Friday, September 17, 2010

Reap - 77 Fiction

Note:- 77 Fiction infers to fictional writings bounded to a maximum of 77 words.


One more crop failure will send her into the suicide abyss.

Rajamma shows little interest in the now stunted orange trees.

In her, they evoke only the worst of memories.
Their farm headed for its third straight year of failure. 

“I don't care about it,” she says, “if the trees die.”
What she did care about, already did.

Her son Shekar took his life less than a week ago, making her life more stunted than the trees.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Insult - Drabble

 Note:-A Drabble is an extremely short work of fiction exactly one hundred words in length.

One day a small pig was sitting alone in a pensive mood.

His mother came and said, "chalo, get ready beta, you have to go to mudschool"

He said in a low and sad voice, "Mom, I wont go to mud"

She asked him pleasingly "Why beta?"

With tears rolling in his eyes, he murmured "All the pigs in mudschool make fun of me all the time"

She hugged him and asked "What did they say?"
She had exploded with anger and fiercely shook her body when she heard those words from his son.

They teased him, "Human, human ........... human!!! "

PS : Nothing offensive towards pigs and humans , but am not sure about the humans  :) :) :)

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

How many ?

Since ages,
from the valley of Anonymity
The wise wind has been telling 
the secret of birth and death

Except a Tree
None is opening up their ears
The Divine music
sung by the tree
being obstructed from reaching the far deserts
by a man standing in between

I request you
please tell him to move aside
Ask him to confine himself
into a five year old child

The corporate society
which has not learnt
From the wonderful acts
of children innocence
From women reasonless smile,
The brightness in the light of
society 's natural celebrations
is diminishing

Except the journey of
mixing up with soil after leaving this body
You have never tried
to move near to nature

Today's merciless humans
making tomorrow's boiling noons,
even for them,
somewhere, an early morning
from a river bank
cool breeze is blowing
to start the journey

those last group birds
which are flying in an evening
without any desires,
behind the full moon
which has embedded with rise
like Buddha's most last word

Tell me,
How many mothers are ready to give birth
to the children ,
who can blossom flowers
from the ends of their fingers ,
Mothers! Raise your hands, how many of you are ready?

the moonlight and moonshine from the full moon
asking those few women on earth
who are as strong as banyan tress
Tell me, how many of you, mothers ?

Monday, September 6, 2010

Why Still?

Because you didn't find luxurious life
in grinning Gandhi's Rupee,
You went in hunting glum faced Washington's Dollar
Then why do you complain about the absence of smiling faces?

Narrow roads.....dirty streets....Narrow jobs,
Because you couldn't adjust in Third grade nation
You built Green Card houses in the land of opportunities,
Then why do you cry about Narrow life?

For you, whatever earns you just rupees is not an occupation
Whatever doesn't lie in the shadow of Liberty statue is not a status
Only to shine among the people of your third grade nation
You made your young brides to cross the seas, overseas.
Then why do you shout hypocritically,
"It is a materialistic World"

Impassable roads with mud holes
People clogging the way like house flies
Because of your aversion to this uncivilized society
You embraced the citizenship of White house
Then why do you feel depressed?
When you open a window, 
all you can see is snow rain and no men

You have ignored all those
Fists, which were like waving flags
Poetic bullets, which thrashed the agents of Uncle Sam
While opposing Imperialism
The victims have become stars in the Black sky
For whom are these stomach filled dollar coated bullets?
to provoke how many more such innocent people.
All you need is saluting the stars in Uncle Sam's Flag

Your hidden feelings come  to the surface
when rupee weighs ahead of dollar
The magnified negativity of our soil's dull shades
seems bright only when you catch the recession fever there

Our dark nights have become bright days for you
You have loved the land of colours
mainly, the dollar showering sky
Why do you still sing those cooked tragic songs of separation ?
Why do you still spell those fabricated promises of returning home?
Why still?
Your date of return is always tomorrow, and
Your return flight will never get scheduled
There can be never a brake for this break
Why still?

PS : Wrote for 3WW
        propmts : break, negative, surface 

Saturday, September 4, 2010


This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 14; the fourteenth 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.


Return me those days....

When I used to think that Amitabh Bachchan, Chiranjeevi and Kapil Dev were the only real heroes in this world

When running meant bowling and nothing else.

When i used to lick the walls after smelling the first rains

When having an one rupee coin in my pocket means frolic

When switching on a light in a dark room was the scariest thing

When calves were the best friends to share my child talk

When devotion was only meant from prasadam

When every waste object was part of my play in summer 

When mirrors had never passed judgement on my looks 

When the meaning of success was just taking a wicket

When brands were only for advertisements 

When power cuts never hampered my play 

When existence of God was an absolute truth 

When every bun bought by my mama was the most childiciously special than my earned-branded food now 

When the meaning of love was void of lust

When I used to believe completely that, one fine day, Sri Netaji Subash Chandra Bose ji  would be back 

When pride meant, only, saluting the tri colour  
When i used to sing my own lyrics for every popular song without any shy 

When i used to believe that there would exist a woman called "Bharathmaata"

When pissing meant making different parabolas 

When wounded knees and elbows were the art of tattooing

When every English movie was  a complete "Cheeeeeeeeeee......"

