prejudices.

Nobody wants to hurt any1 unless of course they don't know about it. After all gun makers don't cry over the victims.

Of course sex is the most natural thing in the word& that why people's faces usually turn red when U say anything about it.

In a way all humans are masochists, even though life has shown us it's painful face more than once we still learn to enjoy life.

There is no such thing as a clear conscience- It s a myth like tooth fairy. U make it up 4 kids who still believe sex is kissing.



The snap- A wicked definition.





Out of the box--

When sum1 asked me 2 inspire him fast. I slapped him hard& "boom" he was inspired 2 slap me back. After all hate 22 inspires.

Some1 said real beauty is skin deep& am still searching him 2 kick his ass. Wat really is d use of having a beautiful pancreas.

Of course all guys are jerks and shit heads. How else do U think we manage to fall for gals. :P

Bathing everyday is just a reminder 2 let U know tat- there is space 4 improvement everyday-

Wen people say they don't have regrets, they just don't want to accept that they could have done things better. Its OK 2 regret.



The snap- Sometimes it's fun, even inside the box.





Of Politics & Society-

Sharad Yadav says- Pass d women's reservation bill& I will consume poison& die- I say- Thank U Sir, Indian govt could really use your early retirement

Comedians are not politicians but of course U cannot always say d same about thing about politicians being comedians.. :D

Politics is of course a potty hole of shit- but then we do need to keep our toilet clean. Right??

Lalu says- d society is adversely affected by gay sex. I say-Of course Lalu ji-Ur wisdom trespasses all boundaries just the way ur family size has.

Why does Lalu think Gay sex is a crime- He is afraid that some guy might make a pass @ him. After all he is the father of a dozen children :P

Of course everybody watches rakhi ka swayamvar - It feels good 2 know tat even Rakhi has competition for her hand. :P

My mom is totally against same sex marriage. She think tat its against nature. But then mom- even dressing is not natural Y should we do it?



The snap- Too much thinking can also have adverse effects. Do be careful-






Author's note-

Satire is one of my favorite genres. To ridicule with wit is the basic idea of satire. The tweets posted in the political section are a bit old in the time line(Since I wanted to post them as a collection, I delayed the post). & also these tweets are not absolute truths(they are variable with difference in opinion) and If you feel different, do feel free to spar words. After all it is the difference in Ideas and Ideals that makes life chaotic and beautiful.

If you liked the above, please do follow me in twitter. My handle is @aarthycrazy. I may not tweet regularly but then my tweets aren't that regular either.

Definitely Dowry – A Short Story

Dowry - The definition –

Money, goods or estate that a woman brings to her husband in marriage. It has a long history in Europe, South Asia and Africa. Being a conditional gift helping the husband to discharge the responsibilities of marriage, its practice more or less disappeared in Europe in the 19th and 20th century. However the practice grew in South Asia where in some cases delayed or insufficient dowry has made some young wives the victims of torture and sometimes death by the in-laws.

The snap-



The Story:


He slowly opened his eyes, waking himself out of the final traces of slumber and found his hands instinctively reaching out to his side to his newly wed wife. The warmth of her sent a tingle through his skin and just as he lifted his head of the pillow to see whether she was asleep or awake, he felt her hands ruffle through his hair and simply smiled. The room was bathing in the morning’s golden sunlight- warm and lustrous thrusting life into every thing it touches. She got up, walked up to the window and stood there looking outside, the light bounced on her and exploded into a million rainbows. He took a deep breath savoring the loveliness of the morning on his wife and thanked his lucky stars that he got married to this lovely lady, as he got behind her and slightly brushed his lips against her cheek kissing her.

It looked to him as if she was deep in thought and like any new husband ready to impress his wife in a jiffy, he asked her what was on her mind. She looked into his eyes, gave a slow sad smile, then said “Nothing, it was just something I was thinking”

“Something huh???”

“Yeah it’s ok. It’s no big deal”

He stood there looking at his wife ordering some tea through the room service telephone, totally bewildered and stumped, unable to understand why she just blew him off without any answer. He must have stood there for a while; she looked at him, tilted her head as she always does when she questions him and quipped “What?? Why are you staring like that??"

“Nothing, it’s just that I was wondering whats keeping you so lost in thought…….”

She simply sat down at the tea table without showing any intent of responding to the question. What are men supposed to do when they met with such indifference while talking to a girl? After all men are logical creatures, who would rather understand quantum mechanics than the workings of the mind of the fairer sex. Without an inkling of an idea on what to do, he did the right thing, he simply waited for her to answer.


Exasperated with the long silence, he started to contemplate on breaking it with some idle prattle, just then the tea arrived. Eying his large tip, the room service who brought the tea pot gave a big smile and after making sure that the couple did not need any other thing, he left the room as deftly as he entered. The tea was tepidly warm and refreshing. He inhaled the aroma and started to sip it. It gave him something to do rather than to stare at his wife who doesn't seem to acknowledge him.

