Mothers are our first teachers. Over the years they pass on several nuggets of wisdom, from the small ones like ‘make sure to clean behind your ears’ to the really big ones too. This Mother’s Day, tell us what you leant from your mother. Share your ‘Lessons From Ma’ with us – whether these are touching, inspiring or funny!

Where to send: Send in your story to feedback@womensweb.in with ‘Lessons From Ma’ in the subject line, and your story as a word/txt attachment. Do include the name we should use if we publish it, and a brief introduction to yourself (2-3 lines) in the mail.

By when: Please send in your stories by May 20th. The 5 best stories will be published on Women’s Web the following week, [...]]]> In honour of Mother’s Day, May’s writing theme is all about mothers. Share the lessons you’ve learnt from your mother, get published and win goodies.

Mothers are our first teachers. Over the years they pass on several nuggets of wisdom, from the small ones like ‘make sure to clean behind your ears’ to the really big ones too. This Mother’s Day, tell us what you leant from your mother. Share your ‘Lessons From Ma’ with us – whether these are touching, inspiring or funny!

Where to send: Send in your story to feedback@womensweb.in with ‘Lessons From Ma’ in the subject line, and your story as a word/txt attachment. Do include the name we should use if we publish it, and a brief introduction to yourself (2-3 lines) in the mail.

By when: Please send in your stories by May 20th. The 5 best stories will be published on Women’s Web the following week, i.e. May 21st onwards.

Rules:

- The material should be previously unpublished elsewhere. (Copyright stays with you and you’re free to subsequently publish it elsewhere).

- Keep it between 250 and 600 words.

GOODIES!

Courtesy Westland Books, each person whose entry is chosen for publishing on Women’s Web gets a copy of Chicken Soup For The Indian Mother’s Soul as well Bringing Up Vasu.

Vinaya, in her own words: An IT Professional and a mother of an over active toddler. The hectic pace of work and family commitments leaves very little time for leisure. Writing is an old passion and I make most of the little time I get to lose myself in the lives of imaginary characters.

Two hours off schedule we finally managed to get our son ready and piled into the car for our vacation. This was Athy, our two year old son’s, first vacation, our first vacation as parents. We would have never dared to think of taking Athy with his unpredictable demands out of his and our comfort zones had it not been for the prodding of my hubby’s younger bro. He had convinced us that it [...]]]> The next story in this month’s writing theme is from Vinaya Bhagat on how she and her child discovered the pleasures of the sea.

Vinaya, in her own words: An IT Professional and a mother of an over active toddler. The hectic pace of work and family commitments leaves very little time for leisure. Writing is an old passion and I make most of the little time I get to lose myself in the lives of imaginary characters.

Two hours off schedule we finally managed to get our son ready and piled into the car for our vacation. This was Athy, our two year old son’s, first vacation, our first vacation as parents. We would have never dared to think of taking Athy with his unpredictable demands out of his and our comfort zones had it not been for the prodding of my hubby’s younger bro. He had convinced us that it would be a great idea for the whole family to go for a vacation when he came to India during Christmas. So here we were, one and all: Athy, my husband and I, my husband’s parents and his brother heading into the unknown terrain of vacation with a toddler.

Looking at the extent of planning and our mountain of luggage anyone would have thought we were heading for the North Pole and not Pondicherry, a mere 300 kilometres away. But we had to be prepared for every eventuality. Athy’s favourite soft toys, to give him comfort in a strange hotel room. Tetra packs of milk, biscuits, dry fruits and other dry snacks and even the strictly rationed chocolates.

We finally made it to Pondicherry with frazzled nerves, eager to crash after the journey. While my husband was helping his parents settle in their room Athy and I followed the bell hop to our room. By the time I tipped the bell hop and turned around my bath-hating son had managed to undress and was busy in the hotel bathroom. By the time I rolled up my jeans and entered the bathroom the toilet paper was a soggy mess, all the faucets within his reach were spouting water at full force and the tiny bottle of hotel shampoo was floating in the toilet. To say he loved staying in a hotel would be an understatement.

I loved Pondicherry with its small town feel and tree lined roads. The French quarter, the food and the ocean promenade, even the touristy coconut shell and marble jewellery. But being so close to the ocean and not able to go in was a bit of a disappointment, so I was eager to move to our next destination, Mahabalipuram, with its ancient stone temples and yes a beach. En route we stopped by the serene pyramid shaped Nataraja temple on a deserted beach near a village. Apart from a lonely old fisherman repairing a net, we were the only people on the beach. The beach was enormous, pristine and litter free. Though Athy was wary of the ocean he ran on the wet sand to the edge of the water after a wave had receded. With me holding on to him he experienced the ocean for the first time: the cold water engulfing us in its salty embrace, the wind that blew our hair every which way, the sand shifting under our feet as the ocean retreated. But the most exciting part for Athy was the discovery of shells and conchs in the sand.

