An Extraordinarily Ordinary Life

Book review: Salvation of a Saint By Keigo Higashino

2013-05-13T20:15:00.000+05:30

Title : Salvation of a Saint

Author : Keigo Higashino
Genre : Mystery
Language : English (translated from Japanese by Alexander O. Smith)
Publishers : Little, Brown Book Group

Publication year : 2013

ISBN : 978-0-3491-3934-0

Paperback Price : Rs. 350/-
Great deals available on :
Flipkart.com

I would like to start by thanking Blogadda.com for the opportunity to read and review this book, particularly since it is a murder mystery, one of my favourite genres of fiction.

Having read sensational reviews for Keigo Higashino's earlier novel The Devotion of Suspect X, described by some as a work by which "Agatha Christie would be mightily impressed", I was looking forward with bated breath to devouring Salvation of a Saint.

Salvation of a Saint begins promisingly enough. A dinner get-together with undertones of tension and relationships on the bend does indeed create the setting for a juicy murder in the offing. The promise of murder is fulfilled in the next few pages with a man found poisoned to death by a cup of coffee he made for himself. And that is where the excitement ends.

What should ideally have been a crisp short story is stretched needlessly across over 350 pages. From the second chapter onwards, the story moves from being a who-dun-it to a how-dun-it, and we spend the rest of the story laboriously following a slow-moving police investigation into how the poison got into the coffee.

There are no interesting twists and no sprinkling of clues and suspects to keep us guessing. For no apparent reason, the main police officer in charge of the investigation, Kusanagi, falls for the chief suspect, the murdered man's wife. This plot-line further slows the pace of the story since all it does is make Kusanagi question his more clear-headed assistant's observations, which are repeated with persistent regularity. This disagreement leads to long-winded arguments between the two, and painful inner monologues that don't really lead anywhere.

The story moves in fits and starts only when physicist Yukawa, nicknamed Detective Galileo, nudges the investigation forward, mostly by rejecting the police's theories on how the coffee may have been poisoned. He ends up unravelling what would have been a devious plot had this been a 50-page story, but which leaves the reader unsatisfied and irritated after plodding through page after page of glacier-speed and repetitive investigation. The motive, too, seems contrived and doesn't justify the effort put into devising the murder.

That said, this is not a run-of-the-mill murder mystery. The story has its moments, particularly the reveal at the end of how the murder was committed. Also, I have not read many books set in Japan, and this one gives a glimpse of everyday life there without resorting to the pop-culture cliches that we are used to seeing in movies and animes. It is frustrating that an otherwise decent plot was ruined by the unnecessary length of the book.

Final Rating :

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Diamonds are Forever

2013-04-07T23:59:00.000+05:30

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 38; the thirty-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. The theme for the month is "The Woman on Platform Number 10"

"Do you mind if I sit here?". The voice was soft and sweet. I looked up to see an angelic face that matched the voice perfectly.

"Sure", I said, picking up my bag from the bench and moving towards the end, making space for her to sit.

"Thanks", she said and smiled. A smile that lit up the entire platform.

"Are you waiting for the 2 a.m. train, too?" I ventured, certain that her answer would be in the affirmative. It was one of those stations where not more than two trains stopped per day, that too at odd timings.

"I'm not sure, actually. It all depends", she replied with a faraway, contemplative look on her face. "Why is this platform number 10? As far as I can see, and I don't have to see very far, this is the only platform in this tiny station."

I smiled as I looked at the short, muddy platform. The station master's office was a tin-roofed hut. The lone green signal twinkled in the night. "Actually, there was no station in this area for a long time. Everyone in a fifty kilometre radius had to travel another fifty km east or west to the nearest station. About fifteen years ago, a local zamindar decided to sponsor the building of this station. His only condition was that the platform number be 10, as it was his lucky number. In fact, over the next few years, he also gave land for the local school and post office. That's why this place was renamed Ratanpur, after him. Sadly, he died some time back."

We sat in companionable silence for a while. I was almost about to doze off, when she spoke.

"Can I tell you a story? I feel like sharing this with someone right now, and you're the only one available to listen to me."

"Sure", I replied, intrigued.

***

About thirty years ago, there was a daring heist at one of the largest banks of our country. It was a well-planned, meticulous and audacious con job.

A man, known by his victims as Suraj Johar, posed as a rich, successful businessman with interests in India and abroad. Over the course of eight months, he opened several accounts and a safety-deposit box, visited the bank regularly, became friends with everyone from the manager to the tea-boy, charmed his way into everyone's hearts by bringing sweets and small gifts for them every once in a while, and earned their trust completely. In seven months, got himself upgraded to VIP customer status, with privileges including a pass-key to the main locker that held the high-value safety deposit boxes, one of which was allotted to him.

He continued visiting the bank every few days for the next month or so. On every visit, he would make a deposit in the high-value locker room. Since he had VIP status, he was left unsupervised while he made his deposits.

His visits stopped suddenly after that. The people at the bank were a bit puzzled, but not overly worried. They figured he had left on a business trip, or was otherwise busy. It was when a few of the other high-value customers reported that their safety-deposit boxes were empty, that panic finally set in.

It was discovered that Mr. Suraj Johar was making withdrawals of his own every time he came to "deposit" something in the locker. Over the course of his time spent with the bank's employees, he'd managed to obtain details about the more prosperous clients, especially those who had sizeable assets locked away in the safety-deposit boxes. He'd also managed to make copies of the master key that the bank had, in case a safety deposit box had to be opened in an emergency.

The final tally of cash, jewellery and cashable bonds that he'd stolen put the haul at close to Rs. 50 crores. It was the single largest robbery of it's kind at the time. Further, Johar's credentials were found to be fake. Blame was passed from desk to desk as to how he was allowed to open an account in the bank, let alone develop such close relationships with the employees. The super-thief disappeared into thin air.

The gems have not been traced yet. However, last year, one of the stolen bonds was marked as being cashed in. The long and torturous paper trail led me to this godforsaken place. As it turned out, he'd been cashing in the stolen bonds very discreetly for the past twenty years. Last year was probably the last of the bonds, and was flagged only because it was a day away from expiry. The bonds alone should have given him over 10 crores in cash, a large amount even by today's standards. But there are no records of his having spent the money.

I've been ferreting about in the heat and dust trying to find clues to this man's whereabouts. The villagers have been co-operative enough, but I've found nothing about him. His photographs from twenty years back don't resemble anyone living in these parts right now. No one recognizes him. And yet, the only trail I have found on him leads here.

***

"If you don't mind me asking, why are you looking for this man? You look very young to be mixed up in something like this." I looked at her slight form, her delicate features.

"I am a bounty-hunter. Not a very common profession in our country, I'm afraid, especially not for girls. But one must do what one can to fill this stomach. Do you live here?"

"No. I live in Mumbai now. But I spent many a summer here visiting my grandparents. They passed away last year. I've come here to pay my final respects to them."

"Oh. Sorry to hear about them. By the way, do you recognize this man, maybe from your childhood?" She offered me a well-thumbed photograph.

I looked at the face of a handsome man. His charm shone through the sepia-tinted photograph and the grime of ages. The eyes sparkled with a light born of mischief.

I shook my head. "Sorry. I can't say I've seen him around these parts."

She sighed. "Doesn't matter. I guess I'm taking the 2 a.m. train after all."

I smiled encouragingly at her. Of course, I could never tell the woman on platform number 10 that the man she was after was my grandfather, Ratan Lal.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Introduced By: Panchali Ma'am, Participation Count: 03

Beauty and The Beast

2013-04-03T22:49:00.000+05:30

This post has been written as part of the Exercise for Edition 6 of the Indifiction Workshop, an effort by a collective of Indian bloggers to encourage the writing of fictional short stories. The concept and rules of this edition were designed by Prasanna Rao. The original post can be read on the Indifiction Workshop blog here.

This edition required the participant to attempt a re-telling of the classic "Beauty and The Beast" in contemporary settings, with no major changes to the story and characters. The exercise focus was on beginning the story with a bang, an opening gambit called the conflict-establisher. Read more about it here.

***

The old man scrambled up the thorny slope of the hill, panic-stricken eyes searching behind him for his pursuers. I could hear them before I saw them, their blood-thirsty howls piercing the clear night. The moon lit the scene perfectly. The old man was scampering on all fours now, desperate to reach the walls surrounding my estate. He would find it difficult to escape any further. My walls were built to keep the world out.

The snarling wolves had reached the edge of the forest tree-line and were making their way up the hill. The man had no chance now. Unless…

“Alastair, open the gates. Let him in.”

“Yes, master.”

A minute later, the gates creaked open mechanically. The old man, by now rounding the wall towards the gate, ran blindly in. The gates creaked shut behind him. The wolves bayed on the hillside, their prey out of their reach. Their howls echoed into the night.

***

I woke up with a start and lay still with my eyes closed, trying to figure out why I was awake. My sisters’ snoring pierced through the walls, but that was nothing new. In fact, after all these years, the saw-like grating was a soothing lullaby. It was the sound of the dogs howling in the street outside.

I walked to the window. Like every other night for the past three months, I looked searchingly down the road for any signs of Papa returning. Ever since he’d rushed to the coast to see if his ships had survived an unseasonal storm, I’d been left to care for my two elder, and rather unpleasant, sisters.

I thought back to our last conversation.

“Beauty, what if my merchandise hasn’t survived the storm? We’ll go bankrupt.”

“As long as we have each other, and as soon as we can teach Stella and Bella the difference between one coin and ten, we’ll be far from poor.”

“Your sisters have asked for Dior gowns and Jimmy Choos. What do you want from Port Clair?”

“The last big party this town had was a hundred and eighteen years ago, when the King lost his way and thought he was at the Duke of Wembley’s. I just want you, preferably with a ship or two worth of Chinese electronics. And if it’s not too much trouble, a red rose from the gardens of the port city.”

As though floating on air, a magnificent limousine turned into our street. It rode stately down the road and pulled to an elegant stop at our door. The chauffeur jumped nimbly out and opened the passenger door. A hand emerged, holding a rose.

I sighed. Some dreams felt so real. Maybe this was a sign that Papa would return in a few days. Or maybe this was a sign that the day-old meat casserole should not have been eaten. Either way, it was a pleasant dream and I was willing to let it continue.

A particularly loud snort from one of my sisters jolted me out of my reverie. The limo still stood at our door. Someone was alighting from it.

“Papa”, I whispered incredulously.

***

Over the next few days, I discovered from Alastair’s discreet enquiries that the man was a merchant-businessman named Benicio. His ships had met with misfortune and he now stood on the brink of poverty. While returning home from Port Clair, his car had broken down in the middle of the forest, and before he knew it, he was being chased by wolves.

Despite his ill fate, he seemed optimistic and determined to put his troubles behind him. He talked animatedly about his travels and his daughters. It was evident from his words that above all else, he loved his youngest daughter Beauty.