“Have I been sold to you darling??”

He chocked. Her feminine voice, so calm yet sharp in an morbid manner churned up his insides, rattling him. The tea along with the words and the tone that she delivered them, it couldn’t have been more bizarre. When kicked in the balls by a girl, a guy though in pure torturous pain rarely responds violently instead he simply stands there wondering what in god’s holy name did he do to deserve this. It was in such a state of poetic pity, that the newly married husband was left with.

Women are invariably comfortable with monologues especially when they need to speak their heart out. They just need someone who would listen. Someone who would listen to them seriously, then chide them with a smile and a kiss for thinking things in such a silly pretext.

“It’s the dowry that keeps bugging my mind. I don’t really see the need of it, in the least the reason behind it. Well, it’s not like we are in medieval ages, it’s the 21st century and for heaven’s sake I earn as much as you do. It hurts me plenty to know that I have just been sold to the best bidder. How else can I put the money and property that you and your parents got out of mine? How more pathetic my father could have been blaming the society when I asked the same question to him – Am I being sold?”

She then gave a sardonic smile and brushing away a few strands of hair that were falling to her gloomy eyes; she looked at him and quipped like saying the punch line for a bad joke. “And you know what the real fun part is, not even a single soul understood me, even barely listened to me”

After a second or may be two, he stood up from the tea table and went to her, laying his hands on her shoulder he kissed her forehead, and looking deep in those dark raven black eyes, he said in the most empathizing voice “I understand”. Blossoming flowers drenched in dew were put to shame as her eyes turned moist and she kissed him as if it was the most natural thing to happen and overwhelmed with gratitude, she quipped “Thank You”. He couldn’t have been more understanding.

After a few cherished seconds of cuddled warmth, she gave him a peck on the cheek and went to the bathroom to shower. He moved about to the balcony and after a few seconds of thought, rang up his father in law from his mobile and was greeted by his sleepy voice. After the usual chit chat, the newly married son in law stammered more than a little bit trying to find the right words. “Actually……..I called to confirm……… whether you credited to my account ……… that money you promised”

“No, not yet. I was thinking of transferring it to you in a couple of days. Why? Is there any problem? Are you guys doing OK?”

“Yes of course we are fine. Well, the thing is……. It would be good if it’s done by tomorrow and please don’t let her know that I requested this of you. I mean………. you know her. It would upset her”

The father in law answered with the most empathizing voice “I understand”

The son in law was so overwhelmed with gratitude, that he simply quipped “Thank you”. After all he couldn’t have been more understanding.

The Guidance-- A 55 fiction

The Snap-



The Fiction-


"Papa, He took my ball...... took my ball...."

The child came whining at the top of her unbroken virgin voice.

"It's your ball. Right??"

The six year old looked up at her father and nodded.

"So, What are you going to do about it??"

The sharp question put the child to silent thinking.

Her father just smiled.



Author's note-

A child is an individual with it's own thinking, capabilities and creative intuition. More often I come across parents who feed their children on what to do, rather than kindling their own child's problem solving quotient. In a culture like ours, where kids stay with the parent until almost they get married, I think parents guide their children a little too much.

After all, how many times have we heard parents saying- "I made all the decisions for her till now. I care for her. So wouldn't it be appropriate for me to find her a good suitor."

Parenting is a gift, a bliss. To see a child make it's own mistakes, it's own choices and to take part of it's tears and laughs in it's life is a privilege in it's own right.

ps-
Guys, If you would like to read more of my 55 fictions, kindly do so with given link. Hope you enjoy the same, Cheers.

Sex & the society - Last part of the trilogy

Warning-

Highly Adult content. The post discusses sex, men and women, so people who think they are not mature enough to read about the subject please do not read any further.

The Snap-



The quote-

If People can understand that women too are human beings with sexual desires like everyone else, if the segmentation of sex alone can be defeated, the entire system of prejudice and misunderstanding will take a heavy dent.
And that dent will be the start of a more liberated and dynamic society in every single way.

--muthu

I thought I had all the answers – All the answers to all the questions that would be raised on this particularly controversial topic of sex - a need & a pleasure for both men and women.

A society that has the ability to question and break away from a century of sexual prejudice between men and women can achieve anything. It will be a learned society that will be intelligent enough to question the makers of politics to the brokers of economy. I want to be a part of such a group of people. People who would listen to reason and love rather than to bigotries and hate.

Yeah, but the final question boils down to the singular level. How much do we want to be a part of that society? How much radical are we willing to be? Where will we draw the lines of acceptable and not acceptable, if we are to erase those present now?
How will you react to the situations of controversial nature that may rise in the future? How will I react to the same?

And the question that the Bondgal_rulz posted in the comments section of the last post was right on the bull’s eye.


