Cookie Box For Thread and Needles

Just another day, a regular day. I am binge watching "Friends", all ten seasons of it, just to prepare myself for the "Friends Reunion". Beside me, he is ‘working’, apparently this is the new normal. He is completely immersed in his client calls and tally numbers, doesn’t even spare a second to lift up his head to see what’s happening around. I wonder whether what all those people who once advocated the ‘dignity of labour’ had to say about this new work-style, about the modern slaves.

 

Hm.. with a mellow sigh I look at him hoping to catch his attention. No, his eyes are firmly fixed onto the screen. Unable to resist myself from adoring him, I caress his hair. What’s that Portuguese word? Oh yes, cafuné... right! I see his moustache and beard pulled up as he quietly smiles. I run my slender fingers through his hair, and in a second, the smooth run is disturbed by a strand of thread. I try to look for the thread, but he is becoming agitated. I take my hands off, and wait for him to pool in all his focus on his work. Within minutes, he’s back tallying his numbers on screen, and I run my fingers again to catch that thread. I find it and I pull it up, what I see is not a thread from his cardigan nor from my skirt, this thread is from a different fabric. As I continue to pull the thread, he is disturbed again. This time, I move closer to him, and as I pull some more of the thread, I bite it off from the longer strand before he notices or gets irritated. Running into the kitchen, I quickly roll the thread piece and hide it in my Malibu cookie box, which is now my new tin box of secret artifacts! I ask him nothing about it, and he too seems to have nothing on his mind to share. We retire for the day.

 

The next day too begins as just another day, and the two us go about with our work. I free myself this evening and catch up on "Moby Dick". Melville’s novel is pretty big, I had only read the illustrated and abridged versions up until now. This time, I bought the original novel, and made it a point to read it through no matter how long it would take me to finish the book. I just finished ‘Chapter 45’, and by now I have picked up a few words of the seamen’s diction and a point or two about whales, particularly the sperm whales. Before I begin reading the next chapter, he comes and sits near me, with his head on my lap and flips the channel. Today, even before I could run my fingers through his hair, I found the thread sticking out. Like the previous day, I start pulling this thread again, this time the length exceeds than the previous cut. I carefully hide it from him and take it into the kitchen to store it in my precious little cookie box.

 

Days pass, and my cookie box slowly fills up with the several strands of thread that I cut every day. First, his hair comes unwinding, then his forehead, his eyes and ears, nose and lips, every part loosens up into colours of flesh pink, red, brown and black. I continue to pull the thread, and his arms come down, soon his legs too unwind. The last pull, the last strand of thread, the last toe, he is now thread strands. For the next few days, I ponder over what to do with these strands that sleep in my cookie box. I think, I think hard, and then I decide. I take out my spinning needles, connect all those thread strands and let my mind work through my hands. I am unaware of what shape the new knitting is going to take, but I relentlessly knit.

 

Before my eyes, the leaves are first ones to take the shape, and then with the shade of brown, I make the branches which then twines up with the trunk. The new shape is finally ready, and I place this one along with other trees. I hear some murmurs, perhaps the new pattern doesn’t look one bit similar to that of the older counterparts. They gossip! I sense that the new pattern is going to encounter some troubles when alone. Without thinking too much, I leave the pattern and the rest of the crew. As I take a few steps away from them, I hear rustling noise, I look back and I see that the new pattern has already shed a few leaves, and the other trees have come closer to the new member. Unable to perceive the situation, I simply leave them.

 

The next day, I come out to see the new member. It appears as if there is no life in it though it is standing still. I do not comprehend this and not wanting to spare much thought on this, I turn back. I hear the noise again. This time, I choose not to look. The noise grows. I simply ignore and go inside. As the days go by, the new member is no longer new, and the rustling sound has also receded. But sometimes, I hear them whisper my name.

What is my name, you ask?

I see the shadows of feet outside the locked door, there are some murmurs too. I hear two men speaking, more like haggling. One of the voices is familiar, it is Ramu-maama, but whose is the other voice? Must be a new customer! He sounds fierce in his tone and I hear Ramu-maama telling him how adjusting I am in bed, and that I can tolerate any sort of abuse.

He opens the latch and comes in. No, there is no smile, not even a sign of pleasant nodding - he is big, his eyes are red and seems to be fuming in anger.