I observed him discreetly, always from the shadows. Benicio felt my brooding, malevolent presence in the castle, but the only thing he could get out of Alastair was that the master valued his privacy above all else, and was not to be disturbed.

I envied Benicio. For all the riches locked away in my vaults, I was desperately poor. My loneliness and despair ate into me every minute of every day. There seemed no end to the searing pain and heartrending grief that tormented me. Through Benicio’s tales, I imagined myself in a different world.

A week later, Benicio had recovered enough to head back home. On my command, Alastair insisted that Benicio accept gifts of clothes and jewellery from my collection.

I watched from my high tower window as Benicio, laden with parcels, glided towards the gates in my limousine. No one from outside had set foot in my house for over fifteen years, and I felt a twinge as I watched Benicio leave.

As I turned, I heard the car come to a stop. I took one look out the window, and blood pounded in my ears. Benicio had killed my most prized possession. Blind rage gripped me and I ran down the stairs and out into the grounds.

I swooped down on Benicio, locked my hands around his throat and shook him as he stood.

“You impertinent, ungrateful wretch. How dare you touch her? I could kill you right now for what you’ve done to my Ruby Red. It takes years for one to grow and this particular rose was my pride and joy”, I thundered as I rattled Benicio.

Alastair appeared beside me. He placed a cool hand on my shoulder, “Master”.

I let Benicio down. He fell to the ground, rubbing his neck, his eyes filled with fear and panic. He looked up at me, and let out a scream. “Beast”.

That one word rang in my ears like a curse. Even after all these years, hearing it from the lips of this man felt like ice-cold water thrown on my face. I turned on my heel and disappeared into the shadows of the castle, and the darkness of my heart.

“May I enter, p-p-please?”

“What do you want now?”

“A thousand apologies, sir. I am ashamed and appalled at my own behaviour. To think that I have repaid your generosity and hospitality with such ingratitude, and to have insulted you in such an unwarranted and harsh way makes me cringe in shame. I could not live with myself knowing that I have sinned against one as kind and giving as you.”

“I don’t care if you live or die. Be gone, Benicio, before I lose patience.”

“I have been selfish and self-indulgent, my lord. I lost myself in your wholesome hospitality, to the extent that I never even asked for my host’s name. Punish me, my lord, for I have wronged you.”

“You do know my name. You said it yourself. I am The Beast.”

“Please don’t torture me so, my lord. Ask of me what you will, my life itself if you so desire, and I shall give it to you. I am your servant, my lord.”

What I said next came from the deepest, darkest recesses of my pain-corrupted soul. The words sounded strange and alien to me, and shocked me just as much as they shocked Benicio as I spoke. “Would you be willing to give me your most prized possession in return for mine? Would you give me Beauty?”

***

“Papa! You’ve smartened up a bit, haven’t you? I take it the ships survived the storm?”

In truth, Papa looked pale and haggard. His clothes, though expensive, hung on him and his face held all the colour and radiance of Stella’s soups.

He drank me in as though his eyes were parched for water. “Beauty” he said, and burst into tears.

The burnt tang of Bella’s biscuits was widely known to awaken the dead. Between sobs, sips of tea and energising nibbles of coal-like biscuits, Papa told me the story of The Beast. He did not tell me the reason for the name, no matter how much I asked him.

“When he asked for you, I could not refuse. I was bound by my word. Oh Beauty, what have I done?”

“You’ve done me proud, is what you’ve done. I couldn’t live with you knowing you’d gone berserk and destroyed half of some poor man’s hand-raised roses after having belched at his table for a week. Don’t you worry, Papa. I’ll stay with this Beast person for as long as he needs me. I deserve a break anyway, what with slaving after Stella and Bella, while you were away racing wolves and making merry.”

Papa and I sat in silence till the first golden rays of sunlight lit up the rose on the table. My sisters had, incredibly, slept through the night. I peeped into their rooms one last time to gaze upon their drooling faces. Truth be told, I was looking forward to this adventure.

***

It had been two days since Benicio left, with a promise to send back Beauty. His home was a day’s ride away, and if he was a man of his word, as I believed him to be, she would be arriving today.

Nervous anticipation made me tense. I still could not fully believe what had transpired. Ever since that day, fifteen years ago, when I lost everything, I had shunned human contact. It took years for Alastair to gain my trust again. And now, I was about to open my home, my only refuge, to an unknown person, and that too, a girl.

As I heard the gates creaking open, I knew I did not have it in me to face her just yet. I closed the curtains and sat in the embrace of the shadows.

***

All along the way to The Beast’s castle, I pestered the chauffeur, Tim, to tell me something about his master. After chewing half his ear off, he finally admitted that he had never personally seen the man, but Alastair, who seemed to be the whole and soul of the castle, had assured the servants that the master did, indeed, exist.

This piqued my curiosity like nothing else. The Unseen Beast, living in seclusion, shrouded in mystery, surrounded by walls. And I liked nothing better than a challenge.

When the castle loomed into view at the top of a rocky hill, a thrill tingled up my body.

I was met at the entrance by a tall, thin man of aristocratic bearing and a stiff neck. I knew without having to be told that this was the legendary Alastair.

“Madam, it is our pleasure to have you here. I am Alastair. I trust the journey was comfortable?”

“Yes, thank you. And please call me Beauty. I’m not vain, it’s my name.”

Alastair bowed his head. “The Master sends his apologies. He won’t be joining you for dinner. But we have a sumptuous feast prepared in your honour.”

“Will you keep me company, Al?”

“I’ll do my best to keep you entertained, Madam.”

Dinner was a dreary affair. Alastair’s “entertainment” extended to burning his fingers slightly while lighting an extra set of candles to brighten up the proceedings. The castle seemed bereft of electric lights.

A frightened looking maid led me to my room. She trembled like a leaf when I spoke to her, and answered solely in squeaks of varying pitches. As I lay back in my bed, my soft head resting against the down pillows, I felt I was being watched. The Beast was near.

***

I saw her for the first time that night. She was flawless. A rose-cream complexion that even the pale moonlight couldn’t wash away, her slim form draped gracefully on the sheets. As I started to close the hidden door behind the wall-panelling, she jumped out of the bed and jammed her foot in the door.

“Gotcha! I knew you were watching me, you perv. Why are you blending into the woodwork? Out into the open with you, chappie!”

I was stunned into inaction. No one had ever called me “chappie” before.

I emerged into the moonlight, my head bowed, my ears waiting for the inevitable scream and the sound of feet running away from me as fast as they could.

I was met with a thoughtful appraisal.

“Tall and well-built. That’s good. Strong features. A bit charred, but that adds character to your face. All in all, not a bad specimen of a man.”

Stunned, I looked up at her. Her face and voice held no mockery. Her clear eyes looked at my half-burnt, grotesque face with frank honesty.

“A man? I am barely human anymore. Look at this melted face, these red eyes, my claw-like hands. I am not even fit to be called an animal. I am The Beast.”

“Beast-schmeast. Don’t give yourself too much credit. All this hype and mystery and nothing to account for it. I don’t think you’ve seen yourself very well. Take my advice and put some electric bulbs in this castle. Candlelight is fine for a romantic evening, but I don't want to risk going blind in low light. It’s time for proper introductions now. I’m Beauty.”

“I’m… Richard”. I hadn’t used that name in over fifteen years.

“Rickie, I sense this is the beginning of a long and beautiful friendship. I will expect you at breakfast in the morning. If I have to eat one more meal with Al singeing his gloves, I don’t think I’ll have much appetite left.”

“Don’t tell me what to do. I am the master of this castle. And don’t call me Rickie.” Her flippancy irritated me.

“Riiiiiiiight. Off with you now, Rickie. Nighty night.”

The door shut in my face. I stared at it, fuming. Then, I stormed off to my tower.

***

I knew now why Papa hadn’t told me much about The Beast. Yes, he was hideous to look at. But his eyes were beautiful. They were large and black, and there was so much sadness in them that they touched my heart immediately. He’d probably been stared at, made fun of, teased and shunned for not looking “normal”. And there was a pain that radiated from him in waves. He needed a friend. And I sensed in him a kindred spirit.

The next morning, and every day after that, Richard and I had our meals together. He fussed and threw tantrums in the beginning, terrorizing the servants. It didn’t cut any ice with me. I had enough baby-sitting experience to know how to deal with a spoilt child.

Slowly, but surely, I made progress. Every day, I discovered something new about him.

He was well-read and intelligent. He was kind and generous, and the servants, once they got over his appearance, adored him. He played the piano beautifully, and had a way with horses. He was surprisingly easy to talk to, and I found myself sharing my hopes and dreams with him.

We took walks in his beautiful gardens. I could see why he’d raged against Papa. To pick those roses was definitely a crime, they were so exquisite.

He did have a temper. A nasty one. The smallest thing could set it off. On one memorable occasion, he ripped a waistcoat in half right at the dining table because he spilt some eggs on it. Entertaining though it was, it caused my maid to squeak and faint. I had to revive her and give a talk to Richard about table manners. However, if Alastair was to be believed, Richard had never been in better spirits.

***

Beauty was just the name for her, inside and out. One night, I told her about the day I lost everything. It was the day I got my license. All of sixteen years of age, I enthusiastically took my parents and baby sister out for a drive. It was a cold winter’s evening. I did not know there was sleet on the road. I lost control of the car and it spun off the road. We were trapped in the car, all doors were jammed. And we burned inside it.

It was my fault, my inexperience, my over-eagerness and I was the only one who came out of it alive.

Never once did Beauty pity me, blame me or shrink away from me. For the first time in my life, I gave of myself freely. My pain was leaving me like water flowing down my skin. My inner darkness was pierced by warm sunshine. I was in love with her, from the very core of my soul. I dared not tell her that, in case it drove her away.

One fateful day, we rode our horses into the forest together. Beauty wanted to see where the river became a waterfall. The forest was usually bereft of human presence, but that day, we ran into a hunting party. Four men, rough-set and thuggish, and obviously drunk.

“Where’s the two of you off to, now? There’s a beaut, ain’t she, boys? What’s a piece like you doing with this ugly fella?”

I snarled at him. Beauty was calmer. “Why don’t you gentlemen have a nice day, and we’ll all be going our own ways.”

“Why don’t you make our day better and spend some time with us. We’re getting lonely out here in these woods.” And he pulled Beauty off her horse.

I turned into the Beast that I had been for years. Two of them went down before they knew it. I was grappling with the third, when the fourth man hit me from behind. The world swam before my eyes, a blinding pain drove me senseless. I heard Beauty scream.

***

I heard a noise nearby and screamed my lungs out. To my eternal relief, it was a pair of forest rangers, out on patrol. The situation was soon brought under control. The four men were apparently poachers on the wanted list, and they were swifty cuffed.

I rushed to Richard. He was unconscious, and blood flowed down his temple. It was at that moment that I realised how much I loved him. I cradled his head in my lap and bawled like a baby.

“Richard, please, please wake up. I love you, so much.”

