Bougainvilleas

Why I occasionally take to writing… Because I don’t want to do something that I had better be doing. Why I don't always get published… One of the downfalls of escapism is contrived prose. The only acceptance it gets is in the form of consistent rejection. Why I occasionally take to writing… Because it is my flight of fantasy from developing training that nobody wants to undergo. My favourite lady J K Rowling’s magical tales, I am told, were chugged out during tube travel drudgery. I believe all trauma results in either an alter ego or brilliant art and sometimes both. Why I don't always get published… Love does not always fructify into marriage and all fantastical writing does not make for art or get published.    Why I occasionally take to writing... Because writing could potentially justify my guilty addiction of browsing books and authors bang in the middle of work. All the books I read stoke the money-churning, prolific writer in me, a problem anyone? ...

Photo by  William Krause  on  Unsplash Published in: https://storymirror.com/read/story/english/nfu2azyy/grammy/detail Kia’s BFF was her neighbour, Violet. Kia was a sprightly six to Violet’ s sixty-five.  Kia struggled for a while with the name Violet. Wallet, Wallet, sh e would squeal until she conveniently nicknamed Wallet “Grammy” after the Grammy awards show she saw her parents watching on television. Her Mamma was ecstatic over someone called Yo Yo Ma at the awards show. Kia watched in round eyed wonder because it looked like Yo Yo Ma was playing an outsized violin and by holding it upside down! “That’s not a violin honey, that’s a C-E-L-L-O”, spelled out Kia’s Mamma taking the opportunity to teach her a new spelling.  “C-E-L-L-O……sell-O”, shouted Kia.  “Chell – O not Sell – O, my love” corrected Mamma. Mamma had not said C-E-L-E-R-Y, chellery. But never mind Mamma, she was always saying opposite things!  “Chell-O makes me fe...

Image: pixabay.com I have the uncanny ability to order the worst, absolutely the worst item off any restaurant food menu. Today, to be safe, I called V for recommendations. My calls went unanswered, so I decided to go with my totally fallible instinct. I took time thinking how each dish would feel, how it would affect me and then let the waiter help me with choosing. I went for a dahi raj kachori (Or some such thing! I may have actually gone for just the dahi . It is an elixir of sorts for us south Indians). I shifted to a warmer table to escape the air-conditioner. Across my new seat, there was this family – mother, father and son, and between them were fluffy yet crisp looking bhaturas . Ones that always tempted me to deflate by poking a finger in them. I summoned a passing waiter and changed my order. I looked on at the family with a fond smile. I started studying them surreptitiously. Suddenly, I developed a vague sense of unease about my order. And just as s...

He addictively shared jokes, pictures, memes. He earned a million likes. He died all of a sudden. He wanted to hug his parents. He wanted to earn just two happy smiles.

The fan that whirred and creaked me a lullaby on many a disturbed night groaned one last time with my weight.  Its packaging carton was still atop my almirah.  It read, "VERO fans. Silent. Powerful."

I believe I’m #1.  My mother’s to blame.  She believed I was number one even when I topped my class ranks in reverse order.  One tough lady!

I bake on a scaffold in the scorching heat. I work at perilous heights. I build homes. I live in a makeshift hut all my life.

Photo by  Felicia Buitenwerf  on  Unsplash Published in: http://fewerthan500.com/%EF%BB%BFa-good-turn/ It was a regular day’s commute to work in the ubiquitous autorickshaw. The driver and I rode in a sulky Monday silence disturbed only by the many potholes. We were soon caught in a traffic jam. They have taught me a lesson in acceptance. I moodily stared at a bunch of bare torso-ed urchins playing at a distance with a cobalt blue plastic toy. They had a nice game of forward moving football going on. Unhindered by their straitened place in life, they happily kicked and yelled in equal measure. I absently noted how a misshapen toy past its prime could be a source of such joy to some! The traffic let up and the rickshaw purred ahead with gusto. One of the urchins kicked the toy hard and it landed in the auto’s path. I held my breath and waited with dread to hear the toy crunch under the auto’s wheels. My eyes closed involuntarily to shut out the scene. A jolt ...

A stone in an oyster, A jewel among pebbles. Satin that slips away, Rags that comfort. Pickles in a cookie jar, Sweetness in revenge. A shiver in a sunbeam, A downpour in a desert. Smiles hiding a whimper, Sorrow that rings hollow. Emptiness in a parcel, So much depth in despair. A busy but empty day, A full life yet a barren existence.