When playing with bricks in the sand was the most innovative game

When the bus i was traveling should pass over all the lorries on the road 

When the most depressive thing would be returning home from my grandmother's village after the summer vacation 

When the last period's school bell was the most soothing sound 

When progress card was the only enemy 

When "Mile sur mera tumhara"  was the best video 

When crying meant depleting the last atom of water from my eyes 

But I came to know the value of return when i read something about my grand father in my grand mother's diary .....

During 1965 war...

"Mom, where has dad gone? Why he hasn't come yet?"
a four year old boy asked her mom once again
She patted his head slightly
while listening to the radio news 
Shadow movements of airplane wings in her eyes
Imprints of artillery sounds were blasting in her heart
In the thick black fog at Kashmir borders
A soldier standing boldly with nerve
stood in front of her eyes

She bothered - Sighed - adjusted her pallu
In between the elegant curve of pride blended with her lip's smile
After standing up from the park bench and supporting her son
She walked slowly and embarked into the darkness

She came to the park, daily, for the radio news
clad in white saree and red sindhoor
with Jasmine flowers in her plaited black hair
Same park, same road, same bazaar, same home
but still she sensed some change with gumption
Everyone was roaming and listening in the park
but still, somewhere, something was wrong

Some news murmurs passed through the nerves of tightly held cities
Blooded pledges were slipping through the gaps of clenched fists
One Movement, one Motility, one Determination---
Symbols of Mercy were awakening gradually

If one nation prefers to move in its own way
The 20th century's civilization will not let it to
Neighbor's goodness provokes the arrogance of wicked people
Neighbor prosperity evokes the hiss of evil heads
Those were the bad moments for Asian blood
History's head was hanging with shyness

They had buried democracy and public voice
Dacoits turned into Dictators
Thats why they couldn't digest India's rise
They would gain nothing with political diplomacy

If we preferred calmness , they called us cat
If we fought back , they called us Tiger
Foul smell diffuses if opportunists open their mouth
leave morals, it becomes politics
hatch a nation with religion, it becomes a wagging mad Monkey
Mutual friendship of Pak and China
it was like bonding between a snake and a wolf
It was not a war between two nations
It was not a war for a piece of land
It was an attempt to protect the values required for the world's future
for independence of thought and individual respect
Freedom from race, colour, caste, creed, region and religion was it's foundation

Every indian was a soldier, every heart was a canon
Radio was delivering the news daily
presenting the voice of victory
Tanks and planes of enemies were being crashed down
the brave and sturdy wave of  Indian army
thrashed them away unto the borders of Lahore

Our nation stood roaring with thunders
Narsappa, Vincent, Afzal, Pratap Singh
and many more anonymous soldiers
were being paid respects and honours by the living blood

She came to the park with her son on that day also
She worn white saree but with out red sindhoor
with out Jasmine flowers in her plaited black hair, no bangles in hand
There was huge rain being stopped at the corners of her eyes
She was pressing the much moving lower lip, under her teeth, very hardly
The canons might have stopped at boders, but not in her heart.
A group in the park were sloganeering, "Jai Hind"

"Mom, where has dad gone? Why he hasn't come yet?"
She hugged her son and his unanswered questions, and
with shivering voice she said deeply, "Jai Hind"
And that word was heard by a warrior in Heaven who would never return

When I turned the next page in the diary, there was a newspaper clipping and the print goes...

Reality at Borders...

It is like dying death for everyone
There is a body, an unfortunate body,
It is lying exactly on the border line
Being soaked and baked in snow, it lost it's identity
The buried uniform in snow
torn by the foxes
Then who's this body?

It is a Soldier's body
Which Soldier?
Democratic soldier? or Socialist camp ?
or Imperialist ?
His wife will definitely recognize him
But how to recognise his wife?
How to bid him?
By which nation's slogans
By which army's conventions
Burial or with Fire? Which Religion?

There is one way
Bring all the crying widows from all the countries
Arrange an identification parade

There is nothing to worry
Stop bothering about the body,
whether it will be soaked again by the tears of the widows
leave doubts,  we have seen floods of blood
After all, it is just rainfall from eyes
Arrange barrels for their tears...
and, make those widows to stand in a line
Sir, what if he is a Bachelor?
Then, it will be really a dying death
in fact, a never returning death.
Sir, what if he is an Orphan?
Then, return is a void .

PS : Thanks to Rachana for her strategic input to this post . I wish she could have co-authored this post

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Thursday, September 2, 2010

One - 77 Fiction

Note:- 77 Fiction infers to fictional writings bounded to a maximum of 77 words.


On the auspicious occasion of Janmashtami celebrations, many kids are pretty clad in Krishna's attire for the competition of  "Best Child Krishna Contest " .

With cute and innocent looks, attractive peacock plumage on their heads and decorated flutes in their hands , they are mesmerizing the audience.

It is very tough for the selection committee to select the best Krishna.

All the mothers are anxious with speculation and curiosity.

Finally, the announcement read,  " The best Krishna is 'Mohammed Arif' " .

PS : Very few people know the difference between Culture and Religion and I bow to all those people who often cross religion borders to join the frolic of culture.  Love you India.