Age Five:
She hates school. No friends, nobody to play with, her first experiences with being bullied, teased, ridiculed, misunderstood. She cries.
Age Ten:
She has gotten used to it all, being a recluse, an outcast, but is looking forward to seventh grade. She will be going to a new school, and is happy: new people; perhaps she'll find a friend at last. But there is trouble; all the 'good schools' won't accept her. She is different, a slow learner, how will she keep up with their intensive curricula? There is discord at home; her parents are worried - what will she do in life? She cries.
Age Thirteen:
She is doing fine - she managed to find her way into a decent school after all. Still no friends as such, but her classmates have accepted her - for they are teenagers, a little more mature than the kids who had bullied her. But alas, growing up is awkward - she is the tallest girl in the class, with the most prominent chest - as if she didn't already stand out enough. And she is spotty. Ugly, the boys in her class call her. She cries.
Age Fifteen:
The other girls have caught up with her growth spurt; the pimples are under control; the teasing has ceased. But she falls in love, for the very first time. He is the coolest, most popular boy in class, and treats her like a friend. She can't help but blush around him. The pretty girls spread the rumor, about her crushing on him; the teasing starts again. He takes to ignoring her, embarrassed by it all. She is heartbroken. She cries.
Age Seventeen:
She has long gotten over him - he is stupid and immature, and she marvels over how she could have liked him and labeled it as love. She is raring to go - preparing for the medical entrance exam - she is going to be a doctor, and show the world she can do anything she wants to. Ha, bet it would shut up all those schools who labeled her 'different' and rejected her all those years ago.
But alas, she is the only one left speechless: she fails. She cries.
Age Nineteen:
She is confused in life, studying English Literature at the local Arts college. After her childhood dream of being a doctor had shattered, she'd wanted to go abroad, to study music. The piano is the only thing she is good at apart from biology. But there had been no money, and she isn't talented enough for a scholarship. Besides, whoever blew thousands of dollars on studying MUSIC out of all things? 'You're out of your mind,' she is told, time and again, whenever she says she can't study English. It is something to be learnt, not studied, there is a big difference between the two, but only she seems to understand it. She feels so alone, even though she has a few friends now. She can't really talk to them. But she does not cry. Instead she immerses herself in the works of Shakespeare and Austen and Dickens and Twain. They make a lot of sense, so unlike all the living people she is surrounded by.
Age Twenty:
She falls in love again. He is older than her - by two years - and smarter - an engineer - and handsome - tall, athletic, fair, dark-haired - just like the guy of her dreams. But he is out of reach, going around with a much sought-after girl. They are the 'it' couple, the 'hit' couple, the 'fit' couple.
Memories of her first crush, five years ago, bring a smile to her face now. She often wonders about him, checks out his online profile from time to time, and it makes her feel strange, how he was once so important to her. What she'd felt for him was nothing compared to what she is going through now - the stomach-churning, heart-flipping, brain-freezing, emotion she feels is so much more intense than what she'd imagined love to be. It is maddenning. And shocking. She doesn't feel like herself anymore, especially when she takes the first step to be friends with him. He reciprocates and soon, he is a part of her world. It is an achievement of sorts for her - having a best friend. A boy best friend. A boy she loves, to top it all off. It is frustrating, but she does not cry. She is beginning to appreciate the irony in her life.
Age Twenty-two:
She graduates and lands a job with the local newspaper. It does not pay well. She is single, living with her parents, religiosly depositing her paychecks at the bank - saving up for the 'future'. She is not sure what this 'future' exactly is - she would much rather use the money to buy pretty clothes and go to the movies like other girls her age -but her parents won't let her. She is still teased, for listening to her parents so much, especially by him, her best friend, her love.
She tells him one day, how she feels. He gapes at her and tells her to quit being emotional. She decides she may never have friends who will understand her; so decides to do an Anne Frank. She turns to the written word, recording her life's disappointments, her absurd thoughts and absurder feelings; the weird tendency she has developed to laugh at sad occasions because she always spots something ironic about them, and cry at happy ones because they overwhelm her so. She is told off, for living in her own world, always stuck to her books or her diary. She does not cry; only smiles warily. And writes some more.
Age Twenty-five:
She is an author. A New York Times bestselling one at that. Who knew her personal scribblings in a paltry journal would excite the publishing world so much? She'd sent off the manuscript on impulse; fully prepared to encounter some more rejection and laugh sardonically in its face, but instead she'd received a call from the very excited editor.
She is in London, at Guildhall, to collect her Man Booker. The idea of giving a speech terrifies her; what if everyone laughs? She can feel all the eyeballs on her as she makes her way up to the stage. She is resplendent; dressed in a sleek designer gown, with hair and make-up that costs more than her entire year's salary had been not so long ago. She feels a thrill as she reaches the podium and sees everyone waiting to hear her speak. She has arrived, at last. And how. She is not only successful, but rich too. And beautiful. She had always been beautiful; but had been too afraid to show it, to embrace it. She had refused to see it in herself, so how would anyone else have seen it in her? They saw it now though - clearly - it is evident in the awe that they ogle at her with. Her parents are proud.
He had gotten back in touch; her 'first love'; sent an online message. She'd ignored him, just like he'd ignored her years ago. Her second love, her best friend had pulled her into a hug and gushed about how happy he was now that she was famous. She'd gently pushed him away, told him to quit being emotional.
'Destiny'. The word resounds in her head.
She isn't going to take anymore nonsense in life, from anyone. And it makes her happy. So happy that she cries, as she receives her award. Tears of joy; of triumph; of perseverance. She cries, for she has every right to.