The kick in the balls -

Bondgal - As we go on vehemently discussing here about issues such as sexual discrimination, sexual liberation, need for people to recognize women too as sexual beings---
Think 20 years down the line. You are a family man, who has a say 19 year old daughter. Will YOU be comfortable enough with her partying out in the night and boozing with her friends?

Muthu- *Scratches the head* *Clears the throat* *After a distant thoughtful look* I think I need time to think.

I feel like I have just been kicked in the balls. Courtesy- Bondgal_rulz. (Yeah sure she rules).



The singular questions-

The question bondgal asked was the beginning of a fresh batch of questions that rose in my mind & every single of those new questions that had a singular trait to them. They questioned me as to how I will react to the scenario on my direct involvement in the prospective future.



--- Will I dominate my wife with my comparatively strong male physicality on subjects our opinions differ rather than trying to convince her of the merit of my stand?

--- How understanding will I be if I am extremely horny and my wife refuses me in the bed saying that she is not in the mood?

--- How much liberal and understanding will I be to my wife on the aspect of her past sexual relationships?

--- How will I react If my daughter says to me- that she is thinking of moving in with her boy friend after she has become a major?

--- Will I be able to accept the fact that my daughter may want to have sex with the guy she is going out in the future (that is when she is major)?

--- Will I be ready to accept and appreciate my daughter or son, if their sexual orientation turns out to be homosexual?

--- What will be my advice to my own daughter on sex, on the ethics of sex, on what the society thinks about sex?


The answers-

I believe myself to be a liberal leaning heavily towards the radical. My opinions have always been blunt and pointedly progressive on the aspects on sexual equality, discrimination based on sex, color & creed. I believe you need not be a supporter of women’s right to see what’s wrong and right. To see what’s prejudiced and what needs a change desperately. But propagandas and beliefs aside, we are all humans who go around with our daily activities.

How much can we be -what we think is right.

I am not going to make statements about how radical I am going to be with my wife & daughter. This after all is not any election campaign. It more of a search of how much I really am of what I propagate.

And the search I believe is infused in the blood and soul of my everyday activity as is the case in yours. In every of our decisions and actions, we express what we believe. And it’s not going to be easy to do things as to say them.



I want to love my mother, sister, future wife, daughter and every other woman I meet without any prejudice or predetermined beliefs. I will desire to give them space and faith that I myself would expect in their shoes. And in that desire I will hold my spirit of seeing the society change for the good.
(And yeah bondgal my daughter will party if she wants to and the only thing I will want to make sure is that she knows what she does. I will want to allow her to make her own decisions, her own rights, her own mistakes- After all it her own life to live.)


The lever of change-

Education is learning from others. And whatever is learned from others will always have a part of them, a part of their own system of values, a part of their own beliefs, prejudices that are passed along. Education will never solve social problems. The only salvation is to self questioning. Self realization.

Every one of us of every segment of the self segregated society that we are, are born to be rejoiced and celebrated. Not to be discriminated. Do you think the child that passionately hugs the bosom of its mother and quenches its thirst suckling knows that what its doing can be also classified as vulgar & not as divine? Our ideas of chastity, sexual morality and concept of discrimination are learned behavior.

And it is in this learned behavior- that we learnt eagerly without questioning its merits and its basis, we have allowed the roots of prejudice and bigoted discriminations to bore deep.

Society in understanding is nothing more than a herd going along with the stride. It would not just be a monumental task but impossibility and a suicide to social life to go against the society.

But of course, the least you could do is to question whats right & ethical rather than to choose to go along with the herd.

And that you can do.Cant you??



Author's note-

The above is the third and last part of the trilogy series I have been writing. So please do read the other two parts to appreciate the conclusion given in this last episode.
Part 1 [link]
Part 2 [link]

In this concluding post, I took the line of what drives each of us individuals personally rather than relying on statistics. Of course the statistics says that In India alone once on two hours one girl gets raped. Two women are subjected to house hold violence. In the course of writing this trilogy, I went through a lot of info on the web about the every aspect of discriminations in every nature that people face.

And I realized something, it isn't ignorance that makes people go along with these prejudices & bigotries but people choose to just follow the crowd rather than questioning things as to why should they be done so in the way they are being done now.

Please, all I ask is to question things. Make it a habit. Inculcate questioning attitude in kids. We are born perfect & all the answers to the questions are within us. But the only way we are going to find those answers within ourselves is though questioning.



PS-

Sorry guys, I took almost a week to publish the concluding post. Unexpectedly, I got stuck in Chennai for almost 4 days and also this is my first time writing about such a heavy topic as a trilogy. Please do leave back your comments and criticisms on my attempt. I have tried to cover every aspect of the problem and people I bow to your comments as they showed me the different perspectives of the problem.

And lastly I sincerely appreciate people who inspired me by reading this trilogy and commenting on it.

Thank you guys.


Will soon post the poems i wrote when I traveled. (I always write when traveling)


Until then.


cheers.