Bougainvilleas

Image: Pexels.com C arefree for Yin was deciding what to wear, Carefree for Yang was not dodging a bullet. Beyond the dotted line lay a carefree world. Liam overcame last minute doubts and crossed over.

Hari hated the hearing aid. It gave him a headache.  He paced the room waiting for the call. He had just the week to organize Diwali dinner. He’d show off Rajiv to his new friends in the retirement community. Jamuna answered the phone in speaker mode, gesticulating to Hari to wear his hearing aid. Hari shook his head. In between meetings, Rajiv hurriedly said, "No Ma, I’m going to Switzerland. Diwali’s the only time I can go….bye. Hello to Dad.” Hari’s eyebrows went up in inquiry, eyes expectant underneath his permanent deaf smile. “Congratulations! The company’s sending your son to speak at an international forum. He’ll visit us once he is back” said Jamuna with a bright smile.

Photo by  Gaelle Marcel  on  Unsplash That thing called love… You’re a hero, my box with a shiny bow. You held the strings of my heart. You let them go. He picked the strings and handed them to me, never tried to hold, never could.  I felt no rush, no tingle. He made me laugh, heal to become sole owner of the strings. Yet I was inexorably drawn to him like a crackling fire on a cold night, like the comfort of an old tee, a hot cuppa tea. You were an idyll, he’ll always be. That thing called love… You are a hero My box with a shiny bow You held the strings of my heart They danced to your thrall You let them go suddenly like a distracted child He picked the severed strings Handed them to me Never tried to hold, never could There was no rush, no tingle He made me laugh, hope, heal Sole owner of the strings Yet I am inexorably drawn to him Like a crackling fire on a cold night Like the comfort of an old, soft tee ...

Photo by  juan pablo rodriguez  on  Unsplash “School topper! 99%! You knocked it outta the park Son!” gloated Pete's Dad. Mother beamed. His brother, Mark hugged him, his face shining with pride, eyes misty. Mark didn’t say anything, as always, economizing on words to hide his stutter.  Mark reached out tentatively as if to hug Dad. Dad hastily looked away. “Get the cake dear. Celebration time!”  Pete watched on with a glacial smile.

Photo by  Kelly Sikkema  on  Unsplash Published in: http://fewerthan500.com/til-differences-do-us-part/ Tahira was leaving him. Shattering his dream of their Swiss holiday. Just this morning, he’d dreamt they had moved into a sea-facing apartment in an upscale neighbourhood, drank their ritualistic cuppa tea, watching the sunset.  All that while, she’d probably vacillated between telling him and avoiding confrontation. Finally, decision had won and  they  were lost. He replayed their times together. Had she been a little subdued? Uninterested? Not really. Or was he mistaken? He wished he’d paid less attention to his perpetually busy work phone. But it made him a lot of money that he loved spending on her. Surely she knew that? How had he been so impervious to her turmoil? He felt idiotic like that workaholic colleague, Rishabh whose teenaged son had turned a drug junkie. Like Rishabh, he’d been working for a non-existent future. A heavy silenc...

Photo by  Caroline Attwood  on  Unsplash Any cook should be able to run the country. -Vladimir Lenin Mine tries to run my kitchen. And unwittingly engenders a battle of wits with me every single day, one minute, every action at a time. I adopted the triumphs followed by tragedies style of giving feedback on her culinary preparations. However, her attention shut me out post the triumphs. Period. So while the parathas got tastier, they continued to be seeped in grease. So I reversed the order. A reprimand for excess oil was sweetened with a praise for the paratha. Both were met with a weary look that kind of gave up on my persnickety personality but with not so much as a hint of an eye roll. I must learn the fine art of conveying scorn impassively from her, truly. No win here. I finally had to confiscate the oil jars and ration out oil on a daily basis. Result, a permanently morose expression. No win totally! Missing or exhausted ingredients generate...