I think it was the flecks of snot falling on his face that made him wake up. He looked adorable, regal and handsome. More handsome than any man I had ever seen. I kissed him, a long, sweet kiss. It was the only time I ever saw him cry.

"Who would have ever thought. Beauty and The Beast."

The Cleaving

2013-03-22T13:18:00.001+05:30

Written for Fireblossom's Friday Challenge on Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.

For this Fireblossom's Friday challenge, one had to write a poem about a crack, fissure, rupture, split, or breaking point.

I pressed you to the ground

You tried to get away

Immobile but spirited

As you rolled from side to side

I pinned you tighter

And made my first strike

To the base of your skull

A sharp crack rended the air

You moaned but yielded

And gave up your fight

Energy coursed through my nerves

In eager anticipation

My mouth watered at the prospect

Of consuming you from the inside out

To drink of your nectar

And sink my teeth into your tender flesh

I raised my hand again

And this time turbid water flowed

I struck again, frenzied now

And you finally broke

You clove open in perfect halves

Your white beauty exposed

The kids shrieked in delight, clapped their hands

And bit into sweet coconut!

Dire Straights

2013-03-19T19:30:00.000+05:30

For years, I have been challenging shampoo companies and beauty-parlours to tame my unbelievably curly hair. I did not want straight hair, only hair that would let a comb run all the way through, instead of absorbing half its teeth and swallowing the spine. I have lost count of the number of combs and brushes that I've lost in the wilderness that is my hair.

The Bermuda Tangle - Doom of the Hairbrush

Once, when I went to get a long overdue haircut, the chap who was snipping my locks offered a free post-haircut blow-dry. I think the sight of my hair challenged his inner artist, and he resolved to summit his Everest by conquering my head. I agreed happily since I believed that anything coming my way, for which I did not have to pay, would make my day.

The Artist at work

After the initial tug-of-war between my hair and his hairbrush, I felt progress was being made. Feeling particularly lazy and lulled by the air-conditioner on a hot summer day, I fell asleep, perhaps unwisely, since a sharp object was in operation dangerously close to my ears.

I woke with a start when the hairdresser whipped off the cloth tied around my neck, almost strangling me in the process. When I finally managed to breathe again and looked up at the mirror, I almost choked again. I was the proud, if bewildered, owner of silky straight hair. Apparently, the blow-dry was responsible for the transformation that I hitherto believed was impossible.

After blow-dry

I tipped the chap generously (being still in shock) and made my way out, with a new spring in my step. It took all of five minutes and a gentle breeze to restore my hair to its former riotous glory, and my now-short hair clustered around my head in a tight Afro. It refused to submit to the confines of a hastily produced rubber-band, and a scarf bought on-the-spot served only to accentuate the puffiness of my hair-don't.

5 minutes after blow-dry

That was the first and last time I blow-dried my hair. In fact, I think that was the last time I went for a haircut, since the frightening spectacle of a cloud of black cotton candy on my head scared the living daylights out of me and about a hundred other people who were witness to the spectacle as I ran down the road in search of an auto-rickshaw.

I have had mixed results with hair-care products. Some have resulted in my hair becoming even frizzier than before, and others have made my hair limp and lifeless.

When Sunsilk offered to send a free sample of its Perfect Straight shampoo/conditioner, with the claim that my hair would dry straight, I applied to receive one, with doubts of success (of it being an effective straightener, that is. I did not doubt that the sample would arrive).

The recent deluge of hair-care product tryouts ensured that I was already busy getting rid of split-ends and trying out ramp-ready hairstyles on my curly hair while waiting for my Sunsilk sample to arrive.

I think I've tried all of these in the past few weeks

It was finally delivered two weeks ago. Since I decided to let my hair recover from the recent experiments, I didn't get the opportunity to try out the efficacy of the Sunsilk Perfect Straight shampoo until yesterday.

I started with an extreme case of curls that were nearly impossible to cure. To be honest, it did not turn my hair perfectly straight. My hair still curved down my back like snakes, but now it flowed like contented, well-fed, ponderous snakes instead of the frenzied, over-crazed wrigglers of the pre-Sunsilk era.

Even so, I was quite impressed with the result. It turned my hair from a mass of wiry, poufy cotton to eminently manageable, if slightly wavy, locks. I could see my hairbrush shedding tears of joy as it emerged unscathed through the length and depth of my freshly dried hair.

I also discovered to my surprise, that my hair was now nearly a foot longer than it was before I used the shampoo, due to the straightening. Looking Rapunzel-like all of a sudden even turned my husband into Prince Charming for the evening.

It has been a day, and my hair has retained its manners. I can rest happy in the knowledge that the next time I want my hair to turn well-behaved, or instantly longer, Sunsilk Perfect Straight will be my go-to product!

Since this shampoo/conditioner was tested on the toughest, most stubborn, curliest and frizziest hair possible with highly positive results, I am confident that on more pliant hair, it will work like a charm.

To summarize my findings -

Effective curl management and Instant hair lengthening

Final Verdict - Sunsilk Perfect Straight Shampoo is definitely for those in dire straights...err...straits.

This post has been written for Sunsilk Perfect Straight on Indiblogger.in

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A Ramp Walk To Remember
Beautiful Ends : 55-Fiction
The Softest Touch

A Ramp Walk to Remember

2013-03-18T16:44:00.000+05:30

"Rita di, can't anything be done?" I wailed, close to tears. It was already a highly stressful day for me, what with the main event being just a few hours away. All my dreams and aspirations were tied to this one, single ramp walk. Unfortunately, my hair wasn't ready to be tied to anything.

My hair after a wash

"Madam ji, with hair like yours, there is very little to be done in such little time. If only you had started coming for regular treatment sessions six months ago, today things would have been different", said the hair-dresser with a frown on her face, chiding my lackadaisical attitude towards my unmanageable hair, at the same time mourning the loss of six-months' worth of income from a self-promoted hair treatment (which cost a fortune that would have set many a small country free of debt).

"My hair has always been curly, and I like it this way. It is one of the things that makes me, Me. I don't want to straighten it and become someone else. Especially not today." All eyes would be on me and I most certainly did not want to be mistaken for someone else. The rest of my life depended on today being a success.

"Okay,okay. No need to get so emotional. It's just hair. Let me see." said Rita, impatiently swatting away my identity-crisis.

A few pumps of creamy hair product was worked into my unruly hair. Hair spray was liberally used to both control my hair and kill the mosquitos buzzing around my head

Praying for the best

What if I pin it all on one side into a side-sweep?" said Rita, swiftly twisting my hair in sections and securing them with bobby pins.

I looked at myself in the mirror.

How I really looked

How I hoped I'd look

Startled by the effect, both Rita and I were stunned into silence for a few seconds.

"Maybe an Athena braid?" she suggested shakily, ripping out the bobby pins from my hair as fast as she could, releasing my hair into all its inglorious messiness. We both heaved a sigh of relief when the side-sweep was dismantled.

Once again, Rita pumped out hair-gel with much vigour and sprayed with enthusiasm. My hair was parted into sections. Elaborate combing, intricate twisting and braiding, and a final flourish of hair-spray "shagun ke liye" (for good luck).

We once again examined the result, this time better prepared for what we might have to face.

Final Result

Rita's objective

Rita sat down, beaten and dis-spirited. I shed copious tears, covered my head in a towel and declared that to show my hair to the world would most likely be a human-rights violation.

I need to buy a bonnet!

That was when my mother entered the picture.

"Good Lord! Aren't you ready yet? We're set to leave in ten minutes. You haven't even worn your saree properly. And what's with the towel on your head? Rita, why are you sitting there, gaping at me like a dead fish?"

"Amma", I wept, "My hair is a disaster. Nothing works on me. I'm finished. I'll have to walk in front of all those people, with my hair looking like it was hit by a cyclone."

"Take some deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out. Now, stop flapping about like a distressed duck and sit down for a minute. Rita, try a twisted updo." Amma was brisk and efficient, and her energy infused new life into the hitherto deflated Rita.

With a determined look on her face, Rita prepared for the last siege. Hair products were pumped out one last time. The hairspray had killed more mosquitos today than an entire box of kachua coils.

My mother set my saree right. The last safety pin was locked into place.

Rita and I steeled ourselves for one final look at the mirror. It was make or break time.

How I ended up looking

What we were prepared for

I had finally found my look.

Thirty minutes later, I walked down the aisle towards where the love of my life was standing, waiting for me to become his wife. As we stood together, he tucked a stray strand behind my ear, and whispered, "I love what you've done with your hair."

