Two girls sat on the rock at the edge of the stream. Not together. Not at the same time. One came after the onset of dawn, the other few hours earlier. They came every day, sat at the same spot, Continue reading That magical place
Remember dear fellow women,
the reason we are here with any freedom at all are not the women who remained quiet, and let their work speak. There always were in history many such great women, but that didn’t change the fate of womanhood. What helped us are the women who made a noise, women who did not back down, who gave a tough fight to the authorities, and kept fighting even after the fight was supposedly over. They were called bitches, drama queens, radicals, and what not. They were hated by most of the society including some women. Even most of the respectable, and good leaders of their respective eras spoke against these women. But they were also admired for their tenacity and fighting spirit. The early women were not fighting someone else’s cause, but their own. People never understood why she has to continue fighting after she has already gained respect, and success. But this fighting spirit was more necessary for us than anyone realised. Because they continued fighting, the door to their field remained open, the path they followed remained accessible to the other women that came later—the tolerant women, who could never have the courage to fight that big a battle. Remember, the conformists aren’t the reason for our easy life, the rebels are. So, it is very vital that you support their struggles, even if their supposedly unnecessary fighting spirit annoys you. Stand with such a woman, even if you don’t understand her problem. Because someday, another woman, or possibly many other women of future will have an easy access to the prize, the fighter won.
© K.A. Acharya 2020
She was excited to be here. This would be a great story. Views from people who knew him personally. And she was getting some response too.
A little girl, who said she was glad. Her father, who shushed her and said, “no. we didn’t want it like this.” “Yes, we believe in law,” the wife said. “Yes, law,” the old woman in the cot, probably the grandmother, snorted.
The next family asked her if they’d be on TV. When she assured them, yes they would indeed be, they shut the door to her face.
And then, she saw the old man sitting at the corner smoking bidi. There was a strange aura around him as if he didn’t care at all about whatever was going around him. She rushed towards him with the cameraman.
“What do you think about the encounter?” she asked. He just stared. “Did you want to see him punished by the law? What about the people who supported him, the police, the politicians?” she kept blabbering. She didn’t know why, but she wanted this man to answer. Just when she thought he wouldn’t, he did.
“It must be nice,” Continue reading The Luxury
When you talk about thinking outside the box, it means that you have accepted the existence of the box. This is how you start drawing the boundaries—the limits, which you try your best to cross. But, you need to understand that the box never existed.
The box is the figment of the society’s imagination. If you accept the existence of the box, then your life revolves in and around the box. Even when you’re thinking outside the box, you’re still thinking in relation to the box itself.
True creativity is understanding that there is no box—no boundaries, no limits. Neither to your imagination; nor for your talent.
As a first born child, active imagination was my only company for a long time. Pictures are visualiser’s best friends. They help open the vista of imagination, and improve your Dreamland. So, picture books were my favourite then. I used to glance through the pictures without bothering to read anything written (mostly because I hadn’t yet learned ABC).
However, as I grew up I realised pictures are open to interpretation. The story I figured out wasn’t the story, the writer had written. That was when I started reading. I wanted to know what the writer thought.
After reading many books, I came to a conclusion. Nothing can boost your own imagination better than words. Not even the actual picture.
Well written words help you visualise a scene better than a picture. This may seem like a paradox. The truth is you may or may not like a picture painted by someone else. However, a good writer doesn’t paint the scene himself; he provides you with colours to paint the scene as you like it. So a good writer creates a story wherein everyone visualises the scene customized to their own style.
So, if you want to live the story read; if you just want to pass time, watch a movie.
“Success comes to those who work hard, not the slackers,” said he, dressed in an impeccable suit, from his air-conditioned office, while a slacker scrubbed the floors in the basement. Yet another slacker was lifting a heavy crate, and one was plastering walls at some random construction site.
“Work, work, work,” he continued, sipping coffee, “I worked when my friends partied. You got to get an early start.” The eight-year old cleaning the utensils thanked her fortunes–how much earlier could you start?
“And remember, you work for the people, selfless work is the key.” In front of his screen, the doctor clapped at that, and in a remote village a selfish farmer found the perfect noose.
The newspaper, the televisions, all published the virtues of hard work, but the appreciation failed to reach the labourers, who could neither read nor could they afford to watch the telly.
© K.A. Acharya
I don’t like writing about the past,
Not mine, nor of anybody else.
Why criticize someone who can’t change?
Why praise a person, who’s beyond needing motivation?
Let the sleeping dogs lie,
why wake them up and cry?
But, at times I see glimpses of the past—
the villains still hurting people;
the prejudices destroying lives,
the past trying to mingle with the present,
bringing fake promises of the light,
and spreading it’s dark ideas.
This past needs to be caught,
to be displayed in its naked glory,
to be defeated, and sent back in disgrace,
for some pasts have this uncanny ability
to befriend the present and spoil the future.
“ You’re so lucky. Your husband is a strong man,” her friend said.
She didn’t even wince at that. Nor did she touch the bruises on her cheeks, now skillfully hidden under tons of make up. Continue reading When Strength isn’t Bliss
Everywhere I look, I see the concrete jungle
full of people jostling one another,
the towers stretching high, the space between
packed with colourful cars speeding along the roads.
In vain, I try to find the trees of my childhood
only to spot a plant here and there—the
remnants of the once widespread forest—
the shrubs lined in the middle of the road
more tamed than the traffic around. Continue reading The Vanishing Wilds
Once upon a time, chariots were an everyday occurrence in the city of Hampi. They sped along the street, leaving the passersby awestruck with their splendor. Now, at the end of the city stands the solitary stone chariot in an empty temple campus.
Lifeless, yet elegant.
Inside the Vitthala Temple complex stands the magnificent stone sculpture in the shape of a chariot. The stone chariot is one of the most featured attractions of Hampi. It was built in the sixteenth century under the reign of Emperor Krishnadevraya, when Vijaynagar was at the height of its glory.
The chariot is not a monolithic structure, but made of connecting slabs of stones, the connection cleverly embedded in the artistic designs. Though now empty, the Stone Chariot was once a Garuda shrine.
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