Well, he is also a type!

If there is anything that I have learned in these many years living in shacks like these, then it is the fact that there are different types of customers, and each one comes with his own needs. Sometimes, there is a she coming in too! I am taught to serve the customers as per their needs. If I refuse, they beat me, drag me by my hair, and sometimes stick up a lean iron rod into my parts. I am not given many days for healing, the maximum of five to six days after all the excessive bleeding and then I have to go back to serving my customers.

Why am I here, you ask me? Was I trafficked?

Well, no!

I was born wrong! At least, that is what they said. They - my family.

Now, I am different. The man in front of me has paid for me because I am different. He locks the door and removes his belt. No, he is not undressing, instead he is rolling the end of that belt to his fist. I can sense his heavy breathing from a distance. And even before I can make sense of what is happening, he begins whipping me. I scream and groan in pain. The lashings do not stop for quite some time. Tired, he sits on the worn out cot while I sit in the corner sobbing and swallowing my pain. He now asks me to strip. I do as I am told, with shivering legs I stand and with trembling hands I undress myself. Maybe, he will now want to fuck me. But no, he flogs me more. My arms, legs, thighs, back, stomach and chest are swelling with pain. He doesn't seem to stop, and my shrieks get louder and louder.

I wake up in a different room. My body is still aching and I can't recall anything that happened after the lashings. I must have blacked out and turned conscious only now. I am not allowed to writhe in agony for long. If not serving the customers, then momentarily I have to attend to Ramu-maama.

Ramu-maama is not like other men, he is gentle, cunning but gentle. It was he who had helped me become different. He showed me the real world as opposed to the hypocritical world  into which I was born. I was made to wear clothes that my parents thought would best suit me, and in family get-togethers and sleepovers, I was asked to sleep with my cousins. If my cousins had gone to the late night shows, then I had to sleep with Ramesh-chitthappa.

Ramesh-chitthappa was that family member who was loved by everyone. He was a star with the kids for he made them laugh with his amusing antics, and for the adults, he was an example of success and happiness. A small provision store, a wife who brought dowry with her and a son to take his business forward - what more qualifications did Ramesh-chitthappa require, he had everything that the others would envied him for.

It was in one of those family sleepovers that I slept next to him. And suddenly in the middle of the night my sleep was disturbed. I felt a hand stroking me, and soon I was turned on my stomach and I felt something big penetrating into my butt hole. It was painful, my mouth was forcefully closed, and the penetration went deeper and deeper. After a while, I was released, and I silently teared up because of the extreme pain.

I was scared, and I was ashamed. It felt like I had done something terribly wrong, and this remained a secret with me.

Many times since then, Ramesh-chitthappa has forced himself on me and I have always remained quiet. In the beginning, it was painful, but then as days went by, I began to enjoy it. Perhaps, this sense of enjoyment itself became too much a burden and it had to continue being a secret.

Now when I think about it, I realise that I was ashamed to tell anybody about the wrong that was done to me simply because I found it pleasurable.

I spent my college years in a hostel, those years that showed me how different I was, and I realised what fascinated me the most. I liked boys. As much as I was leaning to liking this boy, Chandan, he began reciprocating my feelings. We realised that we were different and that we wanted to let this world know we were different. He would guard me from other bully boys and sit with me during lunch. They all made fun of us, all the other boys. But, somehow, we continued to sail together. We were real good friends and we were there for each other.

One day, I saw Chandan arguing with the hostel warden. The warden was pushing his body against Chandan, and Chandan was vehemently throwing him back. That night, Chandan wanted to be alone, and I complied. I did not realise until the next day that a sad Chandan's face was the last memory I would have of us together. The police was called, and charges were made against the deceased. They called him names and that he had committed suicide. The truth was never out, it was conveniently brushed under the carpet.

I was banished from my home when my folks learned that I was different. Without an aim, I walked. I spent many weeks without food and shelter until I walked passed this small office. It was called "Soul-to-Self", rather an unusual spin from the normative journey. I walked in and I was welcomed. Soon, I was taught the practices of their community, and I was given a choice to fully transform if I wanted to. I chose to be different and I persevered to attain that different identity in both mind and body.