And this was the story of the most important ramp-walk of my life.

~~~~

NOTE: The last two images above are my personal photos and are not to be used by anyone else. The remaining images are from Google and copyright to their respective owners.

Pick your favourite ramp ready hairstyle on the TRESemmé India Youtube channel. Written for TRESemme Ramp-Ready Hair in collaboration with Indiblogger.in

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Botanical Musings : Haiku

2013-03-16T17:31:00.001+05:30

The following phrases were given by De Jackson as part of the Botanical Wordlist Challenge on Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.

sight-seeing in a daisy
the silent roar of the vast
stealing the sun
the story of the grasses
a strong, bent contrivance
flowers that will not wait for the snow
employ the wind

I decided to attempt my first set of Haiku (3-line verses) using the above phrases. I will forgo the syllabic restrictions to accommodate the phrases (as well as for convenience. I can't count syllables to save my life!).

Dew drop lenses
Sight-seeing in a daisy
Universes revealed

The silent roar of the vast
yellow field deafens;
Sunflowers stealing the sun

To hear tell of
the story of the grasses
Employ the wind

Bamboo dances in wind
A strong, bent contrivance;
Fluidly unbreakable

Impatient beauty
Flowers that will not wait
for the snow to melt

Reposted for Open Link Monday on Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

Executive Decisions : 55-Fiction

2013-03-15T23:21:00.000+05:30

This post was chosen as a BlogAdda WOW Top Post.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda

Write Over the Weekend theme for Mar 15, 2013-
Start your post with ‘A young executive was nervously biting her nails.’

The following is actually 47-Fiction, since the first eight words are fixed!

Deliverables

A young executive was nervously biting her nails.

“Boss, what if someone finds out?”

“No one will. Ever”

She moved slowly towards him. He wet his lips in anticipation.

White lace fell to the ground. Heartbeats rose.

He held the soft flesh in his hands, moaning with pleasure.

“Screw cholesterol! I'd die for Butter Chicken!”

***

Presentations

A young executive was nervously biting her nails.

The presentation was due in ten minutes.

She Googled fervently, praying for something to put on the slides.

She clicked a link, and almost cried. A presentation she could use practically word for word.

Ctrl+C, Ctrl+V.

“Great presentation” said the client. “It was my MBA internship report.”

***

Appraisals

A young executive was nervously biting her nails.

Her appraisal was due today.

“Wonder what my report’s going to be”, she typed into the office chat application.

“Sure it’ll be great”

“Do you think Grouchy knows about the Simla trip aka ‘sick leave’?”

“He does now. You should QC* your chat recipients” typed the Boss.

*QC = Quality Control : A term popularly used to refer to the process of checking one's work before final submission/execution.

***

Loves Me, Loves Me Not

2013-03-15T15:36:00.002+05:30

Written for Mary's Mixed Bag Challenge set this week by Kerry on Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.

Imagine you hold a bag which contains two objects: one which can heal and one which can harm. Only you may identify these two objects through touch, texture, shape-recognition and imaginative exploration. Which object would you withdraw first? Does the good out-weigh the bad, or is harm something that cannot be prevented? Use one of these two items as the starting point of your poem and move towards the other in conclusion.

The dual nature of the bag's contents immediately drew my mind towards the nature of abuse in relationships. The captivating cycle of tender love and frightening abuse, the simultaneous arousal and loathing, and the addictive nature of this duality, is something that is seldom discussed in open forums in India.

This is my dedication to victims and survivors of spousal/relationship abuse.

I hold in my hand, a box that has within it

The basis of my marriage, the reason for my existence

It holds in its unseen depths, every year, every minute

A red heart of love, and a black heart of violence

I count the endless days I lie

Bleeding, beaten black and blue

And the eternity of sublime

Bliss, with love in all its hues

Alternating between the caress and the whack

I feel around, not knowing which to choose

Should I stay because I love him, and he loves me back

Or do I run away before the monster is again set loose?

Sometimes the pain is ecstasy, and gentle kisses hurt

Either way it's better than being ignored and left untouched

Or am I suddenly sick, and can't tell gold from dirt

My medicine is his tenderness, his whiplash my crutch

I pick his heart of violence, and fill my own

With a smidgen of courage, de-addiction my aim

I carry his heart of love, as I walk my path alone

The memories will keep me warm as my life I finally claim.

Beautiful Ends : 55-Fiction

2013-03-11T01:13:00.002+05:30

For mothers

“You look beautiful”

“Stop it, Ma. I look like a freak. I miss my long hair.”

“My best memory is the soft touch of your hair against my face, the first time I held you. But I cherish this even more.”

“What? My bald head?”

“The brave, beautiful head of my cancer-fighting daughter, who won!”

***

For daughters

Lata held her long, thick hair in her hands. She fondly combed it, unravelled the knots, braided it and put flowers in it.

Next morning, she went to the barbershop and sold her hair. Then bought medicines for her ailing mother.

As her mother fondled her cropped head, she smiled. Hair grows back. Mothers don’t.

***

For sisters

“Do you remember how you used to comb my hair after Ma died?” asked Leena, with tears in her eyes.

Meena stared vacantly at the ceiling with comatose eyes.

Leena gently washed and dried Meena’s hair, brushing it to a shine.

She felt a tug on her hand. Meena smiled at her, awake at last.

***

For friends

On the last day of school, Amita and Sheetal were heartbroken.

“I’m going to miss you so much”, they both cried, hugging each other.

Twenty years later, Amita found a photo of Sheetal braiding her hair.

“I wonder if she remembers me?”

Across the country, Sheetal held the same photo in her hands, and smiled.

Images courtesy Google. Copyright belongs to respective owners.

This post is part of the Beautiful Ends to Your Beautiful Braids! Contest on Indiblogger.in, in collaboration with Dove Split Ends Rescue System.

Vote for it here

You might also like my other entry : The Softest Touch

Let me grow into myself

2013-03-10T23:42:00.000+05:30

Written for the Sunday Mini-Challenge on Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

For this week's challenge, Grace (aka Heaven) asked us to write a 14-line poem using food imagery to express our feelings.

This being school exam season in India, I dedicate this to children who bear the load of their parents' expectations and imposed dreams.

I'm growing still, ripening daily

Your seeds have borne their fruit in me
Luscious ideas flow like juice through my veins

My dreams are golden, fresh and syrupy

Bite into me and you'll be surprised

By my taste, my crunch, the colour of my inside

They may not be the same as yours

Or what you expect, or what you decide

They are mine, whether bitter or sweet

And even if our tastes don't meet

I hope you'll let me grow into myself

Not the fruit you want me to be

Let me be a square apple, with blue peel and green offshoot

Don't mould me to your dreams, into perfect glass fruit

The Softest Touch

2013-03-05T18:28:00.000+05:30

This post was a runner-up in the Dove-Indiblogger "Beautiful Ends To Your Beautiful Braids" Contest.

The Pincushion

I was a twelve year old girl, and had just started Class 8. It was that precarious age when I was not quite a teenager, and no longer part of the kiddie crowd. And appearances were just starting to matter.

"Amma, pull it tighter... tighter... tighter", I whined as my mother braided my long, thick, stubbornly curly hair into two plaits running down my back.

"Any tighter that this, and I'll be pulling your hair out by the handfulls", Amma chuckled.

Of course, her giggle made me even more irritated. Once she was done tying the braids up with ribbons, I slid eight hairpins into my head just to hold it all tighter. Somehow I had got the notion that it was important that not a single hair should be out of place.

Amma nicknamed me "The Pincushion" because my head was bristling with hairpins. But I was happy, because my hair was perfectly braided, my plaits were long and thick, and they brushed softly against my back with every step I took.

This was a ritual every morning at the breakfast table, right before the school bus arrived. I would give Amma a quick kiss and my sister and I would run down to the bus-stop.

The Softest Touch

One day, my grandmother arrived to spend a few weeks with us. We adored Paati ('Grandma' in Tamil). She pampered us to bits. She cooked divinely, told the most wonderful stories and she had the softest, gentlest touch. Every night, she would put my head in her lap, and caress my head tenderly with her cool, loving hand. Her touch was enough to send me on a peaceful trip to dreamland.

One morning, I was sitting at the breakfast table, gulping down my cornflakes and waiting impatiently for Amma to do my hair. Instead, I felt Paati's soft hands on my head. I turned back and found Paati holding a comb, eager to braid my hair.

Now, before judging me, remember I was a twelve-year-old, and like all children that age, I was a bit of a pompous ass. I knew right then that it was going to be a difficult morning for everyone. Paati slowly ran the comb through my hair, gently untangling the knots with her fingers, brushing the hair-ends meticulously to a shine. And she hadn't even started braiding my hair yet.

I tapped my foot impatiently, and Paati must have sensed my barely-subdued irritation. "What happened? Am I pulling your hair? Does it hurt?"

"No Paati. It's just that you're a bit slow and the bus will be coming any time now."

"Oh, okay... I'll go as fast as I can then." She parted my hair in two, and started braiding one section. It was exactly as I feared. Too loose.

"Tighter, Paati, tighter".

"Okay."

"Tiiiiiggggghhhhtttteeerrrr" I whined, just short of letting my irritation show in my voice.

"I'm trying, kanna".

"Maybe Amma should do it today, and when I come back from school, you can redo it for me."

Paati looked disappointed. But she still smiled and patted my head. "Sure thing. Let me get your Amma."

Amma came and she did not look pleased. She quickly did my hair, pulling a little tighter than usual, finished it with a sarcastic "Tight enough for you?" and left before I could kiss her goodbye.

I felt guilty. I knew I'd probably hurt Paati's feelings. I resolved to make it up to her in the evening after school. She loved oiling my hair, and even though I hated oil on my head, I'd do it for her.

Kabhi Khushi, Kabhi Gum

School is a difficult place for a kid at times. Knowingly or unknowingly, children can be very cruel to each other. It so happened that this one particular girl and her clique of show-offs were jealous of my long, thick hair. And that day, they decided to put their evil plan into action.

One of them walked behind me on the way back from morning assembly. At one point, she shoved me against a wall. I was scared of that group, they were bullies and their taunts hurt. So I didn't say anything, As I tried to resume walking, I found to my horror that one braid was stuck to the wall. Chewing gum.

I cried and cried when my teacher had to cut part of my plait off to free my hair. It was a sordid mixture of embarrassment, shame, helpless rage and unbelievable sadness. I knew I'd have to cut my hair short now.

When I came home that evening from my trip to the salon, everyone was even kinder to me than usual. My sister let me have the first choice of all snacks and food, Amma gave me an extra tight hug, Appa let me help him with the Daily Crossword and Paati made my favourite dish for dinner.

That night, I cried with my head on Paati's lap. She didn't say a word, just caressed my freshly cut, short hair. Bit by bit, I calmed down. Her soft, gentle touch worked its magic again.

Grandma Knows Best

The next few days, I was doused in misery. I was still hurting from the humilation of having my hair chopped in full view of my classmates, and I missed having my plaits brush reassuringly against my back when I walked.

Paati sat me down and spoke to me one day. "Kanna, you cannot stay down like this. Your hair will grow back, I'll make sure of it. But you are growing up too, my dear, and you will face many more ups and downs in life. You must learn how to put your sad times behind you and create happiness for yourself. Know this always, your family will always be with you. We will love you with short hair, long hair, even no hair if you choose to shave your head some day. But what you really need to do is love yourself."

Paati put me on a strict hair care regimen. Regular oiling, special herbal concoctions for washing and conditioning, and gentle brushing to detangle my hair and keep it soft and shiny. Paati would meticulously massage my scalp with her soft fingers, comb my hair patiently and stroke my head lovingly.