The day after we reached home Athy brought out the plastic bag full of the shells. The fishy smell trapped in the bag for three days made my head swim but Athy willingly thrust his arms in the bag and laid the stinky shells by the fistful on the sofa. That day I had no trouble enticing him in to the bathroom to give a good scrubbing to him and the shells. We still play with those shells that still have a faint whiff of the sea but are fragrant with memories.

*Photo credit: Marvin Kuo (Used under the Creative Commons Attribution License)

Vinaya has won a diary/writing pad made of handmade paper courtesy Prishth. Congrats Vinaya!

Parul, in her own words: Essentially a storyteller who works as a documentarist and has delivered content for key broadcasters around the world. She loves to travel and is always keen to pick up new skills, her latest being mixing cocktails. If you know of a quirky cocktail recipe or the innovative use of salt in them, follow her on twitter@ parwad.

Friendly cherry blossoms. Red buses breathing order at the panic striken Paddington station in the heart of London.

Ticket-check. Phone-check. Umbrella-check. Cash-uncheck.

I checked the whole list in my head again. Panic personified.

I trashed it back in my head, appeared contained and made my way to the nearby ATM to secure myself. Often in such situations, I’d be discreet and keep an eye on the adjacent shadows. Its like I never grew out of the [...]]]> Parul Wadhwa weaves a fascinating tale of meeting a stranger in London for our Travel Story writing theme.

Parul, in her own words: Essentially a storyteller who works as a documentarist and has delivered content for key broadcasters around the world. She loves to travel and is always keen to pick up new skills, her latest being mixing cocktails. If you know of a quirky cocktail recipe or the innovative use of salt in them, follow her on twitter@ parwad.

Friendly cherry blossoms. Red buses breathing order at the panic striken Paddington station in the heart of London.

Ticket-check. Phone-check. Umbrella-check. Cash-uncheck.

I checked the whole list in my head again. Panic personified.

I trashed it back in my head, appeared contained and made my way to the nearby ATM to secure myself. Often in such situations, I’d be discreet and keep an eye on the adjacent shadows. Its like I never grew out of the Hide and Seek syndrome. I like to hide my tracks so that I become untraceable to the world. And the fun ejaculated itself there.

England had a way to exemplify the archaic. Pride or nostalgia, perhaps. But never regret. A newspaper kiosk est.1881 was still trying to sell newspapers after so many decades. But it had grown to sell some candies too.

And the Victorian station looked haggard and watchful. Especially to suspicious travelers. A few coins in my pocket jiggled to be free. Some universal conspiracy or a metaphor for my pseudo freedom.

A red wrapper of liquorice was exchanged for the coins. I hate that black smily thing but its chewy, fruity taste in my mouth keeps me occupied.

Back to the ATM. I hate all money-transactions. Even if it means getting a few notes from your own bank account. Commerce. Dreaded Necessity.

All right, my turn. Money withdrawn. About to be secured safely into the wallet but the saxophone on the station distracts me. Can I take it with me please? It would be such a soothing companion on the canal ride. Everything dissolves. The money, tickets, liquorice. All into the music.

“Excuse me madam.”

I turned around. My eyes filled with whirls of liquorice and music meet a black hat.

I had bought this hat as a souvenir for my friend. It was effort. Soggy and drenched, I was at Oxford street yesterday. I had looked for a black hat worn by the cops in the city of London for my friend who was directing Hichcock’s rendition of 39 steps. Atlast I got it at Oxford treet with droplets of London rain free with it. Yes, it was that hat again, trying to talk to me.

I turned around stupefied.

“You should not be doing this. It’s not safe to be holding money like this while looking away.”

I involuntarily nodded at the hat.

It still cast a disaaproving glance at my attire and asked, “Are you a tourist“?

“Yes“. I spoke for the first time to that hat and managed to direct my gaze further.

A pair of crystal blue eyes with debris of white salt. Perhaps cataract. And wrinkly skin, all around.

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

Well no, I wanted to say and had tutored my brain to function that way with strangers. I was never alone, homeless, penniless and without any kind of male-support in a strange city. Never.

But it was the hat. My brain approved of it. And the pump in my body didnt.

“Well you see madam, this town is just as unsafe as where you come from.”

The pump immediately retorted and said that the hat meant that I was from a criminal, sexually potent place.

“Where are you from?”

“India.”

I said with much confidence with my pump sending blood through my veins even faster.

