Wee Fiction #2


“Why are you so kind to me?!”, I asked him. 

He lifted his face to look at me, then smiled and he said, “I should atleast be generous in being kind, isn’t it? Whatelse we have – that is to give genuinely to justify being a supreme species.”

I nodded my head.

“But.. why me?”

“Favour is not about what, but to whom; I think”.

I pulled his hand into mine and said “Thank you!”, that didn’t spell out.

Wee Fiction #1


“I have a short life, I wanna enjoy, live it to the fullest, you see..”, I told him with zealous, “I do not have time for sympathy, empathy and external miseries”. Laughed.

“Alas, an inexplicable humane life seems misplaced on a cheap host.” he mumbled.

“What do you mean?”, I couldn’t avoid turning blue.

“Oh! I meant my dog.” he said.

Profound


It was that one hour just after an hour of swim – where you would feel you want to eat twice your stomach’s capability. I knew, that the lunch I would get in A2B wouldn’t even half settle my hunger then. Nevertheless, I stopped my bike there of scarcity in options on a Sunday. If one wanna go for a swim in mid of a day, one has to plan a little, atleast I need very much. Swim for atleast two hours after food isn’t good for stomach. Food immediately after swim is a craving – body will make one feel that very explicitly. 

Anyway, I got a South Indian meal in A2B. Rested myself at the only available table there and started displacing all the cups – having everything from Salt to pickle, from the plate to the table; to make place for various mixes of taste, color and smell I was about to enjoy. I started, as I always say, to feed my hunger; fingers mixing, hands displacing food from plate to mouth, mouth chewing, mind thinking of what to get next after completing the meal.

“Is anybody coming here?” asked a female voice, pointing at the two chairs opposite to me in the table I was sitting. 

She was carrying. 

“No”, I said, “you can sit.” 

There was another one beside her carrying a plate. They both sat opposite to me, with a North Indian meal. 

“Even you have.. hmm… take..”  She told him.

“No. You have, I will have later..” he refused. 

They both looked to me like a couple who don’t quite come to such hotels unless for a special reason. Simple, ordinary, daily waged Indian class. I presumed, he wanted to get his pregnant wife a special food.

Somewhere in middle of their conversations he said “we should have taken that”, showing my plate, “It has more varieties..”. She tapped him a little firm, asking to pull his hand.

I saw them both, they smiled, I smiled back. He was himself – didn’t hide behind etiquette. 

When she was almost to be done, he asked her, “Whatelse do you want to have?”

“No no, nothing more, this is full”

“No, tell me, I have thirty more rupees, we can spend that..”. For thirty rupees one can’t get much there in A2B, that would make you feel as enough food.
“No, have it for your lunch”, She said. 

They seemed generous for each-other, amidst all deficiencies. I started my bike, remembering about the food I wanted to buy after the meal. 

***

​A Slice of Time


We both – a second person and I, spoke hearts out.. finally, atleast I did for sure, on how it was for each-other in the slice of time that was saved for us to be together; as we will have to depart from each other soon.. for sure, forever. We speak out only when we know “not anymore”, unlike when we were actually through the relationship; don’t we? even though what spoken out would not help but just be mere a memory. Even if we were outspoken during the journey of the relationship; we speak out the unspeakable only towards the end or at the end; I mean, like confessions, regrets and remorse. Atleast I’m concerned, that is the case always.
I expected it to be a dialogue, rather it ended up more as my admission. Perhaps because, I was the one who had gaps to take it all and the second person had nothing new in me to learn for the self. I say ‘second person’ because I don’t know what pronoun to use.. ‘He’ or ‘she’ would not particularly suit the subject, I’m afraid ‘they’ or ‘them’ would alienated my relation with the subject and ‘It’ would be disrespectful. So, we will agree mutually to understand the other subject – other than me, in the dialogue as “Second person”.

                                —-

“It is bit weird and embarrassing”, I said sitting on a chair, not so lied down – respectful posture.

“Go on.. we are running out of time already..”, said the second person in gesture that won’t allow you to take for granted. A caring tone with slight pinch of authority, for which I got used to for a while now. 

I held out a painting.

“What?!”

