Stories

Baloo the peasant’s son had a powerful arm. He trudged off to the fields every morning to till the earth while it was still soft and smelt fresh. The morning fog danced in the pre dawn glare of firewoods crackling merrily at the sooty kettle. Even the rooster had its head tucked in its warm breast, while a few cows lashed its tails at the large mosquitoes circling its rump like Somali pirates.

Prerna and Prem were childhood buddies. They went to the same school,studied in same class,resided in the same locality as neighbours and grew up together. They went to school together,had lunch together,played together and studied together. Both found solace in each other’s company. Everyone who knew them realised that they were meant for each other.

Dum Dum airport, as the locals know it, gateway to Kolkata, The City of Joy. The connecting Airbus from Bangkok steadied itself for landing, rocking gently in the dark sky like an intoxicated butterfly. My legs were weary, it was the last leg of a long journey from SFO bringing me home to a city which taught me how to dream.

 
Sometimes I close my eyes just to think about that damsel who changed the meaning of my life. Sometimes I look at her mutely from my balcony, sometimes I walk behind following her divine shadow…

Written by Nagavalli S Kiran (my husband) which was also published on Sulekha in the year 2000.

The priest appointed by my friend was muttering something in Sanskrit. Less out of piety than out of habit. His hands were doing the complicated mudras of the sankalpa -- the sacred proffering of intent to the Gods before starting anything auspicious. In the waters of this one well lay the jnana of the whole world. All covered up so no one could get so much as a peek, lay the Light, contrasting with the darkness I sat in. The dawn rays were yet to travel over horizon and the December cold pierced my marrow.

Suddenly the sun kissed sky bids goodbye. The beautiful darkness settles down. The world around me transforms into a good-looking bride. The melancholy in my balcony fades down. The droplets are dancing in my terrace, the earth exuding fragrance. There’s a unique sonata, there’s a divine feeling of joy.

I saw him for the first time. His eyes, reflection of his truth; filled with emotions yet completely alive. I was touched by his innocence and his extreme presence. I kept looking at his fingers; nails that were uncut, filthy and full of dirt. I could sense how he was completely engrossed in counting the coins in his palms.

My mother, the oldest of four, strongly believes that she is the most fair of mothers when it comes to her children. In fact, my father, one of five, too has the same opinion. And for the most part, they are absolutely right. None of us has ever received more than the other. Growing up, there was always three of everything: shoes, clothes, games, books.

“Are you sure this is ok? We are not supposed to wander.” the Little Brother asks.
“Come on, you silly. We haven’t seen them for ages. They won’t know. And they play the most fun games”, the Older Sister replies.”There. Can you hear them now?”
“Ring-a-ring-a-roses,
A pocket full of posies;
Hush! hush! hush! hush!
All fall down!”
 

The boy had started collecting stamps when he was seven years old. An uncle had gifted him with a stamp book for his 7th birthday. He had wished for a train or a G.I.Joe, but his uncle thought it was time the boy took up a hobby.
 His sister had helped him tear off his first stamp from their father’s envelope and place it in his new book. Soon, he learnt to cut them neatly with a scissor.