Y is for Yumna

 

 

“Why is Bhabhi praying now? The panditji will be here any minute for the pooja.”

“She`s reciting a prayer for Ma- I think it’s called a Fatiha.”

“But why? Ma is a Hindu- that too a Brahmin!”

Yumna folded her prayer mat and smiled, “Are you worried that Allah will grant her jannant instead of Bhagwan welcoming her in swarg?”

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V is for Vidhi

 

“How liberal is your husband! So forthcoming. He has never stopped you from pursuing your career,” Mini screamed.

“Yes. He has never stopped me because he has been busy pushing me.”

Mini declared, “Well, you are really a thankless woman! He is so supportive!! Here is a husband who is letting you travel for work and you want to complain. What more do you want?”

“I just want to be. Not be a Trophy wife he can flaunt at every gathering. I want to spend time with the girls. Can I not decide what I want from life? It`s not that we need the money. I can work flexi-hours. I am happy to not climb the ladder.”

“Talk about whiny women. Here you have a plum opportunity, a supportive husband and you want to complain. So what if he pushes you? That is the reason you have reached so far!”

“Don`t you get it. I don`t want to.”

“You can`t decide suddenly that you don’t want to. Not after all that he has sacrificed for you. He didn’t take up the overseas posting. He chose to be home when you had to travel. He loves you.  It is payback time now. You have to do what he says. Don`t say no to this opportunity.”

“Payback ? My own husband? Is it even love or just a well-planned transaction?”

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K is for Kirti

 

She lay motionless beneath him. His heavy body on her-all spent. Her insides were burning and pain seared through her legs and lower back. She still did not move. She knew better. She had learnt it soon-she was a fast learner. 

Within a month of her marriage, she had learnt how to get away with minimal hurt. Just that it was never minimal. Every night. Some days too. Some evenings too. The lockdown had ensured she locked away her feelings, her emotions and her voice. 

While the pandemic raged havoc outside, this one savaged her bit by bit. Everyday.

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 Space

A little space

        so

 I can grow

A little more  

        so

 you can grow 

        then  

A little more

         so

we can grow.

That`s all I want.

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                                                       The Painter

The little boy sighed. 

He tried so hard to colour inside the lines but no matter how he tried there was always some colour outside the drawing. Last week his teacher had scolded him and said sternly, " Why are you so messy and dirty? You can NEVER be an artist" His face had burned with shame as his eyes had darted fearfully all over his drawing book.

He was determined to do a good job this time. It was Naani`s birthday and  he had asked his mother to draw a big flower for him. He wanted to colour it in  shades of red and pink , just like those flowers that bloomed in Naani`s garden. But the colour., as usual, had spilled out. 

He still wanted to give it to Naani so in the evening when his mother told him that they would go to see Naani, he quickly folded the paper and slipped it in his pocket. Naani was sitting out in the garden and he ran upto her.

 "Naani," he panted as he handed her the drawing, " for you. Happy Birthday !"

Naani unfolded the paper and gasped. "Such a beautiful flower ! The  prettiest I have ever seen in my life! You are going to be a great painter" She traced the little blobs of paint scattered on the paper and hugged the little boy.

The little boy beamed with pleasure. He would become a painter!

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Generosity

 

 

At the traffic signal, a hand stretched out from a car window. It held a paper bag dangling in the air. 

The little urchin ran across the road and gleefully grabbed it. He drooled as he saw a half-eaten burger and some limp fries. He walked back to the pavement and sat down when he spotted the dog. He smiled. He tore the half-eaten burger into two pieces and threw one piece to the lanky dog. 

There was always enough to share.

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 The Story

He stood under the cold shower, eyes closed in a bliss,  he picked up the shower gel and lathered it all over his body. He loved long showers but today he did not have the luxury of doing so -his boss had just messaged him. 

I need 400 words on migrants-full drama, tears-the works. By noon. Today.

He walked to his wooden desk next to the French window overlooking the lush garden that his wife tended to so lovingly. The endless row of marigold danced joyfully even as the hot wind slapped them harshly. He booted his computer and called out, “Bahadur. Get me a shikanji. At least 6 cubes of ice. And keep some  beer in the freezer.”

He scrolled through a few websites, humming under his breath,  when he spotted picture of migrants. A bus bursting with passengers and their belongings , a man trying to scramble up the roof-top with a toddler clinging on to  his legs.

Perfect.

 He smiled.

This is going to be a great story.

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