Painting depicted a fishing boat among waves in a ocean, a fisherman on the boat caressing a fish – that he caught, within the water. Fish had a facial expression of a belly rubbed dog. Fish hooked in its mouth, hurt, but not much. String from fishing rod, in his hand, is left uncut to the hook in fish’s mouth. It looked something like – fisherman training a fish for something, rater than fishing; Fish was hooked for it’s good, not for his need.

“So, you are the fish? And I’m the fisherman training you?”, I saw the second person radiating a blissful smile, for the first time since I get to know the second person. 

“Yes”, I smiled back bright, “whereas, since the start from a know shore of the ocean, hooking to some or the other fishing rod is a known happening on this ocean with other shore – invisible. I was hooked to your’s eventually. At initial part of time, I thought you were sweet. But only later I got to learn, that the initial sweetness was the string you unrolled to get me to your way, by keeping the string uncut. Down the stream, I had to endured through the hardness imposed. Was displeasing in unexpected ways. I hated you like a teacher whose classes I always wanna bunk. But I had no choice, you see”, I heard a chuckle, “But.. But.. now that I strangely feel, as it is going to end for sure forever, I may see you now like a teacher whom I have hated for their authority and rigidity, but years later I would be glad that such person was once my teacher; for I may realize only then that, without whom I would not have learnt things that are subtle, without whom I would not have learnt to learn. I’m glad, I was hooked to your’s at a right point in time. Thank you for being hard on me.” 

I held out my hands to hug. We had an awkward hug. 

With reverence, I again said, “Thank you much, Two thousand sixteen.” 

I heard the second person say, “I only did my job.”, I was caressed.

“Oh.. Here you are.. “, I heard Two thousand sixteen calling someone loud. We both saw Two thousands seventeen nearing.
                             ——–

A dinner in street.


‘Haeli(tell me)’ cashier nodded his head at me. 

‘Masal dosa’ I said and showed a finger to tell him the count. 

‘Thirty.  haeeyyyy…. ‘ he said and rushed to the street. Three teenagers were racing on a bike and dashed over a couple. 

They didn’t stop, though there were too many hands trying to grab a hold of them –  the three teenagers. They managed to escape them all and dashed themselves, missing the balance, on the vehicles that were parked at the sides of the street shop – I was waiting for Masal dosa. Few grabbed their collar, few jumped over them, many punched on their face. There was much hassle. 

I got my dosa a little while later, sat over a concrete near the shop and started feeding my hunger. 

‘What is happening here?!’ a voice directed towards me. A white. 

I told him what happened there, repeating many words again and again, I couldn’t twist my tongue proper to his mother language. 

‘But, why did they dash on those vehicles? ‘

‘They were trying to escape’ I said. 

‘Aaaahhhh…’ he said and shock his head. 

He was eating ‘Set dosa’ with a coffee by the side,  with bare hands. 

‘Good to see you eat with bare hands’ I smiled. 

He laughed out loud. “Food that are costlier than these are not tastier than these” 

‘Where are you from?! You are here for very long?! ‘ I asked. He said, he is from London and he has been in India for six months now,  traveling along Kerela and Tamil Nadu for past five months and his stay in Bangalore of one month is getting over by tomorrow. 

‘I’m leaving Bangalore tomorrow, but I don’t know where I’m going next. My travel so far has been as this, zero planning’ he grinned. 

I excused to get me a coffee,  got one and went back again to him. 

‘How do you feel about the past six months here? ‘

Staring with food, he continues praising good about culture, tradition and people. 

‘People here handle things by themselves,  which I don’t see in London, I mean, in terms of dealing things among themselves as it just happened now, in that hassle; without taking it over to an burocracy level. Ah.. where are those three guys who got caught?!’

‘Their plea has been considered after the smashing’ I said. 

He was raving about things here, I don’t know if it was because of my emotive nature, but I was more than proud. Perhaps, gloating. I couldn’t get ride of that thick grin that was sticking on my face.

‘You people get rid of your politicians somehow, I mean, somehow… You people can handle it all with yourself, you just don’t need them’ there was a firm genuineness in his expression then. 

I was just sitting there, with my grin for sometime. 

‘Alright man, good to see you, have a wonderful trip’, I wished him and started walking home. 

Only after crossing few meters, I remembered I had left the coffee glass in the place we were talking and didn’t give it back to the shop. 

