There lived a miser: not so nasty, not so good.
He had an about-to-break-anytime rocking chair at home. Having crossed more than 60 years of age its squeaks had become a daily headache for his wife. “It’s my father’s last memory. I can’t repair it any form, he’ll be hurt.”
Then there was the poison bottle post expiry date in house. His wife couldn’t bear this silliness.
“I have paid Rs.15 for it 12 years ago. At least I have to recover the full price!”
“I’ll get the price recovered for you- too many rats in the house!” The miser was happy.
That night she emptied the entire poison bottle in the cookie dough.
“This tastes awesome. New recipe?”
“Yes” she said.
The miser lived long. He managed to recover the full price.
“Why don’t you understand? These good people suffer more when you erect their massive idols and worship them.”
Saying this she went away. The worn out sandals rubbed against the new pavement a little harder.
It was the 3rd month she hadn’t received a salary. She was a primary school teacher in a small town. She wasn’t on strike.
With hurried strides Mohan was walking down the long winding mud road towards the river stream. The day light was getting dim. It was time for sunset.
Panting heavily after the hour long walk he felt his throat little parched. “But it doesn't matter now,” he said to himself.
Wiping away the tears as he strode few more steps, in a moment the world turned upside down with clouds of dust swirling over him, making it difficult to breathe as he tried getting up from the ground only to notice an upper tooth dangling in the cavity of his mouth sending the pain cracking his every nerve.
The small round shining black stone he had toppled over was clearly visible. Quickly bowing down he said, "Thank you God for giving me back my life." Tears didn’t allow him to see anything further.
It was that time of the year again, when the High School exam results are out. Many find their dream careers and a few end their mortal existence.
Mohan had found his God.
Poet or writer or novelist or author, call her/him anything you like. They belong to the same league: The League of Most Ordinary (Wo)Men.
Ordinary? Ah! You thought they were the elite ones, right? Something like this?
Somewhere deep in a silent palace, untouched by any other human habitation, dressed in tuxedo, writing on an expensive rosewood or mahogany table under a beautiful night lamp, with a glass of the most expensive wine placed beside or with an occasional puff and violinists playing Mozart’s 9th Symphony of Mozart in the background. (He has composed a 9th one, right?)
And then there would be the most beautiful damsels waiting to serve them. Occasionally being awarded Poet Laureates, sitting among the knights and reading out their works to the royal family <oops! royal family should have been in all CAPS>
The fact is poets/writers/novelists/authors are nothing but the most ordinary of the mortals. They notice and express what others try to forget/pretend to forg…
This is the question which haunts us when we finally achieve what we set out to achieve. It maybe landing a job with good pay package, finding someone special(ahem ahem!), or being able to catch the local train at the right time, which you could never in the last 10 years, and being able to find a seat to sit.
The question meets us all the time: What next? Remove the What. Remove the next.
The vacant lanes
those seducing looks
of unquenched beings
as if wanting you
to embrace them
at least for the night
when you are alone
Yesterday, I was 'there'
where 'decent' folks
never dare wander
Not having met her
whether my touch
she'll still remember
There, in the corner
with loose skin
but feeling 16
present in her eyes
How does age matter
when expressing love?
I still remember
she was always taken
before I could
us being together
without a moment's halt
she fell into my arms
in the moments of bliss
we couldn’t create before
She was the autobiography
of my favourite writer
I, her reader
yesterday, I was ‘there’
at the book exhibition.
Advertisement The Last Poem - a novel by Rabindranath Tagore Excerpt: "The protagonist, Amit Ray, is a barrister educated at Oxford. He travels in order to escape the drudgery of his middle-class existence, and gets keenly in…
Untouched by opinions
fearless and poised
on Kanyakumari's blazing rocks
in burning sand and among roaring waves
he strode in his own company
and not for a moment stopped
who woke up India
from deep slumber
who has a single vision
"Glory to his mother land,
Glory to the world"
Utter the word "Relation" and in a moment we think about our boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse/cat/dog (No! This doesn't mean a boyfriend and girlfriend after becoming spouses fight like cats and dogs. The order of the sequence is immaterial :P).
We build relations with everyone around - the chai wala (tea seller), travel partner in public transport or the child with no teeth smiling back at us for no reason.
So what's the Raaz(secret) to beautiful relations? Making relations beautiful depends on talking to each other more than talking about each other.
Whether you are a blogger/writer/banker/programmer/president of the nation, the situation doesn't discriminate. There's always a time when we have the "It's-on-the-tip-of-my-tongue-but" moment. You know it but just can't get the perfect word at the right moment!
We build a special relation with every word. Seeing & hearing a word throws forth another word in our memory. For example, nation: pride, pink: babies, disgust: garbage and so on.
Let's call the second word a "complementary word". These complementary words can vary for all one of us.
Here are 3 words along with their complementary words that resonate in me.
What complementary words do they mean to you? Make a mental note or share in a comment below. Or maybe you can add 3 more words of your choice in a comment with their complementary words.
Using this you can create your own word bank (online or offline) and use it to refer anytime y…
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He didn't marry her because her father went broke.
Less rains, sudden rains, increasing debts, resulting poor health and family conflicts.
Here's what she wrote to him. After all she was the daughter of a man with unbound love in his heart. Her father was a farmer. Poem: Love Them
When people you love
They may avoid
say "it's over"
Don't let opinions colour your voice
they are but a myth
With love it began
with love it must complete
(Picture captured: Malvan, Sindhudurg, May 2011)
धरतीशी जडले नाते
तरीही उमजे ना काही
बघता मृत हे अंकुर
शहारली मज आई
Bonded with mother earth
Still unable to grasp
Seeing the dead plant shoots
Shivers my mother
Here अंकुर/Plant shoots is a symbol for 1300+ farmers who have committed suicide.
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One day, when an 8 year old school boy talked about his dream of becoming a farmer.
Poem: The Day I Was Slapped
My age is 8
and I love football
Messi is my hero
but that day changed it all
Doing my homework
trying to finish a math sum
of division and multiplication
pretending it to be fun
It was when Papa asked
what do you want to be
a doctor, an engineer
or a programmer maybe?
I thought for some time
and then came the answer
in a moment I said
a farmer! a farmer!
He got up from the chair
and rushed towards me
furious like never before
he slapped me three
Then he started sobbing
as I couldn't stop but cry
caressing my red cheeks
I still don't know why
I bow down to you with utmost gratitude for sparing your time to read this.
All of us survive and thrive fundamentally on food and farmers are the chief architects of it all! But what happens when they feel like ending their lives? What about their dependent families especially when the…