You

Maya looked at him.

With a sad apologetic smile, she said:

I Want to be Like You. 

I Want to be You!

NOT Be With You...

Magic of Short Stories

Short stories are smart, interesting beings. Like someone you can take with you on a short date. 

Unlike a novel, a short story delights you with a tiny snack of a story, peppered with just enough spice and ingredients to set your imagination at work, without overwhelming you with minutia and long, intimidating descriptive writing. 

Short stories allow you the space to be a creator yourself. While offering a peek into only a smaller range of the characters' experience, behavior, likes & dislikes, history and background, they give readers the power to fill in the intricate details based on their individual experiences and preferences. 

Short stories bring out the creative spark in readers by not spoon feeding detailed images of the world inhabited by its beings. Surprise, shock and suspense are the key aspects of a short story that can tantalize and tease you out of your indifference and make a laid back day special. 

For me, reading short stories is like living for a short while in a make-believe world - a quick but brief escape from reality. On any given day, I would love to go on a date with a book of short stories and revel in the many beautiful worlds that the stories introduce me to. 

I also hope to create my own magical world of short stories that bring to life interesting characters dwelling in my head - characters that are taking shape in my mind feeding on my experiences and little lessons I pick everyday on the long highways, dusty lanes and beautiful haunts of my life. 

Erasing the Fs

Maya was unusually quiet this morning. And that was unsettling me. I kept trying for over an hour to make eye contact with her, but she deliberately kept her gaze locked, away from me. Something was cooking in her mind and I could sense that I was the culprit.

Typically, she would brighten up the class with her chirpy voice and lively chat. From the time she arrived by the school bus, she would obediently heed my instructions and complete all her work on time, neatly and perfectly. Nodding and smiling, she would go about her work like an officer in charge, ticking off one task after another with casual ease. Then she would walk around purposefully, offering to carry the homework books, arrange them neatly on my table, even help some of her classmates who were struggling with their writing and drawing. I was amazed at how she reminded me without fail about replenishing the chalks or commented on my clothes. “It’s a beautiful pink churidhar you are wearing, Miss,” she would beam.

Every day, she enlivened me with her clear and confident updates on what happened at home the previous evening, cracked jokes on the silly gimmicks of her little brother, expressed displeasure over how her mom scolded her for not finishing the egg and narrated an anecdote from the not so faraway past – such as what happened when she was as little as a new born baby.

What struck me was she was always driven by a purpose – an i-mean-business attitude and approach. In her mind, she was crystal clear that she was here by a carefully planned design, her presence in LKG D was important, and what she did and said mattered.

She loved to be the nucleus of the class. When the spotlight was turned on her, she glowed casually and that meant, “Oh this is just the norm. Nothing great about it!”

But today, she was glued to her desk, trying hard to look busy with her books or colors. Her face was wiped off any trace of her signature smile or happiness. When her closest pal approached her with her book asking for help on choosing a colour for her doggy, she shrugged and pushed aside the book saying, “I am doing my work. Don’t disturb me.” Her friend stared at her for a fleeting second with confusion and retired to her desk disappointed.

Maya sat fidgeting her alphabet book aimlessly, or so I thought. She kept staring at the book and that was my cue. I gingerly went to her and kneeled beside her. Even then, the little one did not turn to me or budge from her position one inch. She expected me I guess. There she sat like a lady cross with her lover, waiting for him to apologise and appease her.

I softly put my hand around her shoulder and asked, “Maya, what’s wrong?” Not a word. Not a movement. Maya continued staring at the open book, tightly clutching the right page and squeezing its top corner. Suddenly, a drop of tear fell on the bottom of the page. Right at that second, Maya let go of the page and started wiping her eyes vigorously with both her hands, a soft whimper escaping from her throat. My heart ached for her as I started wondering the reason for my darling student’s anguish.

I pulled her close to me and turned her tear-soaked face towards me. Her usually glinting big round eyes were now filled with sharp red veins floating inside a huge bubble of tears. I carefully wiped her eyes with the end of my dupatta and held her close to my heart in a tight hug. “Maya dear. Tell me why you are crying.” 

Without further ado, Maya blurted out in a painfully sad, choking voice, “Miss, you fully erased all the Fs I had written on this page last evening. I had sat on my new study table and chair and written each F carefully and slowly, while my granny and brother had gone down to the play area to play on the swing. Now look at my page. It is empty and dirty. All my Fs are gone. Why did you rub it off fully?” I was afraid I would cry too. While her innocent words fell on my heart like huge boulders one after the other, I wished her original Fs would magically reappear and surprise her.

I smiled faintly and told her, “Maya, I am sorry. Your writing was beautiful and neat indeed.” Pointing to the page before her, I explained, “But in a four line page, your letter must touch the third blue line. Like this.” I wrote a quick F and showed her.