I was now given a new name. But I was the same individual with the same talent of creative writing. I found no employment, because the world had a problem with me. My community could not sustain me for long, they had already helped me enough, it was about time that I began fending for myself.

Weeks of starvation and unjust arrests took me from place to place. Right now, I am at Ramu-maama's place. I am not sure how long I will have to serve here. Every place that I had been to gave me different names. I have learned to live a life under each name.

What is my name, you ask?

fidelity?

Half past nine in the night, the doorbell announces his arrival. I open the door, and he marches without even looking at me. My eyes are tired waiting for him. Today, he wore a white soft cotton shirt in the morning. It doesn't shock me anymore that the white shirt gets magically adorned with coloured lips. What is with us women and our fetish with playing with men's collars, I wonder! Hm. He smells differently today. Another acquaintance or has the current one changed the perfume? Well, I can't crib about this anymore. Wasn't I the stronger one in our relationship? Wasn't I who decided to allow him to decide for us? Wasn't I the one who claimed to be not good enough for him? Why then must him coming home late worry me? What is this strange love we have for ownership, I wonder!

awake and breathing

The alarm buzzes and wakes me from the deep slumber.

I open my eyes to see the illusion that I am alive.

Half dead and half dying, I breathe.

Incessant murmur vibrates my ear drums.

They say the word, the horrible one.

Slut.

I shut my eyes.

I open them them again.

Yes, I have felt this before.

That's a hangover from an extinct reality.

Amour

"This is some smooth wine, cara bella!" he is savouring every sip as we carefully observe the paintings in the museum.

My lover and I have come a long way, it has been over a year now, and we still hide our trepidation and bravely face the society that surrounds us. It is just pure love and frank lust that binds us. Together, we talk about many things, some serious academics, and some tough naughtiness to beat, yet we maintain our zing in the most plain and simple approaches that we know.

"Yes, bubeleh! It is fine wine. Well, what do you think of this painting?" ask I as we stop before a painting which is so captivating. It is an oil painting of a nude woman, whose body looks as if it was sculpted by the finest of sculptors. Yet, her eyes seem disturbingly pale and mysterious. My beloved knows a lot, and he loves literature, but now he too has fallen silent before this painting.

"Tish, this painting is beautiful. It is a nicely done artwork, perhaps by an artist who tried to express his affection for his lover through colours on canvas" he says gulping down the last bit of wine from his glass. Seeing my eyes fixed on the painting, he fails to resist his humour, and so, he carelessly but lovingly teases me by whispering into my ears, "Tish, she is a beautiful woman, but I have my eyes set on the woman who is standing beside me, naked or fully clothed, doesn't matter!" A coquettish smile spreads across my face, and I immediately buy the painting. He does not understand the intentions behind this hasty purchase, and I tell him that there is a tale that will unfold before him tonight. His eyes gleam in pure bliss and his face reflects all the naughty thoughts.

*****

The painting matches the decor of our humble abode by the woods. We are not bothered by any societal labels, instead we wake up to the songs of the rustling leaves, chirping birds and gentle zephyrs. A log cabin surrounded by nature is both soothing and terrifying. He and I are happy to be in this little cabin, for this isolation brings out our monstrous desires, and simultaneously we feel safe in each other's arms.

He comes to bed, and in his baritone voice asks me, "So, what story will I be listening to or seeing tonight?" As he begins to kiss my arm and makes his way to my neck, his hand gently runs inside my tees and unhooks my bra. I cannot resist him, and my wetness yield becomes rich. He nibbles on my earlobes, making his every touch erotic. Asserting his weight on me, he goes up and down, I let him in. Listening to what I want, he exactly does that and makes me feel good. We make love!

"Ah... that was a good one! Now tell me, sweetie, what is so beautiful about this painting?" Wiping the little sweat on his forehead, he lights a cigarette and awaits for my response.

Playfully snatching his cigarette, I take a deep drag and say, "Bubeleh, this painting has a tale to tell. Do you know the story of Psyche?"

*****

Psyche was the most beautiful mortal woman anyone had ever seen. Her beauty was glorified so much that the goddess of beauty, Aphrodite, herself envied Psyche. But the men only admired Psyche's beauty, nobody came forward to take her hands in marriage. Unable to see his daughter in distress, the King visited the oracle of Delphi, and asked Apollo for his help. Listening to the King, Apollo delivered a terrible prophesy, and Psyche was sent to the mountains, where she waited for the hideous creature to come and take her.