55 Fiction #5: "Change"
She looked at his packed suitcases with eyes red and puffy. He was going. Her older brother, her best friend, her confidant, her partner in crime. The house would be so empty without him, so eerily quiet.
She bit her lip and looked away as she wondered: Why did growing up have to mean goodbyes?
She bit her lip and looked away as she wondered: Why did growing up have to mean goodbyes?
BFFs, or something like that...
They shared everything with each other: dolls, chocolates, clothes, shoes, lipsticks stolen from their mothers' dressers, fancy pens sneaked out of their dads' coats, mischief, jokes, ideas, opinions, questions, tentative answers that their young minds could pick up from whatever the adults around them said, glossy magazines borrowed from the library that seemed to have all the really important information - like latest fashion trends, and celebrity gossip and what colors suited which skin tone - and books with exciting love stories that ended in beautiful happily ever afters. They would stay up late at night, whenever they had sleepovers, poring over the stories together, giggling at the intimate bits, sighing at the romantic lines, anticipating the time when they would finally grow up and have their very own love stories to obsess over and feel all fluttery about.
They shared in each others' dreams, and lives; saw each other through every experience, most notably, the integral firsts: first crushes, first periods, first bras, first zits, first make-up kits, first swear words, first cellphones, first adolescent mood swings, first arguments at home. And later, first expensive haircuts, and mani-pedis, first strappy dresses, first designer heels, first parties, first boyfriends, first kisses, first heartbreaks, first drinks, first smokes, first joints...except that things seemed to change ever so slightly with every new 'first' in the list. One of the four of them wasn't keeping up with the latter experiences. And it made her feel left out, like she wasn't growing up with her soul sisters any more.
She was clueless when they discussed fancy shades of nail color, like Burnt Amber and Cerulean and Salsa Red and Cool Vanilla; and even more so when they talked of boys and how all they ever wanted was that 'one thing'. She wondered whether they were being completely honest, when they oohed over how wonderful it felt to be kissed, and she gaped in awe when they described their drunken 'adventures'. It all seemed surreal to her; a part of another world, where she didn't belong. Would never belong. She didn't like how different she looked from the three of them, with her long, boring hair tied up in the same old ponytail she'd worn since fifth grade; and her face bare with not even a hint of lip gloss or eyeliner, dressed in her sturdy straight-fit jeans and basic t-shirts, with sneakers on her feet, her nails cut short and a natural pink in color, dull. She stared at her polished, snazzy, gorgeous sisters with cigarettes between their pointy, ring-adorned fingers, sipping exotic colored cocktails from long-stemmed glasses, through glossy scarlet lips, the alluring notes of designer perfumes emanating from each one of them, and she wondered how they'd evolved so fast, into sexy, young women, leaving her far behind, still the chubby girl with no high heels or Prada clutch and no romantic experience, not even a stolen kiss. Were they allowed to do that to her? They were supposed to be her BFFs...Best Friends Forever, or something like that. She failed to see how that would hold true much longer, what with the gap between THEM and HER widening every day...
They shared in each others' dreams, and lives; saw each other through every experience, most notably, the integral firsts: first crushes, first periods, first bras, first zits, first make-up kits, first swear words, first cellphones, first adolescent mood swings, first arguments at home. And later, first expensive haircuts, and mani-pedis, first strappy dresses, first designer heels, first parties, first boyfriends, first kisses, first heartbreaks, first drinks, first smokes, first joints...except that things seemed to change ever so slightly with every new 'first' in the list. One of the four of them wasn't keeping up with the latter experiences. And it made her feel left out, like she wasn't growing up with her soul sisters any more.
She was clueless when they discussed fancy shades of nail color, like Burnt Amber and Cerulean and Salsa Red and Cool Vanilla; and even more so when they talked of boys and how all they ever wanted was that 'one thing'. She wondered whether they were being completely honest, when they oohed over how wonderful it felt to be kissed, and she gaped in awe when they described their drunken 'adventures'. It all seemed surreal to her; a part of another world, where she didn't belong. Would never belong. She didn't like how different she looked from the three of them, with her long, boring hair tied up in the same old ponytail she'd worn since fifth grade; and her face bare with not even a hint of lip gloss or eyeliner, dressed in her sturdy straight-fit jeans and basic t-shirts, with sneakers on her feet, her nails cut short and a natural pink in color, dull. She stared at her polished, snazzy, gorgeous sisters with cigarettes between their pointy, ring-adorned fingers, sipping exotic colored cocktails from long-stemmed glasses, through glossy scarlet lips, the alluring notes of designer perfumes emanating from each one of them, and she wondered how they'd evolved so fast, into sexy, young women, leaving her far behind, still the chubby girl with no high heels or Prada clutch and no romantic experience, not even a stolen kiss. Were they allowed to do that to her? They were supposed to be her BFFs...Best Friends Forever, or something like that. She failed to see how that would hold true much longer, what with the gap between THEM and HER widening every day...
A Midsummer Night's Storm
In the middle of the summer,
When the mercury is soaring,
Intolerably high;
And the earth is parched out,
Scorching and dry;
Cracking up in pain, pining for respite,
I think of you, again.
My head hurts,
From the suffocating, confounding heat;
And my heart is weighed down,
With memories.
Of you and me and happy times;
Short-lived but priceless.
Why did you come and go so fast, I wonder,
Like a fleeting rush of ecstasy?
I think of your smile
And the way it lit up my life,
For those few stolen moments
That we were together.
And I think of your voice,
And how it seems like forever’s past
Since I heard it last.
