“ 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→
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.
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→