“Ah, I watch the India movies. They are very popular here. The heroines are so beautiful and the heroes are so old.”

I roared in laughter and didnt want to tell him how I understood the fabric of Bollywood. It was intrinsic to be guarded.

“Are all men old in India and women so young and beautiful?”

I thought it was a highly stupid question but then it wasnt, if you looked at the movies.

I opened my liquorice smelling mouth to answer him but he simply went on.

“My ex-wife introduced me to India movies. She loved them. She was American and very beautiful and then we had all those fights.” He was quite for a moment. The salt in his eyes began to dissolve.

He continued, “I am glad we didnt have any children but now that I am old, I wonder if we did, it would be nice.”

“Are you married?“, he asked me.

“No”

“Do you have kids?”

I wanted to tell him that in India, to procreate without the marriage certificate is blasphemy. But I simply answered in the negative.

“My mother is the only one who cares for me now and I have to care for her. She is too old but she waits for me each evening at dinner, even though she hardly eats.”

His eyes dilated again for a moment but he resumed talking. “My name is PATRICK“. He yelled aloud, breaking each syllable.

I played along. I pretended to have never heard it before. Or perhaps, I read his thoughts. I was a tourist, from India.

He asked me if I had a piece of paper. I rummaged through my pockets and found the wrapper which had liquorice in it. It was sticky by now but worth scribbling.

He seemed pleased and spelt his name, pronouncing it loudly for me and also scribbled his phone number.

At my amazed look, he said that I could call him anytime I sensed trouble in this town. Or, if I wanted to go out for tea with him.

He said he will tell his mother that he met an Indian girl from Bollywood.

We shook hands and parted.

I had a funny feeling in my stomach. Perhaps, it was the black coffee and liquorice in my stomach, fighting for space.

But when you see the eyes of a stranger light up at your presence, it’s a funny feeling. But it’s not just a funny feeling to be wanted. To be heard, in a non-judgemental way. And thats what a stranger does to you.

Perhaps, thats why we tell such personal stories to make a vivid connection with a random stranger in some god-forsaken part of the world. It’s the most organic way to breathe faith into people under the vast stretch of the same sky.

I folded the liquorice wrapper meticulously and hurried to catch my train.

*Photo credit: Ross Elliott

Parul has won a diary/writing pad made of handmade paper courtesy Prishth. Congrats Parul!

Deboshree, in her own words: Stories delight me and I tell them often. They lurk everywhere, around us and in hidden crannies. I like to look for them and then set them going. When I am not doing that, I am reading and reviewing books, travelling and studying media.

“This is where the Pandavas would take their morning shower!” The man sounded excited. “Then, they threw stones at the mangoes overhead and sat down for a meal.”

I looked at him sceptically; the trees didn’t look all that old. “What about their morning puja? Isn’t there an old Shiva temple near here somewhere?”

The man looked confused. He picked up the few mangoes that had fallen on the ground and walked away.

Anyway, irrespective of the water’s dubious Mahabharata connection, it sure looked inviting. [...]]]> Deboshree Bhattacharjee narrates how she was ‘lost’ in enjoying the moment in this funny story for our April writing theme, Travel Story.

Deboshree, in her own words: Stories delight me and I tell them often. They lurk everywhere, around us and in hidden crannies. I like to look for them and then set them going. When I am not doing that, I am reading and reviewing books, travelling and studying media.

“This is where the Pandavas would take their morning shower!” The man sounded excited. “Then, they threw stones at the mangoes overhead and sat down for a meal.”

I looked at him sceptically; the trees didn’t look all that old. “What about their morning puja? Isn’t there an old Shiva temple near here somewhere?”

The man looked confused. He picked up the few mangoes that had fallen on the ground and walked away.

Anyway, irrespective of the water’s dubious Mahabharata connection, it sure looked inviting. The colour was a neat, virgin white, accentuated by the blue clouds in the early spring sky. Young, green leaves that had recently sprouted wings, whispered in the light breeze. The huge walls of Bhandardara dam stood majestically, showing off to everyone who watched.

I was with a huge group – the entire set of people at office. We had travelled to Malshej Ghat from Pune and were here on local word. My colleagues ambled around, sifting through the thick vegetation. A few groaned about having had no lunch, considering the hours the bus ride from our resort had taken. They went the Pandavas way; aiming stones at mango groves and arranging makeshift buckets to store the loot. Some others clicked Facebook pictures, their faces lighting up with the anticipation of the number of ‘likes’ they would earn.