I went back there only to see no coffee glass at the place I kept but the English guy I was talking to had picked my glass as well, along with his plate and his coffee glass, and was giving it to the shop. He was modest enough to pick something I used. I wouldn’t have done that in his place, just until then. 

I left the place, with a sense of making something really ugly. Only I couldn’t put that “Why?!” into words here.

Bamboo Basket


“Why do you keep reading so much when you can’t remember most of it?!”. Little kid finally placed this question – that was lingering within him for sometime now.

A basket – completely dirty, made of bamboo sticks intertwined, used for carrying coal was given to him by his grandpa; and the Grandpa said, “Fetch water in this basket from the pond to water the tree”, tapping the tree that helped him beat the sun, with its shadow.

Trying to find a relevance between the irrelevance, kid stepped into the pond, fetched water in the basket as told, reached the tree, turned it down, but not more than few drops were left to water the tree; all water he had in the basket has drained in the way from the pond. Kid, looked at his grandpa, with brows pulled up, palms facing the sky.

“Make your self quicker, Son” grandpa said.

His little legs raced to and from the pond, fetching the water. Again, no water was left when he reached the tree.

“Perhaps your speed isn’t enough“

Kid tried very hard, not just the water but no luck as well was left to him, everytime he reached the tree.

“I can’t try any harder” said the kid, his nosedrils expanded enough to help his lung breath hug air in and out than the normal.

“Now, Look at the basket“

The basket was clean and a fewer mark of coal or darkness was found. The basket no more looked as though it was used to carry coal. Afresh. Anew. With little signs of being a carrier.

Grandpa patted on kid’s shrunken shoulder and said tilting the basket a little “This is what a ‘good’ literature does to you. You may not end-up remembering every bit of it, but you will end-up making yourself afresh, anew – may not be all of a sudden, but for sure a little by little. Your brain basket will be dusted out of ignorance and inability to see thing from others shoes; and characters and scenes in them would teach you things that has been obscured from your very little sized life and habitat, by placing you in that scene virtually”.

He couldn’t consume the reason convincingly enough to shun the question lingering in him. He didn’t argue further, but he buyed him sometime to arrive at a reason to own it or flush it.

Years later even – Neither his mustache grown upper lip, beard crowded cheeks, hardened skins nor completely grown brain could buy reason his grandpa said. He asked his grandpa, who has turned to his second childhood, to justify his argument.

Sliding down the book that hid the face from his grandson to his chest, he tried to answer through the questions. “Do you agree, you learn from others life as well?! ”

“Yes..”

“A good literature IS a simulation of life, believe it or not. At time, it is a simulator of more than one. The truth preacher with plausible lies. When you see someone suffer financially, ofcourse you get to know how much was the debt, interest, the numbers and names around it, which does less than least to you. But at the sametime you see how they tackle, pull themself out of their hole; or if it is otherwise, you see the source for the suffering and you learn from it. When you see people running out of track in life: what they do / did may bother least to you.. But you wanna look for corrections that can save you/ your kin/ your child from such, through others’. A Good literature does this to you through pages and letters.”

‘Not a reader’ grandson, went searching for reasons to justify the answer to himself again, in the real word.

📑

He and She: A Flash Fiction


As she turned away and walked past after the fight, he started calculating the days: with the speed her steps hurried and died in the lounge.

***

Their mobile were put to rest beyond a shadow of doubt for almost a week or perhaps they were secluded to grow their hearts further to accommodate a grown-up love.

‘Idiot, Panagal park. 5.30PM today’ was the message he woke-up to the day. Message inboxed at 1.20AM. Bliss sticking thick in his face just didn’t wash away until the evening.

***

She pushed her head down abruptly, as he saw her coming towards the park-chair he rested on, like a sunflower dressed-up elegantly and her hair swaying and rocking like petals around her face. She killed him alive one more time.

She planked down on the other end of the park-chair he was resting on, trying to pull smile off her face, gazing not at him. He looked at her, got closer, pulled his cheek and kissed himself, laying his eyes on her. Her grin grew wider. Still gazing away from him. He pulled his cheek and kissed it again, with a brighter noise. Bursting out the dammed-up joy, her petals covered its face, flower-holding-stem swayed back and forth. She pulled her cheek, kissed herself seeing him with a bit more grownup love and cravelled in to his arms tight with tears of happiness.

***