Bombay Rains

Became friends, sustained friendship, fought, argued, made up and learnt tolerance. Plus, we all love pretty pictures of ourselves :)

So, as usual, my parents in an attempt to gain publicity for my not-so-good writing wanted me to send in an entry for the Eastern Region Defense magazine thingy. Their way of motivating me to do the same- "People actually read this magazine honey!" Now, whoever said that parents don't say the right things. Anyhow, it started this morning and I spent the last 4 hours trying to pick one non-depressing story that people will get. My only instructions. Nothing about abuse, sex or death. That ruled out 80% of my writing. Now, before you go away screaming, not all of it is depressing. I wrote some fantasy-genre-imagination-magical realism-type stories too which can be found here- http://byrdyee.blogspot.com/2011/04/candy-castle.html  and here; http://byrdyee.blogspot.com/2011/10/dreams-of-cherie.html but seemingly I was high while writing this. I remember very little. So, it came down to three stories. One was about death (I write about nothing else, whatdoIdo?!); ...

She had always been a normal sort. Not given to too many fancies. As she grew, this grew with her. She was never known to ruffle too many feathers, till the end of her life. Even as she lay, breathing her last, all that she thought of was the uneventful blur that was her life. But one thing that she was never given to share, one thing that in her heart would always remain hers and hers alone, was her bed. This wasn’t philosophical or metaphorical. She hadn’t taken any secret vow to join a nunnery or anything. Her bed was something she thought of in the most absolute, literal sense. She spoke of her four-poster, with its chipped post and creaky hinges. Her bed was something that no one else could lay claim to. It was her inner sanctum, her place of absolute privacy and was designed to appear just as that. It was arranged with numerous cushions and a single, solitary pillow; a sign as clear as any that screamed loudly- ‘only one allowed’. A single bed sheet, a single blanket. In t...

Cherie as previously mentioned was inordinately calm and collected. She was a beautiful child that left people gaping in her wake. Having no parents or elders except an absentee uncle; she was quickly adopted as the collective ward of the village. Everyone loved her and wished to know her business. Well, her business was their business too wasn’t it? Except, what was her business? What was it that Cherie wished for? What did she like, what did she hate? What was Cherie’s favourite past time? Where was Cherie originally from? No one knew anything about this mysterious child who was god’s own gift to them. Cherie ultimately did not deserve all the suspicion that came her way although wonderfully disguised. Cherie had no deep, dark hidden secret; the revelation of which would cause a calamity. Well, maybe one. Even then; a calamity it would cause not. Surely. This humble writer can swear so on her life. All Cherie could do was dream. Her dreams had one peculiarity though. They ha...

There was an odd thing about it. It rained. I stood under it and it rained and rained and all I could do was reach out my hand to the dry earth and wonder why it was here, all alone, under this lamp post that it would rain on me. This is a story not about love or death or misery. I don’t know if this tale serves any purpose in its existence. It exists. I have ever since that day attempted to know why it was this happened to me. And for that sole purpose I mimic the traveler who tells all about the albatross. I hope that at least you would help me make sense of this. I was in a foreign land. I won’t tell you my origins or where I was then. All that matters is that it wasn’t home. Abject and disappointed I was trawling the streets, barely looking up from the extremely interesting studying of my fraying shoes. The passing feet too caught my fancy. There was the staid, sturdy typical brown cap toes. The slow, grudging dragging of these told many a story of the weary traveler going h...

Day 502, Who would have thought we’d get here? A long time ago; I hadn’t. I was just a young, idealistic, foolish young thing. This number had aged me in years and not days. Every day’s struggle had started to show in every line and crevice of my skin. The gradual wearing out process of age had accelerated and here I stood; far older than my meek 35 years. Struggle is an intrinsic part of life is what they say. Without struggle, nothing can be achieved in our billion-strong nation. Not just struggle but the daily act of putting on clothes, getting dressed and walking out to face an uninspiring, redundant existence. We were taught to be the ultimate sacrificial lamb. To do all we had to for our nation, our ‘cause’. When I first entered my consciousness, I was fired up to do all I could. Everything to save the world, save my nation, save the forests, save the wild boar; save anything and everything. I wanted to validate my presence on this planet, do some good and leave happy. A...