I gazed at the water; it was rumbling and growling. Where the dam started, it was misty. The kind of mist that goes around haunted houses and ethereal cathedrals. One step closer and the white water would lash out. I tied my hair in a bun and tightened my shoelaces. The spectacles had been giving trouble and I adjusted them better around my ears. Taking a baby step closer, I looked behind to see people dissolving in the fog. The rumbling and growling grew louder as I looked straight on. One blink of an eyelid and there! The splashes, despite all my preparation, took me by surprise. They metamorphosed into a constant drizzle which went on till I was dripping wet. Standing right there, near the entrance of the dam, I had just had my first ‘waterfall’ shower.

Following suit, several others joined me. Soon we were all enjoying the drizzle, getting wet and dirty and not caring one bit. The breeze turned into a steady wind and our heads full of hair turned fit for birds to nest in. If the Pandavas had indeed lived here, I am sure they loved the water as well. Perhaps, divine beings in varied worldly forms would emerge from its insides. Nothing, after all, like a wet dip in water so animated!

When we finally walked away to dry ourselves, the hunger pangs set in. Almost in answer, a pakora wallah arrived at the scene. He had them all: onions, potatoes, chillies. His barrow had a name too, written with black pen on white paper. B, something. I strained my eyes to make out the word.

“Bhandardara Bhaji, madam. How many plates do you want?” the helpful man enquired, even as I stood shocked in realization.

The white water had taken away my spectacles. Further away in its recesses somewhere, it was probably turning them into mincemeat that very moment.

*Photo credit: Deboshree Bhattacharjee

Deboshree has won a diary/writing pad made of handmade paper courtesy Prishth. Congrats Deboshree!

As You Write It is back this April and the writing theme for this month is “Travel Story”. Write to us about an interesting incident that happened to you on your travels. Did you meet someone intriguing? Did you discover something unexpected? Did you try out something amazing? Tell us your travel story!

Where to send: Send in your story to feedback@womensweb.in with ‘Travel Story’ in the subject line, and your story as a word/txt attachment. Do include the name we should use if we publish it, and a brief introduction to yourself (2-3 lines) in the mail.

By when: Please send in your stories by Apr 15th, i.e. this Sunday. The 5 best stories will be published on Women’s Web the following week, i.e. Apr 16th onwards.

Rules:

- The material should be [...]]]> Vacation time is almost here and so is our monthly writing theme. Share an interesting travel story and get published on Women’s Web!

As You Write It is back this April and the writing theme for this month is “Travel Story”. Write to us about an interesting incident that happened to you on your travels. Did you meet someone intriguing? Did you discover something unexpected? Did you try out something amazing? Tell us your travel story!

Where to send: Send in your story to feedback@womensweb.in with ‘Travel Story’ in the subject line, and your story as a word/txt attachment. Do include the name we should use if we publish it, and a brief introduction to yourself (2-3 lines) in the mail.

By when: Please send in your stories by Apr 15th, i.e. this Sunday. The 5 best stories will be published on Women’s Web the following week, i.e. Apr 16th onwards.

Rules:

- The material should be previously unpublished elsewhere. (Copyright stays with you and you’re free to subsequently publish it elsewhere).

- Keep it between 250 and 600 words.

GOODIES!

Each entry chosen for publishing on Women’s Web gets a diary/writing pad made of handmade paper courtesy prishth. prishth focuses on paper products and has also forayed into jewellery made with paper. The cloth material that has been used as the cover of the diaries gets its colours from natural dyes.

Shambhavi Pai, in her own words: Marketing Professional working in the retail business. Currently based in Blantyre, Malawi. Passion – travelling (have written a few travelogues), writing and music. 

Most of us have spent our childhood with fairy tales. As little girls with pigtails, we lay on the bed and listened to our parents/grandparents with wide eyes waiting for the pages to turn, the devil to go and to finally hear the words ‘Happily Ever After’.

Today, we are so battered by myriad issues – relationships that are more complicated than a jigsaw puzzle of a Niagara Falls scenario, office politics that try hard to beat the sensations of soap operas, lifestyles that threaten to be more chaotic than Parliament sessions.

Despite all these complexities and the fact that [...]]]> Shambhavi is the final winner of a Rs.300 gift voucher from our sponsors Zaarga, for her creative fairy tale entry to our Love Story theme.

Shambhavi Pai, in her own words: Marketing Professional working in the retail business. Currently based in Blantyre, Malawi. Passion – travelling (have written a few travelogues), writing and music. 

Most of us have spent our childhood with fairy tales. As little girls with pigtails, we lay on the bed and listened to our parents/grandparents with wide eyes waiting for the pages to turn, the devil to go and to finally hear the words ‘Happily Ever After’.

Today, we are so battered by myriad issues – relationships that are more complicated than a jigsaw puzzle of a Niagara Falls scenario, office politics that try hard to beat the sensations of soap operas, lifestyles that threaten to be more chaotic than Parliament sessions.