Though it’s always ringing in my head,
Your velvety voice,
Making me smile and cry all at once,
And berate destiny,
For being oh so unjust.
It confuses me, thinking of you;
I wonder if you ever
Think of me too.
I let the heat fill up my lungs,
Making it hard to breathe,
Even more;
I let it dry out my eyes,
Where the tears will soon return,
And moisten them again;
Run down my face in warm torrents;
As I think of you,
Desire you,
Miss you.
And then it comes,
Almost like a sign;
Fresh and fragrant and oh so delightful:
The unseasonal rain.
Pitter, patter, patter, sound the glorious showers,
Upon the thirsting earth.
As the sky clouds up, and the clouds open up,
Gushing out their woes,
In thick streams of downpour;
Clashing against each other,
In booming thunderous roars;
The soil laps up the blessed water,
And the heat dissipates,
Making way for a delicious, cool breeze.
The children run out,
To play and dance and shriek in delight.
And I smile to myself, thinking of you,
Again.
I have just realized something,
About you,
And your role in my life.
You came unexpected, unannounced,
Bringing with you hope and bliss and respite.
Just like this unseasonal rain,
That brings both cheer and chaos,
At once.
A smile,
Together with a tear,
For it shall be gone soon.
Like you,
Naturally.
I stare at the merriment around me,
Dazed,
And let the water drench me to the core.
I breathe in the wondrous musty scent,
Greedily,
And whisper a prayer into the whistling wind:
“Do come again soon,
My unseasonal rain;
I’m waiting, like the earth,
Cracking up in pain.”
When the mercury is soaring,
Intolerably high;
And the earth is parched out,
Scorching and dry;
Cracking up in pain, pining for respite,
I think of you, again.
My head hurts,
From the suffocating, confounding heat;
And my heart is weighed down,
With memories.
Of you and me and happy times;
Short-lived but priceless.
Why did you come and go so fast, I wonder,
Like a fleeting rush of ecstasy?
I think of your smile
And the way it lit up my life,
For those few stolen moments
That we were together.
And I think of your voice,
And how it seems like forever’s past
Since I heard it last.
Though it’s always ringing in my head,
Your velvety voice,
Making me smile and cry all at once,
And berate destiny,
For being oh so unjust.
It confuses me, thinking of you;
I wonder if you ever
Think of me too.
I let the heat fill up my lungs,
Making it hard to breathe,
Even more;
I let it dry out my eyes,
Where the tears will soon return,
And moisten them again;
Run down my face in warm torrents;
As I think of you,
Desire you,
Miss you.
And then it comes,
Almost like a sign;
Fresh and fragrant and oh so delightful:
The unseasonal rain.
Pitter, patter, patter, sound the glorious showers,
Upon the thirsting earth.
As the sky clouds up, and the clouds open up,
Gushing out their woes,
In thick streams of downpour;
Clashing against each other,
In booming thunderous roars;
The soil laps up the blessed water,
And the heat dissipates,
Making way for a delicious, cool breeze.
The children run out,
To play and dance and shriek in delight.
And I smile to myself, thinking of you,
Again.
I have just realized something,
About you,
And your role in my life.
You came unexpected, unannounced,
Bringing with you hope and bliss and respite.
Just like this unseasonal rain,
That brings both cheer and chaos,
At once.
A smile,
Together with a tear,
For it shall be gone soon.
Like you,
Naturally.
I stare at the merriment around me,
Dazed,
And let the water drench me to the core.
I breathe in the wondrous musty scent,
Greedily,
And whisper a prayer into the whistling wind:
“Do come again soon,
My unseasonal rain;
I’m waiting, like the earth,
Cracking up in pain.”
The winds of change are blowing at last...
So, foreign universities are about to set up camp in India. And local universities run helter-skelter to get their acts together before they make fools of themselves before their ‘phoren’ counterparts.
The newspapers are so interesting these days! A few days ago, the vice chancellor of Gujarat University, who is usually quite smug and over-confident about his governance of this infamous institute of supposed higher learning, said something along the lines of ‘we will look like municipality schools in front of those universities’. And I started laughing out loud just reading that one quote. Because, uh, hello, hasn’t Gujarat University always operated like a municipality school? With unending bureaucratic processes and SEVERELY messed up administration, it doesn’t seem like a university to me at all. Ok, I myself got my degree from there, and I should perhaps have some attachment to my alma mater but I can’t help being annoyed that I never got the marks I worked really hard for. Instead, some person who didn’t study half as much as I did got away with a first rank; hundreds of people who can’t string two sentences of English properly scored higher than me on the English compulsory paper; people who blindly wrote out whatever they crammed up got the top ranks where as I was just left laughing at myself for taking pains to understand every concept in-depth. In one word, their entire system is unfair, which is why I’m never going to be particularly proud of the green colored degree certificate I received some time back.
While at college, our professors implored us that the university’s archaic examination system had not changed in decades, so would definitely not change for us. The only option was to accept it and do the requisite mugging up and focus on quantity rather than quality if we wished to score well. Everyone had given up all hope that any improvement would ever come about, but now, it seems like that is exactly what’s happening!
From next year, universities in Gujarat plan to begin implementing the Choice Based Credit System, because they have suddenly realized that that’s how most of the rest of the world’s higher education systems functions. I wish they could have evolved like this much, much earlier, but oh well, as they say, better late than never. At least the prospect of some looming competition from prestigious institutions has finally made everyone wake up and smell the burning coffee!