Every morning, it would be Paati, not Amma, who would brush my hair to a blinding shine before school. She took it upon herself to make sure the bullies didn't get a single chance to gloat about my hair.

Meanwhile, with Paati's sage advice, I learnt to stand up to the mean girls. I even took to defending other classmates who were being tormented by them. Very soon, I found out that when opposed, they had no legs to stand on and backed off quickly. With many others speaking out against them, the leader of the group was suspended and she changed schools. The other mean girls disbanded quietly.

In a very short time, my hair was starting to grow visibly longer. By the time Paati's visit came to an end, I was able to braid my hair again, albeit in two very short plaits.

By continuing with her regimen, it wasn't long before my tresses reached their previous length, and were even more thick and soft than before. Once again, I was comforted by the soothing sweep of my braids against my back.

Present Day

Paati passed away some years ago, but her words and wisdom have stayed on with me. And the caress of my braid-ends against my skin remind me of her loving touch.

In my busy life today, I don't have the time to pamper my hair the way Paati used to, or the expertise to create her homemade shampoo. Thankfully, there are Hair Rescue Systems to take care of my hair for me.

And Paati took care of my growing-up for me. "What you really need to do is love yourself."

This post is part of the Beautiful Ends to Your Beautiful Braids! Contest on Indiblogger.in, in collaboration with Dove Split Ends Rescue System.

Vote for it here

Images from Google. Copyrights belong to their original owners.

You might also like my other entry : Beautiful Ends (55-Fiction)

The Boy Who Lived

2013-03-03T18:29:00.000+05:30

This post won the Silver Batom in the Blog-a-Ton 37. Results can be found here

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 37; the thirty-seventh 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. The theme for the month is "Truth is stranger than fiction"

Images from Google. Copyrights belong to respective owners.

Lisa was an unassuming lady. Petite, plain-looking. And yet, she had a light in her eyes that distinguished her immediately from everyone else. A radiance that transformed her from an ordinary woman to an extraordinary one.

She pressed a button and a picture of Harry appeared on the giant screen. She closed her eyes for a moment and breathed a silent prayer. She thought she would be nervous, but now faced with the task before her, she found that she was fearless.

When she began speaking, every single person in the audience of over a thousand was spellbound. For truth is often stranger than fiction.

My son Harry turns eleven today. Exactly a year ago, on his tenth birthday, he handed me a wish-list. Like every other boy his age, his wishes were fantastic and filled with the confidence and wonder that only children have.

We adults don't dare to dream beyond our limitations. But Harry didn't know that. In his mind, there was nothing he couldn't do, if only he could find a way to do it.

Harry has always held my heart in his hand. My only child, my only love. But we didn't spend enough time together back then. Between my two jobs and his unbelievably full schedule, we kept missing each other.

So when Harry gave me his list, something clicked into place within me. Life had to be lived now, not twenty years later, not when we finally decided to make time to live. Harry and I made a pact that day - the following year would be spend making the things on his list come true.

I didn't know how we would do it, but we had to try.

Getting Started

The first thing I did was call Karen, my best friend. I have no family to speak of, and very few friends. I needed Karen to be my rock.

The biggest problem was financing the entire affair. We were living day-to-day, with very little cash to spare.

That was when Karen offered to build a website for Harry. Suddenly, we had a country full of friends. In the very first week, we got several thousand hits. The local radio station put in a word for us for free. Donations started pouring in from all across the country. The amounts varied from $10 to $100, but we were sitting on a cash-pile.

In true Harry fashion, we gave away all of it to his favorite charities. “There are other people who need the money. Kids fighting cancer, kids waiting to get arms and legs. I don't want to trample their dreams for mine. We'll find other ways. Meanwhile, let's just include everyone in our journey.”

When we posted on the website that we would prefer that donations be made to other charities, we started receiving offers from folks all over the country, offering to share their homes and their families with us, proposing new wishes that they could fulfill. Harry decided to pass them along to the Make-a-wish Foundation. Very soon, Harry had made life easier for hundreds of children. Word of his quest spread fast across the country.

By the end of the first month, we had a solid lead on not one, but two wishes.

Swimming with Sharks (NOT Dolfins) and Racing Against A Cheeta (and Winning!)

On a nippy September evening, I received a call from Lans Van der Meer. The thick Rhodesian accent established him firmly as a South African.

Lans had an offer for us. "What if I bring you and Harry over to Africa for a couple of weeks? I am currently on tour in the US and I will be leaving for Cape Town at the end of the month. October is a good month for shark-diving, and I happen to have ties with an outfit that does just that. They also organize game safaris, so if we're very, very lucky, Harry might just outrun a cheetah too! I will cash in on my frequent flyer miles for the tickets. What do you say?"

I couldn't believe my ears. It was as though the universe was handing us this opportunity on a sliver platter. Suddenly, my conscience and my common sense were chiming in. What had seemed like a "Let's just wing it!" mission was acquiring practical and moral colours.

"Mr. Van der Meer, I don't know how to respond to your offer. I simply could not impose on your kindness this way, unless there is some way we can pay you back."

"Ms. Lisa, I am a pastor. I work with troubled young men and help them find direction in their lives. Your son Harry. is extraordinary. The clarity of his vision, his belief in his dreams and his wonderful act of charity in giving away his donations to the needy combine to make him a prime example of how one can achieve the impossible and be a good human being at the same time. What I need from you is to address a meeting at the youth centre during your visit."

Harry was so excited. I thought over it. And decided to go for it. At the end of the month, we were in South Africa.

It was the most fulfilling experience of my life. Pastor Van der Meer was six-and-a-half-feet tall, burly, red-faced, jovial man, unlike any pastor I had ever seen. He had a great sense of humour and kept us in splits with all his stories. His dedication to his cause, and the love he had for the young men in his care shone through his words and gestures. Twelve young men, formerly gangbangers, kept us company in Cape Town.

We swam with Great Whites. We really did. Harry and I sat in a cage, a few inches below the surface of the water. Two sharks swam close enough for us to touch. So did a couple of seals and a few dolphins a bit later on, after the sharks had swum away. Even though Harry did not want to swim with "dolfins", it appeared that they wanted to swim with Harry.

A few days later, we were in a jeep hurtling across the dusty grasslands of a national park. We raced wildebeest and gazelles. We paused for a herd of elephants to cross the road. We even saw a pride of lions, complete with cubs. But the cheetahs remained elusive. Until we were just about to give up and turn back.

The cheetah simply sauntered on to our path. It stood there looking at us with careless nonchalance. We were irritants, nothing more. Like the flies that deserved nothing more than to be swatted away with a flick of its tail. While we all held out breaths, it sauntered on, and disappeared into the tall, golden grass.

Cheetahs are by far the most graceful and majestic among God's creations. Their muscles ripple under flawlessly shiny coats, their long, thin limbs move like poetry and their beautiful, almond shaped eyes hold the light of a thousand stars. I cried shamelessly at the beauty of this beast. Harry was unusually silent on the way back. All he said was , "Wow!"

We didn't race against the cheetah. But as Harry pointed out to the youth group he spoke to, "If I'd jumped out and run, I'd have gone faster than the cheetah did crossing the road. So technically, I could have won.. if I had raced him."

Thus satisfied, we returned to the US. Two down, three to go.

Climbing the biggest mountain in the world

Harry and I had already discussed the feasibility of this one. We both knew and accepted that it was impossible for Harry to physically climb Mt. Everest right then. We decided, instead, to send our representative instead. A tiny model of Harry, made by the main man himself, would take his place on the climb.

It was February when I received a reply to an e-mail I'd sent to a group of mountaineering enthusiasts. An Everest expedition was being planned in May. If I could send mini-Harry to them by the end of the month, they would take it up with them. The group, called NeverRest, had failed to reach the summit two times before, but this time they declared they had the motivation they needed to succeed - they wanted Harry to climb the biggest mountain in the world.

FedEx offered to fly mini-Harry by special courier to Nepal, where the NeverRest had already established base, in preparation for their climb three months away.

A few days later, we were greeted on Skype by twenty-odd highly athletic looking young men and women. The NeverRest accepted mini-Harry in a solemn ceremony. The distance between our home and the misty mountains of Nepal was reduced to the thickness of a computer screen.

All we could do now was wait for May and pray for the Summit.

A summit of my own - Jumping from an Airplane

Harry's website was constantly updated with photographs, travel plans and personal experiences. It continued to generate donations to a large number of charities. Make-My-Wish was flooded with opportunities to make dreams come true for the terminally-ill. Harry's fame spread far and wide.

"Mom, I know I may not be allowed to jump from the airplane, so I want you to do it for me instead." Harry's words echoed in my ears.

April sunshine bathed my garden in warm hues. Before me sat Erin Linkly, a twenty-three year old sky-diving enthusiast, a chirpy red-haired girl who looked as though she was bouncing even when she sat. There was an energy about her that seemed to infect everyone around her.

Erin was going to attempt a record number of jumps. The site was an hour's drive away from where we lived. Since the event was already sponsored, she offered me a free ride-along with an instructor. On one of her attempts, I would jump with her. The way she spoke about it, I found myself increasingly enthusiastic about leaping from 15,000 feet. I almost forgot that once outside of Erin's sphere of influence, I would probably crawl into the shower crying and stay there.

Looking down at the ground from the plane allowed me to think back over my life, my decision to throw Harry's abusive father out of my home, my failures, my achievements and above all, my life with Harry. His quest was irrevocably linked to my own success as a mother and a person. If I could do this for Harry, I would know for sure that I had made something of myself. I would walk with my head held high.

The man before me put up three fingers. I was strapped to another man who was about to leap out into thin air. Erin crouched beside me, giving me a huge smile and a big thumbs-up. My throat was drier than it had ever been. I wanted to shake my head, scream, do anything to stop the counting. Unfortunately, it appeared I had lost all use of my faculties. Over two hundred people were rooting for me down on solid ground. Harry had an ever growing fan following!

Three, Two, One. Go time. Before I knew it, I was floating in the sky. I think I screamed, I don't know for sure. All I know is I felt a rush like nothing before in my life. I was one with the universe. And I was finally at peace. With God, with myself, with life.

A month later, on 20th May, we spoke again on Skype to the brave mountaineers from NeverRest. The atmosphere of jubilation and success was palpable. Excitement and fervour pervaded the air. I could almost see fireworks in the room. The team had successfully reached the summit this time. Mini-Harry had elected to stay on top of Mt. Everest, a testimony to a ten-year-old boy's dreams fulfilled.

When the leather-bound photograph of the group and mini-Harry sitting proudly on the summit reached us a few weeks later, we wept for joy. I don't think I have ever cried more in my life than I did in those months since we started the quest.

The Last Check on the List

The list was made on 28th July last year. I stand here before you today, exactly a year later. Harry is not here. In a moment, you'll see where he is.