She nodded vehemently and picked her pencil from me with her long teethy smile, saying, “Ok Miss. I will now write my Fs properly and show you.” Off she went about the task with determination, ignoring me and forgetting all about the morning’s incident. I sat there for a few minutes watching her, while a host of mixed emotions flooded my mind.

I knew I had learnt a hard lesson from Maya and her Fs that I had erased that morning.

A Roast to my Mentor

Try telling my Yoda the rhetorical, “I had a bad day today!,” and pat comes his reply, “Oh it’s all about mind control. What “I” do is insulate myself from the world around me by building a wall. By doing so, I am in absolute control. If you do it like me, then nothing can make your day bad. Not a mosquito. Not even your hubby. Steven Covey says: “Reactive people are often affected by their physical environment. They find external sources to blame for their behavior.” “I” have found this helpful throughout my life.

What he means is, If you have had a bad day, it just goes to show how much more you have to learn, how much more you need to mature and grow. You can do it, Preethi. You and only you can do it for yourself. Err…knock knock, Who is it? Oh Condescension, whose name starts with a Huge A.

I, I, I and I, the towering I that cannot say a simple Oh Is it. Or may be nod understandingly, say a hmmm, aahhhh or an ok, or I know, some days are like that.

All I see is a big head full of statistics and data filled learnings and heavy duty wisdom that is waiting to spill forth in all their grandeur at the smallest opportunity. Because you know every single opportunity is to be grabbed to present how sorted out he is. Like his socks and shirts too that go into the cupboards in a neat stack.

The all-knowing Yoda has shaved his head almost bald, like he is hoping to remove any obstruction whatsoever to the halo that’s beginning to appear brighter and brighter around his head.

I can go on and on about his typical encyclopaediac-long pontification he delivers better than the pope. With an attitude that means, I pity you, I have decoded everything that can be decoded ever, while you go whining or pining for things. I have attained nirvana of the highest heights and I can see everything crystal clear from atop my huge ever growing pedestal covered with the brightest spotlight.

It amazes me how he pours out lessons he thinks you never knew on everything from managing a boss and a spouse to the scratch on your car or a blotch on your career (I tell him: pssst! I have seen school, college, corporate world, friends, the world around me too and BTW I know google, Youtube and the likes exist!)

He does all this with a bland poker face and a monotone that will want robots to go thronging to him for training. In contrast, today’s Alexas might actually use him as an example to be avoided. But I have to give it to him, there’s definitely some modulation in his voice when he utters the oh so important I, that sounds like its accompanied by a grand orchestra or better still his favourite rock band.

So here is the thing: most of the time he is preaching and teaching, he thinks I am processing all of those gyan deep within but you know what I am doing: Wondering if he even knows how to scream or wince or raise his eyebrows or laugh aloud or put his tongue out in jest. I wonder if he knows that face muscles and even the larynx are actually flexible.

Wondering what if i gouge open his mouth, will it ever elicit a loud groan? Or will well-mannered Covey quotes march out in a neat queue, teaching me about being in control?

I Am Feeling Good

What hit me first when I heard this song by Nina Simone is her powerful voice oozing badass attitude. That in itself made me visualize her standing tall on a grand stand, hands akimbo, her long locks flowing freely and wild in the mild wind blowing around, proclaiming to everyone that she has now taken on a new life – one where she has not a care in the world. I could see her, eyes closed projecting an inviolable aura of confidence, boldness and power.

But as the lyrics unraveled, I could see myself strolling amongst the giant trees and wild green, unpruned shrubs with bright and fragrant flowers – many withered and fallen without a care on the muddy ground. With a calm smile that did not intend to impress or express but just feel the scene I was breathing in, I was communing with the squeaking Eagles, the melodious Mynahs, the fresh green Parrots, the fork tailed Drongos, the magnificent bluish-green Purple Sunbirds and the white necked Hawks. 

As I waited patiently for minutes facing the east, the sun, whose grandeur I was allowed to experience only during the dawn and dusk, peeked silently and slowly from behind the grey and bright white clouds – first teasing and delighting me with his pinkish orangish hues and then tantalizing me with his glorious golden white glow. He was swathing me in large streams of happy energy and in that moment of perfect bliss, I realized:

No one else matters. Nothing else matters. All that counts is me.
I have the entire cosmic universe inside of me.

The beauty, wonder, bliss and power of the cosmos lies within me.

I don’t need any crutches, any external influence or motivation to awaken the energies inside me and realize my true potential and purpose.

All I must do is look within to experience the eternal communion with the unending, untainted and unperishable cosmos. I am the cosmos.

Oh yes, And I am feeling good!

Her Twin Flame

She felt like she had finally come home. 