Despite all these complexities and the fact that we have outgrown those ribbon adorned pigtails, some of us don’t stop believing in the magical sagas and wait for the pages of life to take us to the ‘Happily Ever After’. Whilst we wait for that page to arrive here’s a little story about Love, Faith and Happiness that will reunite the grown up you with the little girl in you.

Once upon a time, in the beautiful and mysterious Kingdom of Life ruled by King Destiny there lived a sweet little girl called Faith. Faith lived in the deep jungles of Life and earned her living making pots and selling them in the villages nearby. She lived on meagre means but not a single day passed when the smile on her lips would fade. She sat by the river happily making her pots while humming melodies.

On one such day, Faith was by the river as always when a troop of the King’s men came and asked her to come along with them. Turned out that while hunting in the jungle, the King’s son Prince Love had heard her magical voice and said to his soldiers,

‘A voice so magical and sweet,
Even the bees may call it nectar,
Trace this voice oh trusted men,
And to the palace get her!’

And so the men went following the voice and traced it to a girl sitting under a tree by the river.

When Faith was brought before Price Love in the Palace Court, violins and trumpets started playing in both their hearts. Love professed to Faith that he hadn’t met someone as mesmerizing as her and promised her a lifetime of happiness if she married him. This was more than Faith could ask for and she shyly accepted Love’s proposal.

Days went by. Love would come to the jungle and spend endless hours watching Faith as she made pots on her wheel and listening as she sang songs. News soon spread and it was not long before King Destiny heard about Love and Faith. He was enraged on learning this and ordered his soldiers to banish Faith from the Kingdom of Life. Love accepted his father’s decision humbly, but as each day passed Love became weaker and sadder. He showed no interest in the activities of Life. This worried the King and after much deliberation he said to Love,

‘Despite being of royal blood,
Your heart belongs to a girl who earns bread shaping mud.
If that’s your will marry her you can,
But first a test to determine,
If she considers you just a Prince or her true man.’

So Faith was summoned to the Royal Court where the King told her that he was willing to let his son marry her. But if she wanted to be future queen she could never sing again. Music was for the ordinary and not for aristocrats. If music kissed her lips ever again, she would be her son’s wife but would never be queen. To this Faith replied,

‘Your Highness the ruler of our Life,
I am grateful to you for allowing Love and me be man and wife.
But your condition I cannot accept.
My music is my bliss,
Without it I have a body but no soul,
I can do anything for my Love,
But I cannot do this.’

When the King heard this, he had tears in his eyes. He realised Love would be happy only if there was Faith. They were married in grandeur and pomp. Nonetheless, they lived happily ever after!

If you love beautiful things and are tired of mass produced products that lack soul, you will LOVE Zaarga. As an online shopper on Zaarga.com, you get to share a piece of designer made heaven which celebrates the colour,vibrancy and aesthetic beauty of contemporary Indian design.

*Photo credit: Marxchivist

Ritika, in her own words: A social media junkie, bibliophile, traveller and sometimes worker (yes, she is a cubicle-slave). She believes she can write, do you?

“I would do anything for Love, but I won’t do THAT!”

“Quit talking in cheesy lines from forgotten numbers, will you?” I snarled.

“Hey, that’s not fair“, he argued. “If we’re going to talk about using cheesy lines, then I am going to have to…have to…” he trailed off.

“Ha. Couldn’t remember an instance of me using a cheesy line, na? Maybe that’s because, I DON’T?”

Of course, I knew I was being unfair to the poor guy. I probably had used cheesy lines like that myself any number of times, but given his memory or lack of it, I got [...]]]> A little tattoo for Love – too much to ask? Ritika Sawhney wins a Rs.300 gift voucher from our sponsors Zaarga, for her fun entry to our Love Story writing theme.

Ritika, in her own words: A social media junkie, bibliophile, traveller and sometimes worker (yes, she is a cubicle-slave). She believes she can write, do you?

“I would do anything for Love, but I won’t do THAT!”

“Quit talking in cheesy lines from forgotten numbers, will you?” I snarled.

“Hey, that’s not fair“, he argued. “If we’re going to talk about using cheesy lines, then I am going to have to…have to…” he trailed off.

“Ha. Couldn’t remember an instance of me using a cheesy line, na? Maybe that’s because, I DON’T?”

Of course, I knew I was being unfair to the poor guy. I probably had used cheesy lines like that myself any number of times, but given his memory or lack of it, I got away.

