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Microstory 17: The wasp and the cloud
It wipes off sweat from its forehead. The wasp. Sitting in her home on a tree trunk. Power goes. Fan stops,TV too. Irritated, she comes out. Bright, hot sun all around. And then, she sees a patch of shade. She quickly flies there, looks up. A dark cloud, covering the...
Microstory 16: The things I do for spite
Class VIII. Or was it VII? Mathematics period. The Mathematics Teacher in class. (Do note the capitalisations - it's not without a reason, but that for a later post). Some copies being distributed so everyone on their feet moving about - between the teacher's desk and...
Microstory 15: The life of the little good
So, I am standing at a paan shop - one of those large shop-front variety that you find in Western India (different from the humble khokhas/khomchas that dot the North). A gentleman walks in, puts his hands in his pockets and several coins fall. One lands on my foot. A...
An ode to a friend – he was 50, I was 0 – till death did us part
Note: This was written exactly a year ago, give or take a week, in a different context. An excerpt of a larger piece. But this part talks about the first friendship I built. A friendship across an age gap of 50 years that lasted 23+ years. Till he passed away. Years...
Chicken a la poos doesn’t exist!
Yes. You heard that right. There is nothing called chicken a la poos. Not in the least a French dish. Does that make you smile, chuckle, open your eyes wide or fall off your chair? Good. You are one of the small tribe that gets 'Chhoti si Baat' jokes. But don't...
Does publishing need its own “Writer’s Room”?
It is high art. Writing a book. Interestingly, making a shirt was high art, till garment factories came along. Making a shoe was high art, till systems came along that churned out as many shoes in a day that artists (rather, artisans) would do in ten years. Heck,...
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