It is unbelievable that one little boy's wishlist changed so many lives. Harry's website has raised funds worth over $10 Million for charities all over the world. We've helped fulfill the wishes of over a thousand children. And today we have all of you here, sharing your hopes and your lives with us.

Harry will turn eleven in thirty minutes from now. And we will all witness something even more incredible than the journey I have had this past year.

We will watch Harry's last wish come true.

The screen flickered and cleared, revealing a view from inside a spacecraft.

Hello Earthlings! Greetings from the International Space Station. When we heard about Harry and how he's helped hundreds of kids with his generosity, we knew we had to help this guy with his own wish-list. In a few minutes, I will be walking in space with Harry. Ms. Lisa, we at the ISS are grateful and honored to be able to contribute to Harry's quest.

The audience rose to their feet as one, applauding in joy as they watched the man on the screen don a helmet and step out into the universe. The astronaut slowly unscrewed a tin he held in his hand, and scattered dust into space.

Lisa spoke, her voice catching in her throat.

Harry died last December, after the trip to Africa. He had been diagnosed with end-stage leukemia a few months before his last birthday. The doctors did not give us much time. Harry knew it. I had always been honest with him, and he was wise beyond his age.

When he gave me his list, we talked in great detail about how to accomplish each of them. Where he couldn't do something physically, he found a work-around.

"Mom, there's nothing to stop me from doing anything I want, if only I can find a way to do it."

And he found a way to do in life and in death, what most of us would never even dream of.

He swam with sharks when he couldn't even walk. He would have won a race against a cheetah if he could have raced. His hand-made model of himself stands on top of Mt. Everest. He jumped with me from an airplane. And today, his ashes are walking the universe.

Along the way, he helped hundreds of children and their families gain a new lease on life. Even after I lost him, he gave me a way to find myself.

Today, I stand before you a proud woman and the proud mother of an incredible human being. Thank you all for being part of his journey.

Harry. The Boy Who Lived.

Little Girls and Toys : 55-Fiction

2013-03-02T22:42:00.000+05:30

This post was chosen as a BlogAdda WOW Top Post

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

Write Over the Weekend theme for this Mar 1, 2013:
Use these three words in your post ‘Little Girl, Toy, Scared’

***

Broken

The little girl cowered in a corner with her toy, scared and shaking.

Before her, Daddy was beating Mommy senseless with his belt.

“Daddy, please. Stop hitting her”

“Shut up bitch, before I knock your teeth out”

She picked up the gun on the table and shot him thrice. Then sat playing with her doll.

***

Lost

Mia watched the little girl through the door, playing in the garden. Her hair shone like gold in the sunshine.

Mia walked to her and held out a toy. “Come here, baby, don’t be scared”.

Mia knelt and hugged her close.

Jack saw his wife embracing thin air. Their daughter’s death was driving her insane.

***

Possessed

“Who’s your best friend?”

“Chuck”, said the little girl shyly.

“But Chuck is just a toy”

“No he’s not. He plays with me, and talks to me, and we sing songs together.”

“Children and their imagination”, said Daddy, tucking her in.

He switched off the light.

“Don’t be scared, and don’t believe them”, whispered Chuck.

***

Unwanted

They saw the grimy, malnourished little girl twirling an attractive toy - a brightly coloured, sparkling top.

“Thief”, they accused.

“I found it”, she said, scared. “We’re both unwanted”.

When they were done punishing her for a crime not committed, she lay lifeless and broken.

Try as they did, the top never spun again.

***

Damaged

The little girl picked up the toy. A GI Joe with a broken arm.

She cleaned him, taped him up, cared for him.

One night her uncle attacked her.

He was found dead the next day.

Post-mortem revealed a mysterious object that had pierced his heart from within.

It looked like a tiny arm.

***

An Unheard Cry From The Battlefield

2013-03-02T12:00:00.000+05:30

Written for Kerry's Wednesday Challenge and posted for Today we scream on Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.

March has been set aside by Woman Scream International Poetry Festival as the month to raise awareness through poetry about violence against women.

Kerry's call for a poem based on Open Letters gave me the opportunity to write about something that has been pricking me for a while now, but for which I was having trouble finding the right format for expression. The idea of an open letter is the perfect vehicle to start a wider discussion on this issue.

I would like to talk about atrocities on women in war zones and regions of conflict by the military or law-enforcement agencies.

This has long been perilous ground to walk on. No one wants to undermine the sacrifices that soldiers and police personnel make for their country and countrymen. Be it life or limb, physical or psychological, our soldiers have long defended us to the last no matter the cost to themselves.

However, it is imperative to question their actions and motives when they resort to sexual violence, inflicted on women and children already coping with conflict. Wartime rape and mutilation can take many forms - as psychological warfare, as reinforcement of ideas of superiority and control, as a weapon of torture for information and punishment, as an outlet for anger and frustration, or as a celebration of victory and conquest. None of these forms justify violating the basic human rights of what are, in almost all cases, innocent civilians.

This is neither a new phenomenon, nor one that has escaped attention. The world has watched, mostly in silence, while women and children in war-ridden Bosnia, Africa, Sri Lanka, Iraq, Afghanistan and, to a lesser degree, in parts of India like Kashmir and the Northeast of India, have been ravaged by "security" forces.

Very little has been done to bring the perpetrators to justice, especially since war-time rape is unofficially legitimized as an effective war tactic. There are other fallouts of sexual exploitation in conflict zones, such as trafficking of women and children and sexual slavery.

Should we condemn the perverse actions of those who are charged with protecting us? Are they accountable for rape and slavery, even though they face the unspeakable horror of war themselves? Should they be brought to trial like any other person would be for the same crime? Are "rehabilitation", "independence", "free country" and "self-governance" hollow and hypocritical when weighed against "justice", "humanity", "dignity" and "life"?

The answer is clear and without doubt - Yes.

History is written by the winners. This is my attempt to write for the losing side.

Ladies and Gentlemen of the Free World

I use these words with contempt and derision

For I am not a lady, and they were no gentlemen

And my world is bound by chains that no one can break free

I have lived my life in terror

Fear for myself, my family, my village

I have known very little peace,

or joy, or prosperity, or any of those things

That were promised by the rulers and invaders alike

And delivered by none

Instead they took away what little I had

My body, my soul, my identity, my dignity

They ravaged my home

And my temple and my being

And the air in my lungs

And the blood in my veins

What do you think, or say or do
When you pray for a bullet to kill you
Before they find you alive and cowering
And drag you by your heels into the open

Mounting with impunity

With self-serving authority even

My battered body

And my mother's and my sister's, even my baby daughter's and son's

Was it because my uncle or cousin or father or brother fought

For them, against them

Was it because their venomous snakes

Hadn't stung in a while?

Was it punishment?

I've already told them everything I know and don't know

But it hasn't stopped yet

And it has been more than a hundred times already.

Was it because they wanted to prove

Their manhood, their power, their place above all

Or was it just because they fed their souls

On flesh and blood and screams and agony

They lie all around me

They lie all around the world

Girls and women, boys merely children

Writhing with their loins speared and breasts slit

I am left with no home, they bombed it too

My fields are on fire, along with my body

My brothers lie in pieces, my dignity beside them

And yet they march onwards, to free more lands

Bitter irony makes me laugh

And brings bile to my mouth in equal measure

My protectors, my liberators

My rapists, my murderers

They are awarded and rewarded

For their courage and honour

Their selfless bravery applauded

To the victor belong the spoils

Not one of all you honourable people

Sitting in your free world, shaking your head at my misery

Stood up for me, asked for me

When I lay face down in the mud, naked and bleeding

I hope this letter finds you

In the pink of health and prosperity

Don't worry about me, I am fine

As long as there's an army fighting for my body.

The Devil's Price

2013-02-24T01:08:00.001+05:30

Written for the Sunday Mini-Challenge on Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.

Poetic Form - Write a poem that is 14 lines long.

Dowry is a medieval, derogatory, discriminatory tradition that is still practiced with impunity, even pride, in India.

Dowry is the price that is demanded by the groom and his family as a forced "gift", sometimes even compensation of sorts, for taking the bride in and assuming the responsibility of caring for her for the rest of her life.
The groom's worth and standing in society is often judged by the amount of dowry he is able to garner.
The bride's family has to assemble the dowry, no matter how large or beyond their means even to the extent of steep loans and bankruptcy, if they are to preserve the marriage, their honour, and their daughter's life.

In cases where the dowry demands are not met satisfactorily, the rest of the bride's life may not last long enough to justify the dowry. She is liable to be sent back to her parents, abandoned, raped, beaten, burned, tortured, kept as a slave, sold or murdered by her own husband and his family.

A fallout of the dowry system has been female infanticide, the selective abortion of female foetuses. As a result, the sex ratio in most parts of India is abysmally low, to the extent that there are now entire villages where there are no girls.

Even though it is prohibited by law, dowry continues to flourish in India, because a girl's honour and place in society are dictated by a satisfactory marriage, preferably arranged by elders.

It is no surprise, therefore, that the birth of a girl-child in the more impoverished parts of our country are met with condolences than celebration.

Yes, India is changing. But it isn't changing fast enough for us girls.

The arrival of a daughter is not welcomed with a prayer

But mourned, as though a curse has come to life

From the day she is born, every morsel is counted

And accounted for, For she will have to get married some day

Yes, it won't come cheap, the purchase of a suitable boy

Disguised as a favour bestowed on the girl and her family

If she's lucky, she will be asked, but let's not make it a necessity

Leave it all to those who have to pay for her wedding and the jewels

And the TV, the fridge, the furniture and the utensils

Everything a house needs, maybe even the house itself

And livestock or a vehicle or both, depending on what the demand is for

Unless it's all paid in full, she may not live to use them anyway.

Yes, the arrival of a daughter is not welcomed with a prayer

It is met with laments, and wishes they'd "caught" it before she was born.

My Heart's Desire

2013-02-23T13:49:00.000+05:30

My fifth consecutive week winning the WoW Top Post

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda

Write Over the Weekend theme for Feb 22, 2013 : Revolve a story around this line ‘My heart was saying “Yes” but my head was saying “No”.

***

I saw him yet again in the park

His eyes radiant in the sunshine

His hair ruffled by the breeze

He knew what was on my mind

In one look, I could tell
He would fulfill my heart's desire
His smile tightened my belly
The heat made me shiver, ice was on fire

My heart was saying Yes
But my head was saying No
I looked beside me, and sighed
My husband was signalling me to go.

I yearned for what he could give
That man in the park..
In my mind's eye I could see
Strawberry champagne, chocolate rock

He would soon be taken, if he wasn't already
Honey-sweet, fruity fresh, delicious eye-candy
Just to look at him made my mouth water
Intoxicating as whisky, wine and brandy

My husband, he'd know what I was thinking
I had to control these sinful thrusts
To my horror, he took me straight to the man
"Fulfill your hunger, quench your thirst"

I looked at him with tears in my eyes
I burst into a silent scream
But I was too far gone, too weak to resist
"Butterscotch, rum-raisin and fruit punch ice-cream"

Reposted for Open Link Monday on Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

The Land of Kings

2013-02-23T00:05:00.001+05:30

