Bombay Rains

Ella is a very pretty girl. Ella has pretty black hair and mellow green eyes. Ella is not very talkative and is seemingly very shy. On the first day of school, Ella looked very scared. I walked up to her and said hi. Ella doesn’t like studying very much and always needs my help. I love helping Ella. She gives me an ice-cream every time I do. Ella looked very pretty on her birthday. I bought Ella flowers and chocolates. Ella was very happy. Ella took me out to lunch that day. We had pizza and coke and ice-cream. I was very happy that day. I love looking at Ella in the morning. She looks very sweet. She always walks in late and is very sleepy. Ella always sleeps in the first hour with her head on my shoulder. I like the feeling. Ella and I sometimes hold hands and walk. It’s fun. People like to make fun of me and Ella. They call us some names whose meaning we don’t know. Ella always gets angry. She doesn’t like them. I don’t really mind. I have never had a friend before Ella. People us

She woke up. A cold sweat breaking out on her forehead. That dream was a little too real. She had almost… No. She couldn’t entertain thoughts of this kind. It was wrong wasn’t it? Was it? It didn’t start out like this. It started out as an innocent friendship. It always does. And in this day and age, why would you think it is anything out of the normal?                                                                                            * Sam is a normal, regular teen. Sam isn’t one of those shallow, harebrained youth you see nowadays. Sam was the first one to walk up to her and say hi. Sam thinks she is very pretty. Sam loves playing with her hair. Sam thinks her unruly hair is absolutely beautiful. She wants to hug Sam every time Sam says that. Sam helps her out with her homework, often doing it for her. She buys Sam an ice-cream every time Sam does it. Sam was the first one to wish her on her birthday and bought her lots of gifts. She took Sam out for lunch to thank Sam. S

I’m a regular fellow. I live a regular life. I wear regular clothes. I have a regular job. So what I say next is not only irregular but just plain weird. I cannot explain it. I don’t think anyone can. I’m hoping you can. So the story begins like this- once upon a time on a sunny day in North Carolina. Or wait, was it California. Well, it doesn’t really matter. I woke up to an incessant ringing, the damn alarm clock, an hour late. I don’t know how people can function like clockwork. Waking up with the first ring, it’s unnatural. The ringing doesn’t do it for me, I don’t even hear it. And then I hear an annoying sound at the back of my head, and then... But I digress. I finally got dressed and left. And what I saw was complete chaos. In front of me was a miracle. It was a miracle that there wasn’t a comical pile-up of cars yet. There were cars everywhere- going in every possible direction. There were cars on the pavement! What was going on? As I came onto the main road, I saw the stran

He entered the room with the expert walk of a tiger out on a prowl. With the air of a veteran he cast a roving eye over the crowd. He knew just where and how he would spend the rest of the evening. He had already selected those who would have the honour of his company. And he had selected his corner. A vantage point overlooking the room and an arm’s length from the much needed bar. The bar was his anchor. In this mind-numbingly boring party he knew the only way he was going home at the end of the evening was copious amounts of alcohol. He hated these events. All these socialites attempting to be so cool. Delhi was fun. Delhiites were the devil reincarnate. All those Punjabis ladies with derrieres needing two chairs. Dripping with gold. Dressed in flashy saris. And their wonderful, faithful husbands. Who looked at women as if they were a piece of meat. He couldn’t take it. He admired women. He loved women. All sorts. Well, the nice sorts anyway. And he showed his appreciation all right.

yes. i'm a little lazy. no. make that very. my poor blog suffers as i'm rarely here choosing to instead spend my time on fb and now that my obsession with tweetdeck is back, i wonder what will i do? i have learnt the hard way that my laziness affects my writing. well. it's obvious isn't it? if you don't write, you're going to forget that awesome thought you had, or the brilliant story idea that could have been magic had you written it. the number of times, i look back and say- "oh yeah, i was going to write something like that but i don't remember now" - sigh. it's uncountable. but the plus point about writing is that for every lost idea, you gain two more. writing is imagination and experience and those are two things you can never ever run out of. that's what cheers me today. i'm writing this blog post because i haven't written one in very very long. just my thoughts, all the blah-ness i feel. and today i did. so that's a good

She ran ahead, jumping and skipping, calling out warning to approaching bicycles and people too. Too young to be manning a herd of angry buffaloes, she took pride in the fact that the job was hers. Everything about her went against it, she was 13, a girl and also of lower caste. She knew all of this and yet she was happy. Her caste did not matter at all; her father was the chief of their village, a proud indomitable man who loved her. Even though she was a girl, she was the most loved in her family. The elders called her a miracle baby, her mother was very close to death when she conceived her. Somehow, by the will of God, not only did she survive the pregnancy, but ever since has not had a single health problem. She was proud that she was so lucky for her mother. The men from town didn’t think so. They came to interview her father but used insulting words like ‘anpadh’ (illiterate); ‘andhvishwasi’ (superstitious). They made claims of telling the world their problems but had made them