I just hope, for future generations’ sake, that they do the whole transition well. I hope the choice of courses doesn’t stay limited the way it is right now; I hope they offer all kinds of degrees like foreign universities do, from Anthropology and Aerospace Engineering to Linguistics and Creative Writing, from Dance and Drama, to Religion and Music. It will take a long time for things to improve in the true sense of the word, but at least the process is finally beginning. And I’m keeping my fingers crossed as I smile sinisterly at the fate of the great Gujarat University, which has landed itself in boiling, hot soup. At long last. :)
The newspapers are so interesting these days! A few days ago, the vice chancellor of Gujarat University, who is usually quite smug and over-confident about his governance of this infamous institute of supposed higher learning, said something along the lines of ‘we will look like municipality schools in front of those universities’. And I started laughing out loud just reading that one quote. Because, uh, hello, hasn’t Gujarat University always operated like a municipality school? With unending bureaucratic processes and SEVERELY messed up administration, it doesn’t seem like a university to me at all. Ok, I myself got my degree from there, and I should perhaps have some attachment to my alma mater but I can’t help being annoyed that I never got the marks I worked really hard for. Instead, some person who didn’t study half as much as I did got away with a first rank; hundreds of people who can’t string two sentences of English properly scored higher than me on the English compulsory paper; people who blindly wrote out whatever they crammed up got the top ranks where as I was just left laughing at myself for taking pains to understand every concept in-depth. In one word, their entire system is unfair, which is why I’m never going to be particularly proud of the green colored degree certificate I received some time back.
While at college, our professors implored us that the university’s archaic examination system had not changed in decades, so would definitely not change for us. The only option was to accept it and do the requisite mugging up and focus on quantity rather than quality if we wished to score well. Everyone had given up all hope that any improvement would ever come about, but now, it seems like that is exactly what’s happening!
From next year, universities in Gujarat plan to begin implementing the Choice Based Credit System, because they have suddenly realized that that’s how most of the rest of the world’s higher education systems functions. I wish they could have evolved like this much, much earlier, but oh well, as they say, better late than never. At least the prospect of some looming competition from prestigious institutions has finally made everyone wake up and smell the burning coffee!
I just hope, for future generations’ sake, that they do the whole transition well. I hope the choice of courses doesn’t stay limited the way it is right now; I hope they offer all kinds of degrees like foreign universities do, from Anthropology and Aerospace Engineering to Linguistics and Creative Writing, from Dance and Drama, to Religion and Music. It will take a long time for things to improve in the true sense of the word, but at least the process is finally beginning. And I’m keeping my fingers crossed as I smile sinisterly at the fate of the great Gujarat University, which has landed itself in boiling, hot soup. At long last. :)
55 Fiction #4: "Impossible is nothing"
Today's 55 Fiction is inspired from the latest news about prestigious foreign universities setting up centers in India! I have a lot to say on the topic, so next post too will be on that...
She dreamed of studying abroad, at Ivy League. But money was a problem, and her parents would never let her go. So she suppressed the desire, deep into her heart, like so many others. And lived.
Then one day, Harvard came to Mumbai. And she smiled. The smile that comes when dreams are tantalizingly close…
She dreamed of studying abroad, at Ivy League. But money was a problem, and her parents would never let her go. So she suppressed the desire, deep into her heart, like so many others. And lived.
Then one day, Harvard came to Mumbai. And she smiled. The smile that comes when dreams are tantalizingly close…
Desires
I want to stand atop the tallest building and scream out all my frustration. I want to sit beneath a waterfall and let it drench my very soul.
I want to smoke a joint of marijuana, just to know what it feels like - to be high - and guzzle down a bottle of vodka, just to be out of my mind.
I want to laugh in uncontrollable hysterics, and sing at the top of my voice, off-key. I want to kiss till my throat hurts (if that's possible), and fall asleep in someone's arms, carefree.
I want to bounce around in a jumping castle, like a child, and fly high on a swing, until I can touch the tops of the trees.
I want to breathe in the scent of freshly watered earth, and hop, skip and dance in the first rainfall. I want to yell myself hoarse on a scary roller-coaster, and feel the wind whoosh past my ears as I hurtle down a thrilling water-slide.
I want to run and run till I can't breathe, and spin and spin till I can't read.
I want a pair of stiletto boots, and a mini skirt to match, and scarlet color on my lips and fingers and toes.
I want long curly eyelashes and thick lashings of Kohl, and a sexy, sultry voice, to utter nonsense in.
I want a body like J-Lo's and a face like Angelina's; I want clothes like Kareena's and a boyfriend like her ex.
I want to shut-out all the crap, and write my way to glory; I want to eat what I like, and never have to worry.
I want to bungee jump in Switzerland, and ski in Canada; I want to shop in New York City and sight-see in Paris. (Parie)
I want to be brave and bold and beautiful; and give the world a piece of my mind. I want to be shy and quiet and peaceful, and let everything pass me by.
Most of all, I want to sit by the seaside and watch the sun set; let the crash of the waves soothe me, as I dig my toes into the wet sand. And I want someone to take my hand and pull me up, slip an arm around me and steer me away, in silence...
Right into a bright new day.
*All the above are not necessarily things that I want to do; it's just imagination.
I want to smoke a joint of marijuana, just to know what it feels like - to be high - and guzzle down a bottle of vodka, just to be out of my mind.
I want to laugh in uncontrollable hysterics, and sing at the top of my voice, off-key. I want to kiss till my throat hurts (if that's possible), and fall asleep in someone's arms, carefree.
I want to bounce around in a jumping castle, like a child, and fly high on a swing, until I can touch the tops of the trees.