His arrival changed the trajectory of her life. Her mind, heart and soul were not the same anymore. His way and words held a mirror to her insides. Her very life flashed before her inner eyes and she could now see every single event and episode of the past in a new light. With better clarity.She was now able to accept herself without apologies. 

She wanted to fly higher but without a mad haste. She longed to dream more but with a calmness that surprised her. There was no painful urge to prove herself to the world. She was now willing to slow down and enjoy her sky, though it was hazy and stormy often.

She never yearned to touch him, to look into his eyes or feel him.
But only wanted to sit alongside him and soak in the pleasures of ideas, dreams and philosophies. Just hear his words that had such gravitas that she felt secure, serene and full of strength.

She longed to fill him in on every single detail of her life so far.
Not to amuse him or impress him or win his approval but merely because she felt like it was the natural thing to do.


Let him know.
Because he had to know.

She felt complete. She had found her other half.
Her twin flame.

Her Garden

Exotic. Erotic. Orgasmic. The garden she had nurtured right after marriage was her comfort and escape from despair. Gowri’s secret recourse gave her the space and freedom to be creative, to breathe, to love and find love. She had discovered the cosy nook on her wedding night, her ‘first night’. “So you think you are beautiful?’’, Srinath glared at her. His stale, putridly liquor-flavoured breathe paralysed Gowri. The 18-year-old fresh with dreams. Beautiful with her passion, hidden by her garb of shyness. Srinath, ten years her senior, had merely pumped in his manliness, tearing away her innocence.

The tall, fair, handsome Nair boy failed to be enchanted by her long, thick, black hair. Her fragrant, lissom, luscious body meant a mere thing to be seen, felt and entered into every night, every single night. He never once responded to Gowri’s gleaming, expectant eyes. Never once let her feel the thrill of oneness. Never once let her experience the joy of being a woman. Only sharp taunts raced through her heart.

And then, some day, Gowri had turned herself into a tough poker-faced rock. Not to strike but to stay put. She had her garden. When Srinath stumbled into the house after work downing long rounds of brandy and whisky, Gowri lost herself in the enchanting smell of her jasmine shrubs and the rich feel of her red hibiscus. “I know you flirted with that Shankar this evening”, Srinath casually teased her with a sneer. The soothing kuckoo song from her carefully tended trees rang in her ears. Masculine prowess. Ugly stubble-face with nauseating spittle at the corner of his raging lips. The tender early-monsoon breeze tantalised her. Gowri insulated herself from all emotional onslaughts in her never-ending married life. Twenty six years already seemed long enough for her strong will. “He is a heartless retard”, she had confided in a rare candid moment to her sister.

Every night she had let ‘her man’ into her beautiful haven. After the limp show in her bedroom. These passionate encounters saved her from the unthinkable. Still chaste and still unblamable. But Gowri had her share of fulfilment as a coy lover, loving daughter and a respected lady of the community. Long hours spent with adoring friends, caring aunts, uncles and cousins, witty chats with friendly neighbours, grand celebrations, expensive shopping sprees, happy vacations, loving hugs and passionate kisses. Her garden gave her absolute privacy from Srinath’s prying eyes.

And then, some day, she conceived. A newfound purpose strengthened her and gifted her a road to hope and life. Priya’s first cry. Priya’s frist poopy. Priya’s first smile. Her first tooth. Her first steps. Her first words. Priya’s fussings. Priya’s prittle-prattle. Her little world was a blessed heaven of softness, unsullied love and laughter, where Gowri lived a gratifying life of a doting mother. But Srinath only hollered like a stricken soul, “She will always be a liability”. Angry glares, insults, endless doubts, worthless conversations, disgusting lust, damning restrictions and lame excuses. And liquor. Srinath continued living in his empty world.

 However children are no permanent solutions to one’s heartache. Some day, Priya found love. Twenty five years into the world, she was captivated by the power of a man’s love. The buxom, brilliant and haughty girl had always argued that love and romance were simply strong crutches for the Indian film industry. But Ray’s magic worked. “Ma, he is a Christian Catholic”, she had informed Gowri, teary-eyed and heavy-hearted. “Why do this to me?” Gowri had protested.

  

Hurt. Pain. She started feeling these again. Emotions she had once learnt to deflect by being blind, deaf and mute. The day Priya was christened Princy Ray, Gowri’s house was filled with the overwhelming smell of liquor and the salty flavour of tears.

Thank the Gods, they had blessed Gowri with a heart that no one could trespass upon. She continued to cook, clean, wash, iron, eat and sleep in her empty house. But Gowri lived happily in her garden. Her Garden of thoughts and dreams. Today she is writing a story of a happy couple. Tomorrow she plans to go to Coorg with her man. She might invite Priya too...A weak smile dances on her lips, as she sleeps next to her snoring boozed husband.