And what was at stake wasn’t really the question of using lines from forgotten numbers, cheesy or not. You may not think of this as a big deal, but if you’ve ever had the experience of the man of your dreams claiming that he would climb the stars and fetch the moon for you, yet refusing to get a teensy little tattoo done on his broad shoulders (well, one of them) purely on the grounds of ‘I hate needles’, you’ll know what I am talking about.

I mean, c’mon, it’s not like I was asking him to get the American eagle etched all over his broad frame, with its wings artistically falling off his shoulders, although I admit that would look good too. All I was asking for was a few lines – a little heart (and not in pretty pink, but a very masculine, deep red) and it would be quid pro quo – I was planning to get a little heart done too. Does the lady ask too much?

And it got me wondering. Was it really a fear of needles, or a fear of the permanence a heart implied? I mean, was he thinking that this summer was only one installment of what would be an endless number of summers with an endless number of girls?

“You don’t really love me. You’re already thinking of what your next girlfriend will say about the heart.”

“C’mon jaan, it’s not that. I will never love anyone else, you know that,” he protested.

“Then prove it!”

The next day, we went off to Brahma’s. A bunch of folks from my class had got their tattoos done with them, and lived to tell the tale; infection-free.

He went first. He said it would be easier if he didn’t have to watch me wincing through it. I watched him instead, gritting his teeth and what was worse, not even bothering to wipe the tears that rolled down his cheeks.

It was over in a few minutes, but it seemed to last at least an hour; at the end of which, while he was putting on his shirt, I quietly slunk out of the parlour and ran down the street.

“Hey, where are you going? That’s not fair!” I could hear him screaming. “You come back here now! NOW!”

Zaarga.com – a new online shopping portal – brings to you exclusive home and lifestyle accessories from the best of contemporary Indian Designers. The products you find here are likely to be very different from any you find in regular stores.

*Photo credit: Pablot

Vinaya Bhagat, in her own words: An IT Professional and a mother of an over active toddler. The hectic pace of work and family commitments leaves very little time for leisure. Writing is an old passion and I make most of the little time I get to lose myself in the lives of imaginary characters.

“Rajjo pani!”

The old couple begs her. They are writhing on the floor as if possessed by unseen demons.

“Rajjo pani!”

Once again they beg her for the pitcher of water she is holding. She cannot bear to see the sight of her aunt and uncle thrashing around in agony. She wants to go to them, give them the life saving water, but something is holding her back; someone with a tight grip on her heart.

Rajjo [...]]]> Exploring the dark side of love; Vinaya wins a Rs.300 gift voucher from our sponsor, Zaarga for her entry to our Love Story writing theme.

Vinaya Bhagat, in her own words: An IT Professional and a mother of an over active toddler. The hectic pace of work and family commitments leaves very little time for leisure. Writing is an old passion and I make most of the little time I get to lose myself in the lives of imaginary characters.

“Rajjo pani!”

The old couple begs her. They are writhing on the floor as if possessed by unseen demons.

“Rajjo pani!”

Once again they beg her for the pitcher of water she is holding. She cannot bear to see the sight of her aunt and uncle thrashing around in agony. She wants to go to them, give them the life saving water, but something is holding her back; someone with a tight grip on her heart.

Rajjo wakes up drenched in sweat, in a mass of tangled sheets and blankets. The water pitcher is on the table at its usual place. The burnished copper of the pitcher glows in the dawn sunlight shimmering through the window. Her mouth is dry, her tongue a lethargic mass sticking to the roof of her mouth with her glutinous saliva. Thirst is burning her throat, yet she cannot bring herself to touch the water pitcher.

The house is slumbering. Ghostly gray shadows are everywhere, like wild animals lying in wait of a prey. She runs into the kitchen and hurriedly switches on the light, banishing the shadows outside the pool of harsh yellow light that floods around her. She lets the tap run as she washes the glass again and again trying to rid it of invisible traces of poison. She gulps down two glasses of water and then busies herself with breakfast preparations. Today is the day of the karela juice. Its bitter taste was the cover Jeevan has asked her to seek.

“They will never know the difference.” Jeevan had said last night caressing the bare skin below her blouse. “Then once it is over, once they are gone, all this will be ours”, he had said pointing to the big house with cars and cupboards full of money and jewelry she has seen with her own eyes.

“We will load the car with whatever we want and then fly away like free birds. No one will ever find us.”

“Can’t we just take what we want when they go out?” she had beseeched him.

“And have them inform the Police and throw us in jail?” No, he had been very persuasive. He had convinced her that unless her aunt and nncle died there was no hope for them. For their love to survive the old couple had to die.