I want to breathe in the scent of freshly watered earth, and hop, skip and dance in the first rainfall. I want to yell myself hoarse on a scary roller-coaster, and feel the wind whoosh past my ears as I hurtle down a thrilling water-slide.
I want to run and run till I can't breathe, and spin and spin till I can't read.
I want a pair of stiletto boots, and a mini skirt to match, and scarlet color on my lips and fingers and toes.
I want long curly eyelashes and thick lashings of Kohl, and a sexy, sultry voice, to utter nonsense in.
I want a body like J-Lo's and a face like Angelina's; I want clothes like Kareena's and a boyfriend like her ex.
I want to shut-out all the crap, and write my way to glory; I want to eat what I like, and never have to worry.
I want to bungee jump in Switzerland, and ski in Canada; I want to shop in New York City and sight-see in Paris. (Parie)
I want to be brave and bold and beautiful; and give the world a piece of my mind. I want to be shy and quiet and peaceful, and let everything pass me by.
Most of all, I want to sit by the seaside and watch the sun set; let the crash of the waves soothe me, as I dig my toes into the wet sand. And I want someone to take my hand and pull me up, slip an arm around me and steer me away, in silence...
Right into a bright new day.
*All the above are not necessarily things that I want to do; it's just imagination.
Sadist?
'Congratulations,’ I say, shaking his hand and forcing my mouth into a big, fake smile that hurts the insides of my cheeks. I avoid his eye and quickly move on to greeting her, the petite brown-haired beauty by his side. She is almost a foot shorter than him, even in heels; a contrast that would have been comical had it not been so utterly depressing.
I was just two inches shorter than him, perfectly matched to his six point two feet of rugged good looks.
‘It’s like you two just fit together, in every way.’ I remember people saying once, a seemingly long time ago.
They had been quick to change the statement when we no longer ‘fit together’: ‘It’s like you were never meant to be. You’re way too different from each other.’
As if echoing my thoughts, Shruti repeats the statement now, for the nth time in the past six months. She places a hand on my shoulder as we move towards the buffet table. It is supposed to be a way of reassuring me; that everything will be all right, that I will be all right, but I am beyond reassurances. Nothing can put me right now; he is a married man.
Continue reading this story at INDImag.com. It's my entry to their ongoing short story writing contest, 'Katha Sagar'.
I’d love to hear your views on my story and would be humbled if you voted for it while you're there. You will need to register with INDImag if you wish to vote, but this is not necessary if you simply wish to comment. The voting is open till the 1st of April 2010. Why not join in the fun and submit a story of your own too? Or read the other entries while you're there. Please be objective in your voting and help the best story win. :)
I was just two inches shorter than him, perfectly matched to his six point two feet of rugged good looks.
‘It’s like you two just fit together, in every way.’ I remember people saying once, a seemingly long time ago.
They had been quick to change the statement when we no longer ‘fit together’: ‘It’s like you were never meant to be. You’re way too different from each other.’
As if echoing my thoughts, Shruti repeats the statement now, for the nth time in the past six months. She places a hand on my shoulder as we move towards the buffet table. It is supposed to be a way of reassuring me; that everything will be all right, that I will be all right, but I am beyond reassurances. Nothing can put me right now; he is a married man.
Continue reading this story at INDImag.com. It's my entry to their ongoing short story writing contest, 'Katha Sagar'.
I’d love to hear your views on my story and would be humbled if you voted for it while you're there. You will need to register with INDImag if you wish to vote, but this is not necessary if you simply wish to comment. The voting is open till the 1st of April 2010. Why not join in the fun and submit a story of your own too? Or read the other entries while you're there. Please be objective in your voting and help the best story win. :)
Friends?
They were different,
as different as could be.
He was like the sun, bright and fierce,
while she was the moon, only reflecting the light cast upon her.
He liked to talk; she loved to listen.
He was a people magnet; she was a bit of a repellent.
He was opinionated, she was diplomatic.
He was outspoken, she was introspective.
He was her special sun; she was just like any other moons he shared his light with.
It was a special kind of friendship, she thought; He didn't ponder on it much.
She needed him around; he didn't need anyone,
for he was the majestic sun, blissful in his own glory.
Perhaps that's where the discord stemmed from:
they were too different; beyond opposite.
'Coz opposites supposedly attract, and the two of them were drawing apart.
Fast.
She was beginning to lose him; she could sense it.
It made her sad. And desperate.
So she tried, to work at the friendship.
He tried too.
But neither could see what the other meant to do.
And so it increased, the distance...
until one day it led to this:
'Why are you so quiet?' she asks, missing his usual chatter.
'Waiting for you to say something. For a change.'
'What shall I say?' She is puzzled. Does he not know she is not like him, and can't snatch interesting conversation out of thin air?
She tries some questions, digging around in every corner of her brain for something relevant.
He gives her one-line answers.
There is silence.
She looks at him; it seems like forever since she last saw him.
That meeting hadn't been anything great either, but definitely better than this,
even if she had cried a bit.
Whatever happened to the good old days? she wonders.
Were there ever any good old days? She is beginning to feel perhaps that phase was all just a dream.
She is going to lose him, she can sense it.
And it makes her sad.
And desperate.
as different as could be.
He was like the sun, bright and fierce,
while she was the moon, only reflecting the light cast upon her.
He liked to talk; she loved to listen.
He was a people magnet; she was a bit of a repellent.
He was opinionated, she was diplomatic.
He was outspoken, she was introspective.
He was her special sun; she was just like any other moons he shared his light with.
It was a special kind of friendship, she thought; He didn't ponder on it much.
