Bombay Rains

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