Written for Transforming Friday on Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

This is in honour of the desert people of Rajasthan, one of the toughest, hardiest yet friendliest and most honourable people in the world.

Padharo mhaare des

Welcome to my country

An ever-changing land

Landmarks shift with every gust of the wind

Burning, biting, sun-baked sand

We ride our own ships

Four long, spindly legs for oars

That split the desert sea

Ferrying us from shore to sandy shore

Every drop of that heavenly nectar

Treasured more than life itself

We neither envy, nor curse our fate

Waiting patiently for brief rainy spells

We built kingly palaces

Forts unconquered yet

The most intricate of carvings

From sand and sweat

Nomads we are, our homes the sand dunes

Courage, fortitude, tradition, honour

Our dark blood has coloured this soil

Stories passed down the generations are our only banner

Who says this land is barren

Fallow, sterile, infertile

She gave birth to us, we're her children

We don't just survive, we thrive

And with all that we have

All that we possess

We open our arms to you

Come, visit, stay with us

Padharo mhaare des

Welcome to my country

Imaginary House For Real Toads

2013-02-20T20:41:00.001+05:30

Written for Words Count With Mama Zen on Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

The idea for this poem is to build a toad-house in less than 48 words. When I searched Google for inspiration and ideas, I found that toads have better houses than we do!

So I decided to build a zen-themed house that I would want to live in.....

Amidst the mossy greenery

Beside a tiny, pebble lined pond

Bamboo canes curve to form a dome

Raindrops drip enticingly through leafy gables

Turrets of shoots, an airy castle

Doorway framed with curving vines

Flowers are garden chairs

Stone steps lead from

Green home to Water home

(Word count : 47)

Waiting for Purple

2013-02-18T09:30:00.001+05:30

Anticipation gnaws at my insides

My gut clenches in raw nervousness

Could it be true?

Unplanned though it may be

The timing is still perfect

I clench, unwilling to release

What if it says yes?

Would I be elated, or wouldn't I?

Am I ready to accept a no?

It may break my heart....

I loosen my clench

And let go

A muted splash, collecting in a cup

Clear, odourless

Is that a good sign?

A dropper full of warm liquid

Three drops to the count

Big, full drops

Falling one by one

Agonizingly slowly

Into the tiny well

I watch with bated breath

As it seeps into the stick

And one purple line appears

I hold my breath

Every second seems like an eternity

And then..

The second line appears

A shade lighter than the first

But it is there, clear and strong

I am with child...

What I imagine a home pregnancy test would be like for a woman.

Reposted for Free Verse on Imaginary Garden with Real Toads

Writing to me is... : 55-Fiction

2013-02-16T15:08:00.000+05:30

This is a Blogadda.com WoW contest Top Post

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda

Write Over the Weekend theme for Feb 15, 2013 -

What is writing like? Write a post that includes this phrase, “Writing to me is…”

***

Freedom

Akash stared at the blank paper. It held the promise of anything... everything.

He licked his pen and began to write. When he was done, he gave it to his mentor for review.

Then walked to his execution.

His mentor, the Warden, read it with tears in his eyes.

“Writing, to me, is Freedom”.

***

Strength

Booker Prize winner Babita Rai looked at her audience.

Every woman there was a victim of violence. Their faces held mixed emotions – anger, fear, guilt, shame.

They wanted, needed to hear it was possible to overcome it all.

“I was raped by my father. I put my pain to words. Writing, to me, is strength.”

***

Hope

Chirag cradled his baby daughter in his arms. His tears flowed unchecked.

The funeral was over. Chhaya, his soulmate, was gone forever.

He vowed to make her last wish come true.

“I won’t see my daughter grow up. Writing, to me, is hope. So I write today, for tomorrow – She's a loving, caring, strong woman.”

***

Life

“What is writing to you?”

Dharmesh knew the answer. He remembered a conversation, three years ago.

“I float, directionless,

Purposeless, useless.

Life holds no meaning

Maybe Death does.”

“Dharmesh, you have a rare gift. The gift of words. You do have a purpose. Write”

Today was his first book launch. “Writing, to me, is Life.”

***

Peace

Eeshwar moved his brush in elegant curves, the beauty of the words reflected in the script.

Outside, a riot raged. Neighbours for years turned to foes in a matter of hours.

The door burst open. A scimitar gleamed with blood.

“You’re a Hindu. Why do you translate Quran verses?”

“Writing, to me, is Peace”.

***

The Writer

2013-02-16T02:51:00.001+05:30

This is a Blogadda.com WoW Contest Top Post

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda

Write Over the Weekend theme for Feb 15, 2013 -

What is writing like? Write a post that includes this phrase, “Writing to me is…”

***

Mayura caressed the paper between her fingers, as though absorbing the words written on it through her pores. Lovingly and with much care, she slipped the rubber band back across the small, much-thumbed annual diary. The kind that had a page for every date. Her mind went back to what she had just read.

Jan 1, 1970

My name is Meera. I can write.

Two short, simple sentences that every child in Class 1 could write. And yet, Meera had written this at the age of sixty-two. Mayura blinked back her tears. Tears of pride and awe and wonder. Tears that knew the pain, the backbreaking hard work and the countless hours of toil behind those seven words.

Mar 31, 1970

Madam gave me five rupees today. I feel rich. But that is nothing compared to the feeling I get when I hold a pen. I can write.

Mayura recalled her great-grandmother's face, one that she had only seen in a sepia-coloured photograph, sitting on a plain wooden chair with her toddler daughter in her arms. She was eighteen then, married at the age of twelve, pregnant and widowed at fifteen, with a new-born baby girl at sixteen. Her in-laws had thrown her out of her husband's house a week after her daughter was born. No son to carry on their son's name. No reason for her to be part of the family any longer.

Apr 10, 1970

My birthday. I turn sixty-three today. I know, because the English lady in whose house I was born when my mother collapsed with pain, insisted on writing it down on a piece of paper. I have always carried that paper. It is my identity, the only proof that I was born when I was born. But I read it for the first time only a few months ago.

I told Madam. She told me to put this in my book. I have the best birthday gift this year. I can write.

Sixteen years old, with a baby in her arms and no roof over her head, Meera took a bold decision. She boarded a train, the only train that stopped at the dusty station, 20 km from her village. She spent three days sitting on the floor, eating only what kind co-passengers would give and drinking out of mud pots at the stations that came along the way. When the train finally reached its final destination, Meera stepped out of the train, and stepped into Bombay.

Bombay was monstrous in its size and bustle. People rushed to and fro. Everyone had a purpose. Meera looked about herself, awestruck. She felt tiny and insignificant. What was she to do now?

May 8, 1970

The cancer took Sushila yesterday. I cried till I could cry no more. I feel hollow inside. Who can fill the hole she has left inside me, with love and strength and friendship of a lifetime? My grief can be understood only by me. I would go insane if I didn't have one thing - I can write.

"Oye, girl, who are you waiting for?" Meera shrank back with fright. A hefty girl in a sari stood towering above her, her hands on her hips, demanding an answer. "No one. I am alone", stammered Meera.

"Come with me. Your baby needs food. And so do you."

Meera followed the girl as though in a trance. Her mind was blank, her legs moved of their own accord, her arms automatically rocked her listless, exhausted baby.

"I'm Sushila. I was in the same coach as you. I've been seeing you these past few days. I thought you could use some help. My husband left me for another girl. More dowry, he said. I said, go to the devil.
Now, I have a job as a maid in an English memsahib's house. My uncle fixed it up. He says the job pays well, and memsahib treats her servants right. You can stay with me till you find a job. If your stars hold, you may end up working with me. I don't have much money, but we'll manage. What is your baby's name?", the girl spoke fast and seemingly without pausing for breath.

"Uh. um... I haven't named her yet" said Meera, still blank and out of sorts.

"Oh. I know. Let's call her Rani. We'll make sure she grows up like a queen, not like us. Rani. Do you like it?". Sushila was flushed with excitement and extremely pleased with herself.

Meera looked into her clear, earnest eyes, eyes that held no malice or cunning plans, eyes that were brimming with camaraderie and kindness. She burst into tears, loud, piteous sobs that racked her thin, emaciated body and threatened to rip her lungs. She cried for her lost childhood, for her baby's poor beginnings, for the indifference of her family. The warm glow of pure humanity was washing the dirt away.

Sushila looked visibly dismayed. "We can change the name if you don't like it. No need to cry."

Meera stopped wailing immediately. In fits and starts, she started to giggle, and then laugh full-throated. "Rani she is, and Rani she will be. Oh Sushila, I have only just met you, and you have already done more for me than my parents, my husband and his family combined have ever done for me. I am eternally in your debt."

" 'Eternally in your debt' is a very long name. What can I call you for short?" said Sushila, with a grin.

"I am Meera."

"Meera. I can already sense this is the beginning of a long and beautiful friendship."

May 21, 1970

Thirteen days since Sushila left me. Her soul is at rest by now. Mine is not, but only because her absence will never let me be at rest. It is like I've lost a part of my body. I can still feel its presence, but it is no longer there. Without thinking, I turn to share a thought or a word with her, but where she used to stand, there is now emptiness.

I recall our first job together at memsahib's bungalow. Sweeping and swabbing, scrubbing and shining. Days turned to night, but the work was ever present. Rani would lie peacefully, swinging in the cradle made of cloth hung from a nail outside the kitchen. Even as a baby, Rani did not trouble me much. Or maybe because of Sushila, I never felt troubled. Rani was so blessed. She had not one, but two mothers.

Memsahib was God's blessing to us. She was gentle and did not raise her voice. She paid us well. She allowed us to bring Rani to work every day. She even agreed to give Rani a job as a maid for her own children when Rani turned seven. And she fed her and clothed her and Rani played with the English children.

But Rani could not study with the English children. And she wanted to. Just like I wanted to. But couldn't.

It took me more than fifty years. But I can write.

Meera, Sushila and Rani worked for twenty-four years in Memsahib's house, right up till the last days of British occupation, when Memsahib packed all her belongings and returned to England. In those twenty-four years, they moved from a hut they shared with five other girls, to a room of their very own. They found a suitable groom for Rani, an orphan from their neighbourhood, a decent, upstanding young man who had loved Rani all his life. And Rani had given birth to a beautiful baby girl that they named Bharati.

With Memsahib's glowing recommendations on their resumes, Meera and Sushila soon found jobs as caretakers in a convent school for girls, run by British Catholic nuns.

Jun 5, 1970

Loretta Convent School. I can spell the words now. But back then, they were just symbols, drawings on a board for me.

Ever since I was a child, I wanted to know what was written on that precious piece of paper that declared I was born. But there was no school in my village, and even if there had been one, I wouldn't have been allowed to study, being a girl. I did not tell anyone, not even Sushila, about my desire to read and write.

I once applied for the post of an aayah for the lower classes. The tiniest tots, those who were just starting to read, would be my teachers. But the lower classes had their own set of trained aayahs. Mother Mary said I didn't have the right qualifications for the job. Sushila said I was over-qualified for it.

I was too ashamed to tell them both that I wanted to learn how to write from four and five year old children. So I didn't try again. It appeared that my dream would remain a dream.

But I did all I could to make sure Bharati got the best education she deserved. Day after day, year after year, I watched her grow up into an intelligent, well-educated youngster, fresh-faced and raring to go out into the world.

The day that she told me she was training to be a teacher was the happiest day of my life. To think that my granddaughter would give the gift of letters to others.

That was the day I decided to ask for help. I wanted to write.