He had promised her a prosperous life filled with love in the big city. In the darkness of the night those promises had seduced her like the glowing lights of the big city. But now those promises seem cheap and tawdry, like the yellow and green plastic bottle in the loft with the poison he has asked her to add to the karela juice. She climbs on a stool and gets down the bottle. It is heavier than she remembers from last night. She must finish before her aunt and uncle wake up. But instead of going to the dining table where the breakfast is all laid out, she heads in the opposite direction out of the kitchen door to the backyard. She pours the contents of the bottle down the toilet and hurriedly rinses it before throwing it over the boundary wall on the rubbish heap behind the house. She washes her hands again and again but she is still unsure whether they are clean.

“What is the matter Rajjo rani?” Her uncle wants to know when he comes into the kitchen and sees her standing near the table staring into space.

“I think the karela is very bitter today”, she says.

If you love beautiful things and are tired of mass produced products that lack soul, you will LOVE Zaarga. As an online shopper on Zaarga.com, you get to share a piece of designer made heaven which celebrates the colour,vibrancy and aesthetic beauty of contemporary Indian design.

*Photo credit: .zaim.

Arundhati Venkatesh, in her own words: A kid-lit enthusiast, an observer of life and people, a feminist, a minimalist and a compulsive maker of lists! An engineer by degree, and an IT professional in her previous life, she is now an aspiring writer. Arundhati works for an NGO.

Any self-respecting Tamilian will tell you that the day after Pongal is the day of Kanupidi.

As a young girl, I’d loved making multi-coloured rice balls to feed crows and sparrows. The fresh green turmeric leaves used as a plate to serve the birds, the simple kolam in white and the crimson red paste on the floor after the aarti – all added up and made me look forward to Kanu, even more than I looked forward to mouth watering chakkarapongal the [...]]]> What would a mother’s love NOT do? Arundhati wins a Rs.300 gift voucher from our sponsor Zaarga for our Love Story writing theme! 

Arundhati Venkatesh, in her own words: A kid-lit enthusiast, an observer of life and people, a feminist, a minimalist and a compulsive maker of lists! An engineer by degree, and an IT professional in her previous life, she is now an aspiring writer. Arundhati works for an NGO.

Any self-respecting Tamilian will tell you that the day after Pongal is the day of Kanupidi.

As a young girl, I’d loved making multi-coloured rice balls to feed crows and sparrows. The fresh green turmeric leaves used as a plate to serve the birds, the simple kolam in white and the crimson red paste on the floor after the aarti – all added up and made me look forward to Kanu, even more than I looked forward to mouth watering chakkarapongal the previous day! That is something, isn’t it? I would lie low until the birds had a chance to devour all the food offered to them – yellow turmeric rice, red kumkum rice, white curd rice, and yummy brown chakkarapongal. After a few hours, I would be delighted at the sight of the few grains of scattered rice on the terrace – the only remnants of the feast.

I wanted Pea to have his memories of the tradition. The haldi leaves had to be bought from the market the day before so they didn’t wither away. A crazy schedule meant we had no haldi leaves so we had to make do with fallen leaves from the backyard. Since it was a school-day, I decided to postpone the ritual to the afternoon, when Pea would be home. I was sure the Gods (and the birds) wouldn’t mind.

Pea was looking forward to it, and freshened up really fast. For a moment, I considered making kanupidi a daily ritual! We decided to feed ourselves before we got to the birds. They must have had a hearty breakfast after all – all the other folks must have left out their kanupidi in the morning, as tradition demands.

All through lunch I was scared I would forget and eat up all the rice, and we wouldn’t have any for the birds. As it turned out, I didn’t, or couldn’t what with the Pea going on and on about how birds would swoop down and scoop up a rice ball and gobble up the chakkarapongal! So, after a quick meal, we were outside, armed with the rice, the pseudo-turmeric leaves and the ingredients required to conjure up multi-coloured balls. Pea had a suggestion – since I’d cooked beetroot for lunch, couldn’t we use it to make red rice? He had a point there; it would have been tastier than kumkum rice after all. But, since we had already made a few deviations from tradition, I thought we should stick with kumkum.

Pea was fascinated by the sight of rice turning yellow when turmeric was added. Next, he made “red rice” by mixing in kumkum. He didn’t see why we needed to add curd – wasn’t rice white already? I braced myself when we got to the chakkarapongal; what if he wasn’t willing to share it with the birds? Turned out he was terribly excited that the birds would get to enjoy yummy chakkarapongal!

We sang “Kakkakum kuruvikkum kalyanam” (crow and sparrow being wed). Pea was amused, a tongue-twister chant! When the rice had been used up and the leaves covered with coloured balls, it was time to leave so the birds could feast in peace. I utilised the opportunity to introduce a ritual of my own – Pea would have to bathe after attending the crow-sparrow wedding, only then would the birds accept his offering. The self-proclaimed bath-delayer had the quickest bath ever and hurried to check if the birds were eating.

