Category Archives: Fiction

The Vanishing Wilds

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

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Every drop matters
Image Courtesy: Pixabay

Drip! Drip! Drip!

The sound grated on her nerves. That which would have been heavenly served as a messenger from hell. If only it were the faucet! Alas, the tap maintained its dry spell.

None of the others did.

The clay water pot leaked; the small storage tank did too. The roof let in showers when it rained. Even the wrinkled old lady’s eyes watered.

But the tap refused to shed a drop.

 

Image Courtesy: Pitsch at Pixabay
Image is CCO Creative Commons

 

The ruins

The ruins
The Ruins at Hampi, Karnataka
Where people see the ruins,
I see the city—as once it was–
bustling with vigour;
the stones anticipating
frenzied activities instead of
the shadows of nothingness,
the emptiness of the market
filled with haggling buyers,
the forlorn temples once
basking in their glorious grandeur,
the abandoned palaces
proud of their showy splendor,
the haughtiness of the nobility,
the dreams of the residents
before it all crashed,
the forgotten relics serving
as a reminder
that invincibility is
but an illusion;
that all these ruins were
once a thriving city;
and every city hopes,
not to become a ruin one day.
© K.A. Acharya 2018

Always Respect Tradition

tradition quote
Always respect tradition, I was taught

And I would have obeyed, but then I realised

If everyone had done the same thing

Where would I be?


Books would no longer be my friends,

Education would be barred to me;

My meagre brain at the mercy of

The wise men, who guided me.

My imagination neatly wrapped

Between the lines of a prayer-book;

My life would be of household chores.

Respect would be an alien word;

I would have taunts and scolds aplenty.

My feet bound to the threshold

Too scared to tread the outside world,

No knowledge would ever pierce the walls;

Ignorance would be my salvation.


Always respect tradition, I was taught

And I would have obeyed, but then I realised

If everyone had done the same thing

I would have faced a horrible fate.


I would be at home, a veil covering

my face, and a husband whom I worshipped

for the kicks and punches, he rewarded me.

I would be serving his parents while

He harassed mine for money.

I would pray for his long life, and not for any 

Claims of love, nor hypocrisy on my part.

I would really want him to live long,

For his death would be my destruction.

I would rather have the bruises he gives

Than be burned in the funeral pyre.

Some cultures would spare my life

Only to kill me everyday.



Always respect tradition, I was taught

And I refused to obey for the sake of a future girl.

Because, when I bring a piece of change,

She would be in some place better.

―K.A. Acharya © 2018

* I in the poem doesn't refer to me (as in Kiran), 
it's any girl who would have been victim 
to irrational traditions and customs. 
Pls check The woes of a Fiction Writer to understand.

Heart

after all the pain
it has been through, my heart
still beats for you

beating heart

The above image was my first Boomerang 🙂 It’s been a year since I discovered Boomerang, and I’m still in love with that app 😀

Haiku- a valley

the solo trekker

scales the snowy mountain peak;

valley left behind

© Kiran Acharya 2017

Image courtesy : Charuhas Acharya @ A Glimpse of Paradise

Vignette: Anger

Vignette 1
Image Courtesy: Pixabay

Anita kicked the bedpost. Once. Twice. And once more. Third time she missed, and hit the vase stand. Pieces flew all over the room. Broken, shattered bits. Like her. Her mum didn’t see that, didn’t care about that. She cared about the breaking sound. The noise which aggravated her headache. That she compared to the house falling. More like a rats in the cupboard din, Anita thought. It was more than she could take.

She scurried to the garden. Her solace through the years. Not today. The sun was in a bad mood too. His fury burned her skin. The odour of dog poo greeted her instead of the sweet-smelling roses. She picked up a sharp rock. Of course, she would never hurt the neighbour’s dog. Even though he was the re-incarnation of Zoltan. Instead she hurled it at the letter box.

The flowers weren’t co-operative either. The rose drew her blood. The Hibiscus refused to placate her nose. She crushed the flower for the offense. Too late she recollected that the poor flower never boasted of fragrance. The hibiscus wouldn’t become a sweet scented flower just like she couldn’t be the son her mother wanted so much. It didn’t matter. She straightened the crushed petals. She loved every flower just as it was.

*One of my assignments at a Flash Fiction Workshop. The task was to write a piece portraying a strong emotion.

Image Source: Jill111 at Pixabay 

Image is CC0 Creative Commons

Let me know whether you like it or not.Your encouragement makes my day, and criticism makes my writing 🙂

 

The Observer

Observing the street
Image Courtesy: Pixabay

Watching people through the window is his job. Well, not exactly his job, but a prelude to it.

Staring out the window at the lush landscape, tickling streams—not his scene. Why sit on the other side of the wall when you could directly bask in the sun, play with the waters, and climb the mountains? Maybe when it’s raining. But then he would rather go out in the rain than watch through a hole in the wall. He loves dancing in the rain as much as he loves making people dance to his tunes.

His window seat doesn’t face nature, but the concrete street—a crowded road with heavy footfall—not the highway packed with moving vehicles. He isn’t interested in watching the different models of automobiles passing, though he does love cars and bikes. Watching people isn’t a hobby, but a necessity. Else, how would he find someone suitable? He doesn’t like to use someone he knows. That would be risky. His feelings would interfere with what he has to do. Watching a crowd is safe. There he finds strangers, whose pain and sufferings he can bear with a detached mind. Continue reading The Observer

his love gave her words,

his absence motivation—

a writer was born

Writing

Image Courtesy: WerbeFabrik at Pixabay 

Image: CC0 Creative Commons