She needed him around; he didn't need anyone,
for he was the majestic sun, blissful in his own glory.
Perhaps that's where the discord stemmed from:
they were too different; beyond opposite.
'Coz opposites supposedly attract, and the two of them were drawing apart.
Fast.
She was beginning to lose him; she could sense it.
It made her sad. And desperate.
So she tried, to work at the friendship.
He tried too.
But neither could see what the other meant to do.
And so it increased, the distance...
until one day it led to this:
'Why are you so quiet?' she asks, missing his usual chatter.
'Waiting for you to say something. For a change.'
'What shall I say?' She is puzzled. Does he not know she is not like him, and can't snatch interesting conversation out of thin air?
She tries some questions, digging around in every corner of her brain for something relevant.
He gives her one-line answers.
There is silence.
She looks at him; it seems like forever since she last saw him.
That meeting hadn't been anything great either, but definitely better than this,
even if she had cried a bit.
Whatever happened to the good old days? she wonders.
Were there ever any good old days? She is beginning to feel perhaps that phase was all just a dream.
She is going to lose him, she can sense it.
And it makes her sad.
And desperate.
55 Fiction #3: 'Whatever Happened to Marital Bliss?'
She wiped the corner of her eye as he stormed out the room after yet another stupid squabble.
There had been a time when he only ever scolded her for forgetting to apply kaajal in her eyes. And now, all that mattered was dusty furniture, and lights left on accidentally, and noodles overcooked by mistake.
There had been a time when he only ever scolded her for forgetting to apply kaajal in her eyes. And now, all that mattered was dusty furniture, and lights left on accidentally, and noodles overcooked by mistake.
The Ordinary Story of an Extraordinary Woman
She is tall and skinny, with mahogany eyes that are sunken on her finely wrinkled face, no doubt from years of battling the wearying ordeal that is her daily life.
Her name is Zubaida – an Arabic name that means essence. But she probably does not know that. No one pronounces her name right, not even she herself. The regional dialect had substituted the ‘z’ with a ‘j’. She is Jubeda. Jubeda ben, which means ‘sister’ in Gujarati. It is a suffix appended to a woman’s name as a means of address, somewhat similar to the prefix ‘Ms’ in the English language.
I don’t know how old she is or where she was born. Today, she lives in a one-room ‘flat’ with her ageing mother and twenty-something son. It has been just over a year since she married off her daughter.
Zubaida left her husband when her children were infants. He was a tribal, living in a remote place, following a primitive way of life. It had been an arranged marriage, and she had tried to adjust with his family and his rituals at first, but eventually given up. She had wanted to give her children a better life, so had mustered all her courage and run away. You may argue that running away is hardly a courageous thing to do, but, considering her intent (the welfare of her children) and the fact that she was just another oppressed woman in her community who nobody treated as an individual, it was indeed an act of great valor. She returned to her family.
What happened next, I don’t know. But after her father died, her brothers shifted into homes of their own with their respective wives and children. They did not want the burden of caring for their grieving, old mother, the woman who had always given them preferential treatment over Zubaida.
So the aged woman stayed with her single daughter and grandchildren. Zubaida found herself any work she could to support her little family. Somehow, they made ends meet. Time passed. Her children grew up. Her daughter wanted to marry. Zubaida, considering her own experiences of life, advised her against it. She encouraged her daughter to continue with the sewing work she did, to improve her skills, fend for herself and lead a contended life. But her child had grown up and was blinded by love. She would marry, no matter what. And marry grandly. So Zubeda took a loan from the people she worked for, thanking them for their kindness, thanking God for her good fortune of working for such generous people, and held a fairly extravagant wedding ceremony for her beloved daughter, praying that she would be blessed with the kind of happy married life that Zubaida herself had once dreamed off.
But alas, some people are destined to live in strife. Zubaida’s daughter is despised by her in-laws who started showing their true colors soon after the wedding. The mother-in-law is greedy and materialistic, and never tires of making demands of Zubaida, for clothes and jewelry and lavish feasts, just because they are the ‘groom’s family’ and hence ‘superior’.
Zubaida cannot refuse the demands or ague lest her daughter be taunted and tormented then. It is a matter of her pride that she keeps her girl’s in-laws satisfied; otherwise the society will raise fingers at her.
So she toils day and night, rising early to fetch the day’s supply of water from the common municipality tap at her community housing building. Her family had been relocated here by the government almost ten years ago after their old home had been ruined by a devastating earthquake. They had lost all their belongings then, arrived here with nothing but the clothes they’d worn. Over the years, she has managed to build a routine life once again.
After quickly cleaning her single-roomed-flat and serving a breakfast of fresh chapattis and tea to her mother and son, she goes to work at a bungalow some distance away. Here, she does the dishes and dusts and cleans and sweeps and mops and cooks chapattis. For a mere 1200 Rupees a month. She does not get offs on Sundays, and has no idea that she has a right to a day off every week. Sometimes, she stays AWOL and the lady of the house she works at expresses her displeasure but lets her get away with it because she needs Zubaida, the honest and hardworking domestic help who does every mundane task with perfection. Every single day.
At two in the afternoon, when Zubaida finally finishes off all her work and walks home in the scorching sun, she likes to take a short nap after lunching with her mother. They usually eat leftovers from the night before or whatever food Zubaida’s boss has given her (also left over from the night). Her son is an auto rickshaw driver, so only joins them for dinner, when she cooks a fresh meal.