As he approached, I knew I had to do something. The birds’ calendar probably did not say it was Kanu, for they had not come. I didn’t have much time. I could hear him jump and skip, he would be in view shortly. I picked up a dozen balls in both hands. I looked around but there was no place to hide them. My mind raced. The only option was to eat the rice. I hesitated. Pea would be devastated if he found the birds hadn’t eaten anything. I felt a surge of affection.

It turned out my love for Pea did not exceed my distaste for turmeric rice and kumkum rice.

Zaarga.com – a new online shopping portal – brings to you exclusive home and lifestyle accessories from the best of contemporary Indian Designers. The products you find here are likely to be very different from any you find in regular stores.

*Photo credit: wandersick (Used under the Creative Commons Attribution License)

Roopa Prabhakar, in her own words: I’m a new mother, a working woman who believes her face is plastered on the glass ceiling, a closet feminist and writer.

“Women Maaan!!” wailed a young friend of mine, he was all tense and worried about the day of impending doom a.k.a. ‘Valentine’s Day’. His dainty little girlfriend had decided to base the future of their relationship on how this year’s Valentine’s Day was celebrated. In short, she was milking it and the onus was on my friend to make sure that he fills the 24 hours with every kind of mush – bought, borrowed, begged, stolen or sincerely felt.

I laughed at him, enjoying every bit of his delicious misery .Since I’m past the college-lovey-dovey age I take an almost sadistic pleasure in the tragedies of [...]]]> Roopa Prabhakar wins a Rs.300 gift voucher from our sponsors, Zaarga for her cheeky, yet wise story for our Love Story writing theme!

Roopa Prabhakar, in her own words: I’m a new mother, a working woman who believes her face is plastered on the glass ceiling, a closet feminist and writer.

“Women Maaan!!” wailed a young friend of mine, he was all tense and worried about the day of impending doom a.k.a. ‘Valentine’s Day’. His dainty little girlfriend had decided to base the future of their relationship on how this year’s Valentine’s Day was celebrated. In short, she was milking it and the onus was on my friend to make sure that he fills the 24 hours with every kind of mush – bought, borrowed, begged, stolen or sincerely felt.

I laughed at him, enjoying every bit of his delicious misery .Since I’m past the college-lovey-dovey age I take an almost sadistic pleasure in the tragedies of teenage love. He gave me a dirty look and collapsed back to his dejected self again. I was surprised that he seemed so lost, especially in this day and age where the good people at “Archies” do everything for you except probably manufacture a girlfriend/boyfriend.

“No way, none of the corny Archies stuff will do, she wants to test the boundaries, find out how much I will risk for love, she’s baying for my blood maan!“, cried out the young man in despair. As if on cue, the coffee shop guys started playing “I would do anything for love… but I won’t do THAT!” which caused another bout of agony.

“Did you know I introduced her to this song and she’s latched onto it and keeps singing it back to me these days….la la la …Would you do anything for love…WOULD YOU???”

“How come she’s conveniently forgotten the ‘but I won’t do THAT’ part??“, I questioned

“I don’t know, I never listen to the lyrics, what does he mean by  …I WON”T DO THAT…What is ‘THAT’??”, answered my dim-witted nerd of a friend.

I sighed and said, “Buy me another cup of coffee and I might just save your love life”. Though he was short on cash given the Valentine’s Day hoopla he relented and ordered and I was ready to dispense with my expert advice.

“The ‘THAT’ is about how he will never forget the way he feels about the woman, how he won’t move on to someone else, how he will never get tired of her etc. Tell your pretty girlfriend that a lot of guys may say that they would do anything for love but not many will be saying – BUT I WON’T DO THAT. And THAT is what separates you from the riffraff….The LOVE is present in as much as the things you DO as in the things you DON’T DO“, I ended on that philosophical note as the coffee was placed on my table.

“You know what, you may have something there…it’s definitely worth a try working with that logic…I’ll let you know how it goes“. With that my friend dashed out and I sat back to enjoy my cuppa!

My guess is as good as yours as to how this plan will work out for my friend on V-Day. But if I were that girl I will not be buying this piece of astounding logic…. Did I mention I enjoyed the tragedies of teenage love? He he!

If you love beautiful things and are tired of mass produced products that lack soul, you will LOVE Zaarga. As an online shopper on Zaarga.com, you get to share a piece of designer made heaven which celebrates the colour, vibrancy and aesthetic beauty of contemporary Indian design.

*Photo credit: sweetonveg (Used under the Creative Commons Attribution License)