Mayura's eyes went misty. She remembered her mother's voice, "Meera Nani crept up to my room in the middle of the night. She woke me up gently and asked if I could teach her how to read and write. She was shaking, fear and shame and embarrassment making it difficult for her to speak. Even with her limited means, she had always insisted on paying my school fees, bought books for me, given me a pen for my birthday every year."

Bharati decided to start her grandmother's tutions immediately. "It was mid-1967 when we first started our lessons. Nani would call me Madam. She was the best student I have had in all these years of teaching. She was sincere and diligent. She wasn't very sharp, but she worked hard, as she had done all her life. And slowly, but surely, she started writing. By mid-1969, she could write anything she wanted to."

Meera had the proudest moment of her life when she signed her name in the staff attendance register at school. Where earlier there was an 'X' in the attendance column, there was now a name. Her name. She could write.

For a long time, Meera did not take out her birth certificate from the plastic covering she kept it wrapped in. It was only on Bharati's twenty-second birthday in 1969 that she decided to read it out aloud, as a present to her teacher. Tears poured down her face as she read the words on the document she had treasured her whole life - "This girl was born on the Tenth Day of April, in the Year of the Lord Nineteen Hundred and Seven".

It didn't even have her name on it. But Meera wept for joy.

November 8, 1970

I haven't been able to go to work for two days now. The pain in my chest has become uncomfortable. I don't want to scare Rani, but I think this might be the end for me. If I were to die now, I won't be sad. My daughter has a good life. I have been blessed with joy more times than I can count. And I have what I have always longed for. I can write.

Writing, to me, is my identity. My name. My thoughts. My words. Me.

I am ready to go now. To be with Sushila again. To watch over my children. To write... for all eternity.

Meera died a week later. Mayura never got to meet her incredible great-grandmother, the woman who started life with nothing, and left it with everything worth having.

Meera's diary stood testament to her life. She could write.

Images sourced from Google. All images used here copyright to their owners.

Psyched : 55-Fiction

2013-02-13T18:04:00.000+05:30

3-in-1

The camera was rolling. Bulbs flashed.

“I’m Mansi. 32, divorced mother of three beautiful kids. Looking for a committed relationship.”

“Yo, Swati here. I’m hot ‘n’ happening. I just want fun.”

“I-I-I’m A-A-Anita. I-I-I’ve b-b-been hurt b-before, but b-believe in t-true love.”

Behind the camera, Dr. Sneha glanced at her chart. “Multiple Personality Disorder”

***

The Voice

“Get rid of her”. The voice was getting louder nowadays.

He sneaked a peek at her. Washing the car, body glistening with soap, bikini top soaking wet.

She looked provocative and sinful.

“Take her down”, the voice screamed. He gave in.

Ripping the poster off the wall, he grumbled “Happy, Mom?”

Mom nodded, satisfied.

***

Remembrance

She looked at him as he tied his shoelaces. He reminded her of someone.

He saw her and smiled. She knew that smile.

“Aman.....?”

He looked confused. Was he Aman?

A name flashed. “Shiela?”. She didn’t respond.

They both looked unsure.

The moment flickered, faded.

Fifty years of togetherness dissipated in a miasma of Alzheimer’s.

Child Speak : 55-Fiction

2013-02-11T23:47:00.001+05:30

The Little Girl

"Mama, where do we go after we die?"

"Why do you ask, sweetie?"

"Divya told me we become ghosts and roam the world, scaring everyone"

Mama smiled, patted her head, "All ghosts aren't scary"

Papa came to the balcony. Looking far away, he wiped away a tear. "Why did I survive, when you both didn't?"

***

Magic is Real

The party had a magician.

"Up his sleeve", "False bottom in the hat", "Invisible ink”. Mark called out softly after every trick, watching from the back of the room.

Mary asked wide-eyed, “Don’t you believe in magic?”

Mark shrugged his shoulders.

Mary smiled. “Magic is real”, she said. Then vanished before his eyes.

***

The X-Man

Varun ran across the road. He had to propose to her today.

A boy stood licking an ice-lolly. He stared at Varun.

“Are you an X-Man?”

Varun was taken aback, “Of course not”.

“Then how are you at two places at once?”

Varun followed his gaze.

Varun’s body lay dead, run over by a car.

***

Superhero

“I’m Spiderman”, declared Bunty.

The others laughed and jeered.

“I am. See, I’ll jump to the next roof”, he said and ran over the edge.

The boys shouted and rushed to see him.

Bunty hung mid-air, entangled in a thick web. He was Spiderman.

“Oye Bunty, stop messing up my clothesline”, Sarla Aunty scolded.

My First Liebster Award

2013-02-11T15:05:00.000+05:30

Thank you Renu and a Rat (Meera)!

THE LIEBSTER AWARD

The Liebster Award is used to highlight smaller, lesser known blogs, blogs that have less than 200 followers. Liebster (meaning kindest, dearest, beloved, cute, endearing in German) is an award that you accept with an intention of paying it forward.

I am extremely fortunate and grateful that I was awarded the Liebster by The Domestic Goddess-Next Door herself, Renu Sethi.

Renu is a prolific writer who writes about love, life and everything in between in her blog Loves me; loves me not. Her nominations for this award can be found here.

EDIT : I just received another nomination (Yay!) from a Rat who puts down her musings at A Rat's Nibble. Her short stories and poetry burst with characters, emotions and ideas that make you pause for thought. Her nominations for this award can be found here.

This is an extremely special award for me, since this is the first award of any kind that my blog has received. A peer-to-peer recognition is especially encouraging, since it means fellow bloggers and writers acknowledge your work. Once again, thank you Renu and Meera.

While accepting the award you have to:

Post 11 things about yourself
Answer 11 questions set by the nominator
Choose 11 deserving bloggers meeting the criteria
Set 11 questions for them.
Inform the nominee by commenting on one of their posts.

You are not obligated to accept the award to send it forward. This is just a way to get a word out about new blogs that your followers may not know.

11 THINGS ABOUT MYSELF

I am a proud alumna of St. Stephen's College, Delhi and IIT Roorkee.
I am a firm believer in God, but I am not at all religious, even though I celebrate all festivals with equal enthusiasm (because there's always good food!)
I sing very well (and apparently, I'm not too modest!)
I am not a very good cook, but I am a neat freak. So the house is usually spotless, and our takeout budget is bigger than our investments.
As the daughter of an Air Force Officer, I have lived in over 10 cities ranging from Chabua (Assam) to Pune, from Kasauli (Himachal) to Mysore. I have studied in 5 schools, 2 colleges and started a new life in a new place every two-three years.
In continuation of my eclectic upbringing, I am a Tam Brahm married to a Bihari, and we live in West Bengal. We strive to epitomize national integration and unity. We mostly succeed at it, except when I refuse to sing Bhojpuri songs and he refuses to accept that curd rice is a valid dish.
I love reading fiction. My favourite authors are Agatha Christie, P.G. Wodehouse, Alistair McLean, Enid Blyton and J.K. Rowling. I think I've read everything any of them have ever written, but they are still my go-to choice for a rainy afternoon or a lazy Sunday read.
I have read the Twilight series (all 4 books) and the 50 Shades of Grey books (2 of them). I am not proud of this fact, but they held a morbid attraction, a self-loathing fascination. My eyes practically bled while reading them, but I could not stop. (At least I admit reading them. I know people who've borrowed the books from me and declared they've never touched the stuff. Yeah, right.)
I am a night person. That is when I'm at my best and sharpest. Early mornings are best spent sleeping.
I enjoy watching rom-coms, even the really bad ones like Due Date.
I believe that Father's Day, Mother's Day, Sister or Brother's Day, Third Maternal Aunt's Day, Fourth Cousin Twice Removed's Day etc. are all occasions created by greeting card companies and as such do not deserve to be acknowledged. It is hard enough to keep track of birthdays and anniversaries without having to worry about all these other dates.

11 QUESTIONS FROM RENU (AND A FEW MORE FROM 'a RAT')

If I gave you a million dollars, how would you spend it? Half of it will go towards building my dream house, the other half towards building my dream school for kids.
What do u like most about blogging? It lets me be whoever I feel like being at that moment.
If you were deserted on an isolated island and you could take a thing and a person along, what and who would it be? My husband and a laptop with a solar battery charger and a net dongle that works.
How do u think, the culprits of Delhi gang rape case should be punished? With a very long, very painful life that would make them wish for death.
What would be the first and the last line of your biography? I am/was the best me that anyone could ever be.
5 things that you carry almost everyday to your workplace? Since my workplace right now is my home, I carry only one thing to every room that I have to work in - Myself.
One advice you would like to give to your fellow bloggers? Write for yourself. Always.
One person you look up to? My younger sister Pree.
One city/country you really want to visit? Japan
One song that describes you best? When it comes to my loved ones, Everything I do by Bryan Adams.
Honest opinion about my blog (Renu's question)? You capture the laughter and the tears, the built and the broken, the meeting of hearts and the breaking of hearts with words that are sincere and touching. Keep it up!
What scares you the most? Being abandoned
What is the best word to describe you? Friendly

11 OF MY FAVOURITE BLOGGERS AND DESERVING AWARDEES

Debajyoti Ghosh @ Some Facts, Some Nonsense : One of the best humour blogs I've read in a long time. He's already famous, but I can't help acknowledging his talent :)
Bhavana Nissima @ Tilling the Earthwoman : A passionate advocate of social responsibility and a prolific writer. Her posts will force you to reassess all that you thought you knew about our country and its issues.
Vishal Rathod @ Travel India with Vishal Rathod : A travelogue written with a warmth and personal touch that makes reading this blog a delight.
Subhabrata Dasgupta @ Subh Dasgupta's Blog : He started the Voices for Damini initiative on his blog, a call to share words of solidarity, support and strength on gender inequality in the wake of the Delhi gang-rape case. His personal blog is a great read as well.
Amit - The Frivolous Analyzer @ The Shitt Analysis : An author in his own right, short stories are his forte
Ganga Bharani @ Scribbled by GB : GB is already pretty well known in blogging circles for her sharp wit and her unusual take on everything under the sun.
TTT @ Tangy Tomato Twist : I like her short stories, which can make you laugh and cry in turns.
Chips from a life @ Asteria's Canvass : Her BAT entry "and then there were none" is enough to show her prowess as a writer and a creator of human characters.
Maliny Mohan @ Chasing Passions : Although she already has a dedicated audience, I am compelled to call attention to her brilliant short stories.
Rayla Noel @ Lyrix & Life : Thought-provoking and evocative poetry, lyrical in their composition
Ritesh Agarwal @ Some Bedtime Stories : Some enjoyable 55-fiction stories to be read here

I would like to make a few special mentions here. These are multiple-Liebster Award winners, and amazing writers who I envy and admire in equal amounts for the same reason - they are insanely talented.

Meenakshi Malhotra @ Woman 'n' Beyond

Panchali Sengupta @ panchalibolchi

Deepak Kripal @ The Original Poetry

11 QUESTIONS FROM ME TO MY FAVOURITE BLOGGERS

What else do you love doing, besides blogging (and sleeping/eating etc.)?
Who is your favourite person in the world (apart from yourself)?
What is your favourite genre of writing?
Describe yourself in 5 words. (Just like this question did)
Which movie can you see any number of times (because you want to, not because you're forced to like "Indra the Tiger" that is on every channel, every day at any given hour)?
What do you do for a living (I'm just curious. You are free to lie and say "social uplifter" or something if you're a politician)?
If you had to choose between money and love, what would you pick?
What has been your favourite vacation till date?
If you could be anyone/anything in the world, for one day, who/what would you choose to be?
A piece of advice that you would like to give your fellow bloggers -
Who is your favourite Khan among the following - Fardeen, Zayed, Malaika Arora or Kareena Kapoor (I ran out of questions at this point)?

Since you have been generous enough with your time, patience and attention to read this far, THANK YOU!

I know this is one long acceptance speech. If this had been the Oscars, I would have been cued out after the first para itself :)

I hope you will continue to visit my blog and share your thoughts with me. I assure you, not all my posts are this long, or this much about myself.

Cheers!