Later in the afternoon, she sews clothes as a means to earn some extra cash, and then sets up a small confectionary shop within her home in the evening. The neighborhood children come and buy the chocolates and biscuits she purchases in bulk and she earns a tiny profit.
She works a lot harder than most upper-class citizens. Upper class citizens who have their luxury homes and cars and air-conditioned offices and computers and high-tech, effort-saving gadgets. But she never complains, not even to God. Even though she is over fifty now, and has a hole in her heart - an ailment she was born with and which easily saps her of energy. Even though she has more social and financial constraints than most of us can even imagine. She is content, with her demanding, underpaying job and her simple, down-to-earth existence. She is uneducated yet has the grassroots wisdom that a lot of us simply don’t, even with our fancy degrees and seemingly well-read minds: the wisdom to realize that complaining about life is only justified when you can’t find anyone else in the world worse off than you.
If you can, then you have something to be grateful for rather than complain about.
This International Woman’s Day, I salute Zubaida and the millions of other women out there just like her. They are my inspiration and no less than the famous women we commonly celebrate and hold in great esteem.
Happy Woman’s Day 2010. Make the most of your life, no matter how insurmountable the problems may seem at times. :)
Her name is Zubaida – an Arabic name that means essence. But she probably does not know that. No one pronounces her name right, not even she herself. The regional dialect had substituted the ‘z’ with a ‘j’. She is Jubeda. Jubeda ben, which means ‘sister’ in Gujarati. It is a suffix appended to a woman’s name as a means of address, somewhat similar to the prefix ‘Ms’ in the English language.
I don’t know how old she is or where she was born. Today, she lives in a one-room ‘flat’ with her ageing mother and twenty-something son. It has been just over a year since she married off her daughter.
Zubaida left her husband when her children were infants. He was a tribal, living in a remote place, following a primitive way of life. It had been an arranged marriage, and she had tried to adjust with his family and his rituals at first, but eventually given up. She had wanted to give her children a better life, so had mustered all her courage and run away. You may argue that running away is hardly a courageous thing to do, but, considering her intent (the welfare of her children) and the fact that she was just another oppressed woman in her community who nobody treated as an individual, it was indeed an act of great valor. She returned to her family.
What happened next, I don’t know. But after her father died, her brothers shifted into homes of their own with their respective wives and children. They did not want the burden of caring for their grieving, old mother, the woman who had always given them preferential treatment over Zubaida.
So the aged woman stayed with her single daughter and grandchildren. Zubaida found herself any work she could to support her little family. Somehow, they made ends meet. Time passed. Her children grew up. Her daughter wanted to marry. Zubaida, considering her own experiences of life, advised her against it. She encouraged her daughter to continue with the sewing work she did, to improve her skills, fend for herself and lead a contended life. But her child had grown up and was blinded by love. She would marry, no matter what. And marry grandly. So Zubeda took a loan from the people she worked for, thanking them for their kindness, thanking God for her good fortune of working for such generous people, and held a fairly extravagant wedding ceremony for her beloved daughter, praying that she would be blessed with the kind of happy married life that Zubaida herself had once dreamed off.
But alas, some people are destined to live in strife. Zubaida’s daughter is despised by her in-laws who started showing their true colors soon after the wedding. The mother-in-law is greedy and materialistic, and never tires of making demands of Zubaida, for clothes and jewelry and lavish feasts, just because they are the ‘groom’s family’ and hence ‘superior’.
Zubaida cannot refuse the demands or ague lest her daughter be taunted and tormented then. It is a matter of her pride that she keeps her girl’s in-laws satisfied; otherwise the society will raise fingers at her.
So she toils day and night, rising early to fetch the day’s supply of water from the common municipality tap at her community housing building. Her family had been relocated here by the government almost ten years ago after their old home had been ruined by a devastating earthquake. They had lost all their belongings then, arrived here with nothing but the clothes they’d worn. Over the years, she has managed to build a routine life once again.
After quickly cleaning her single-roomed-flat and serving a breakfast of fresh chapattis and tea to her mother and son, she goes to work at a bungalow some distance away. Here, she does the dishes and dusts and cleans and sweeps and mops and cooks chapattis. For a mere 1200 Rupees a month. She does not get offs on Sundays, and has no idea that she has a right to a day off every week. Sometimes, she stays AWOL and the lady of the house she works at expresses her displeasure but lets her get away with it because she needs Zubaida, the honest and hardworking domestic help who does every mundane task with perfection. Every single day.
At two in the afternoon, when Zubaida finally finishes off all her work and walks home in the scorching sun, she likes to take a short nap after lunching with her mother. They usually eat leftovers from the night before or whatever food Zubaida’s boss has given her (also left over from the night). Her son is an auto rickshaw driver, so only joins them for dinner, when she cooks a fresh meal.
Later in the afternoon, she sews clothes as a means to earn some extra cash, and then sets up a small confectionary shop within her home in the evening. The neighborhood children come and buy the chocolates and biscuits she purchases in bulk and she earns a tiny profit.
She works a lot harder than most upper-class citizens. Upper class citizens who have their luxury homes and cars and air-conditioned offices and computers and high-tech, effort-saving gadgets. But she never complains, not even to God. Even though she is over fifty now, and has a hole in her heart - an ailment she was born with and which easily saps her of energy. Even though she has more social and financial constraints than most of us can even imagine. She is content, with her demanding, underpaying job and her simple, down-to-earth existence. She is uneducated yet has the grassroots wisdom that a lot of us simply don’t, even with our fancy degrees and seemingly well-read minds: the wisdom to realize that complaining about life is only justified when you can’t find anyone else in the world worse off than you.
If you can, then you have something to be grateful for rather than complain about.
This International Woman’s Day, I salute Zubaida and the millions of other women out there just like her. They are my inspiration and no less than the famous women we commonly celebrate and hold in great esteem.
Happy Woman’s Day 2010. Make the most of your life, no matter how insurmountable the problems may seem at times. :)
55 Fiction #2: "The goodbye that wasn't meant to be"
Friday was supposed to be a 55-Fiction day but I completely forgot to post something. So here goes 55 Fiction #2, inspired a teeny bit from my favorite Hindi movie, Kuch Kuch Hota Hai:
She sat at her window seat, staring at the goodbyes happening all around her. A lone tear rolled down her cheek as she yet again wished he had come to stop her. Like in the movies.
Too bad the train lurched into motion just when he bolted onto the platform, praying she hadn’t left yet.
She sat at her window seat, staring at the goodbyes happening all around her. A lone tear rolled down her cheek as she yet again wished he had come to stop her. Like in the movies.
Too bad the train lurched into motion just when he bolted onto the platform, praying she hadn’t left yet.
Subconscious calling Conscious
Karthik calling Karthik. It’s a different kind of name for a movie, and an apt one at that, because it’s a different kind of movie too. Bollywood once again moves away from convention and comes up with something unique to offer, the classic underdog story with an interesting new age twist to it.
Intelligent cinema is something most people never associate with Hindi movies; we always find some major flaws that take away the charm of even the most highly acclaimed of our films, be it an overdose of the melodrama or too much song and dance or logic and continuity errors. But Karthik calling Karthik is a refreshing break from the run-of-the-mill entertainment, if I may say so. It’s a psychological thriller with a dash of romance thrown in, and the story has been executed quite well. Of course, we can only wish that it was actually that easy to win over the one we love in real life, like how Karthik wins over Shonali, but then again, it wouldn’t be a movie without some small amount of farfetchedness thrown in.
As someone who has studied psychology and enjoys reading about it to date, I found Karthik’s case riveting – a rare combination of schizophrenia and dissociative identity disorder. (I feel weird using the term ‘riveting’ because mental illness is of course far from something to marvel at, but Farhan Akhtar’s seamless acting definitely justifies my use of this word.) The music is great and the lead pair look good together. It’s an unconventional flick, definitely worth a watch, especially if you’re interested in mysterious matters of the mind.
I had gone without high expectations, but came back quite impressed. :)
Intelligent cinema is something most people never associate with Hindi movies; we always find some major flaws that take away the charm of even the most highly acclaimed of our films, be it an overdose of the melodrama or too much song and dance or logic and continuity errors. But Karthik calling Karthik is a refreshing break from the run-of-the-mill entertainment, if I may say so. It’s a psychological thriller with a dash of romance thrown in, and the story has been executed quite well. Of course, we can only wish that it was actually that easy to win over the one we love in real life, like how Karthik wins over Shonali, but then again, it wouldn’t be a movie without some small amount of farfetchedness thrown in.
As someone who has studied psychology and enjoys reading about it to date, I found Karthik’s case riveting – a rare combination of schizophrenia and dissociative identity disorder. (I feel weird using the term ‘riveting’ because mental illness is of course far from something to marvel at, but Farhan Akhtar’s seamless acting definitely justifies my use of this word.) The music is great and the lead pair look good together. It’s an unconventional flick, definitely worth a watch, especially if you’re interested in mysterious matters of the mind.
I had gone without high expectations, but came back quite impressed. :)
Time Travel
This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 8; the eighth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.
Time. He marveled at how elusive it was, like a fast-flowing fluid that slipped right through his fingers, no matter how desperately he tried to hold on; like a tantalizing whiff of fresh air in a stuffy room, gone before one could even begin to fully enjoy it; like a dream one tried to sustain, to prolong, but simply couldn't. Once it was gone, it was simply that - gone. Finished. Over.
His time was over. His good time at least. He could see it in the ghastly sight that lay before him: her still body, reminiscent of white marble, draped with an even whiter cotton sheet.
There was not a trace of color left on her usually rosy cheeks, and her dark eyelashes and eyebrows stood out in sharp contrast to her pallor, matching the halo of ebony curls that framed her exquisite face. He clasped her right hand in his, delicately, as if it was made of the finest crystal and the slightest pressure would crush her bones to powder. It felt so cold against his warm, clammy palm; as if every last drop of blood had drained from her veins, or frozen within her. The conspicuous absence of the pulse at her wrist had horrified him into outward silence but stirred up cacophony in his mind. Rapidly flashing images, blurring into each other, spinning round in circles and making him dizzy, accompanied with the echo of her voice and the ring of her musical laugh. He felt overwhelmed by the memories, their memories.
They had been perfect together, sworn eternal devotion and pledged to be one forever. Yet, she was gone. Just like that. Even though he had been with her just yesterday, held her in his arms and heard her heart beat, strong and steady, in sync with his own. It felt like centuries had passed already, since the news had reached him. News about the fatal car crash she had been in. She was gone, for good. And there was nothing he could do now to bring her back. Absolutely nothing. All he had left was time. Eons of it. It sprawled out ahead of him endlessly, both blank and bleak. For he couldn't imagine even a speck of color in his life now. Ever. He would spend all his hours travelling now. Time traveling. Through all the nooks and crannies of his mind, digging up all the countless memories of her. He would glean every single one, relive it, cherish it, hold it close to his heart and keep her alive within himself. For as long as he lived. And then, when his time came too, he would be reunited with her. This time forever. And they would travel together then. Time travel.
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