Upon waking up, Psyche found herself in a huge palace. She learned the splendours of the place and its luxury, but was forbidden to look at the creature who married her. The creature returned to Psyche, his wife, every night. Psyche was happy, she was loved, but the only thing that was slowly eating her away was that she was not allowed to see her husband.

One day, she took a candle near the creature and was surprised to see that her husband was the most handsome man she could have ever imagined. It was Eros, the son of Aphrodite. The drop of burning wax accidentally awakened Eros, and he was deeply hurt by this betrayal.

Immensely angered by Psyche's act, Eros in a firm tone said, "You were forbidden to see how I look, but your curiosity knew no limits. You tried to seek security in knowledge and destroyed our relationship!" Having uttered these words in pure detest of Psyche, Eros disappeared into the dark.

Psyche felt terribly sad and looked for her husband everywhere. She finally went to Aphrodite and pleaded her to talk to her son. Aphrodite sought this as the opportune moment and gave Psyche three cruel tasks to finish. The first task was to separate the seeds of wheat, millet and other grains from a small dune. The second was to fill a jar of water from River Estige, a river known for its awful and abhorrent torrents. Psyche managed to complete these two tasks. Aphrodite crafted the third one which would truly test Psyche's mettle. She was asked to go to Hades, the underworld, and bring the elixir of beauty to Aphrodite. Psyche was not supposed to open the box, but her curiosity compelled her to err once again. In the box, she did not see the elixir, instead there was Morpheus, the god of sleep and dreams, hiding. Psyche fell asleep.

Eros found out what had happened and went to Zeus for help. He begged Zeus to save Psyche. Zeus was amazed by their love, and agreed to help Eros. He even made Psyche immortal so that the two lovers could be together for eternity.

*****

"Fascinating story!" he kissed me on my cheek and cupped my swelling breasts.

"It is, dear. Psyche means soul or breath of life, and Eros means desire" I say this as he sucks on my nipples.

"What about their child?" he asks me with a naughty smile.

And I once again heighten the mood by saying, "Their child is Hedone, the god of pleasure!"

*****

Adultery

Melancholy. That's the word I revel in right now.

Am I depressed?

Do I need help, perhaps a psychiatrist to counsel me, or should I take up a therapy session?

It is a duality of existence that I am battling with! I need to search for a middle path where I can find peace!

Before I met him, I was at peace with my thoughts, and with my physical and emotional being. Or, at least, I was perfectly content living in that illusion. But, things changed after I met him, spoke to him, and eventually fell in love with him. It all happened in a jiffy! Among a handful of people in a so-called 'intellectual seminar', his eyes struck with mine, and in that moment, we sincerely acknowledged the vacant stares of apathy the two of us were hiding from the world. There was something different, perhaps it was the heavy rains that had washed away the dust that blurred our souls, or maybe it was just the scent of cigarette which wrapped him and settled on his smooth cotton shirt. I felt happy getting closer to him, smelling his manly sweat, and adoring his bearded smile. I knew, very well, that this was not the end.

In no time, my love was reciprocated, and I felt as if I had adorned my body with a new soul. A soul which was burning in passion and desire. Both our bodies and souls united and the love grew intense. But, how did this happen? He is not mine, he can never be mine! That doesn't mean I am guilty, I was only being true to myself. Did he use me? No, or, I don't know. At times, he says, unfortunately he's transformed into an automaton, but I find his sincerity disarming. Maybe, it is the nicotine talking and not him. Maybe, he wanted someone to make meaning out of his blank lifeless expressions. Maybe, he genuinely needed a friend.

A friend? But he does not confide in me with what's troubling him, nor does he tell me whether he is at peace when he is with me. I have given up on my own time simply to see him happy. I don't know if this love between us is being metamorphosed to something beautiful, or is it just growing like a powerful toxic potion? It is true that the society's labels of ethics and morality abound us, but it is even dreadful a sin for one to kill one's own passion for the sake of approval from a condescending phony society.

Everyone is trying to control their own unhappiness, while I have allowed my passions to act without restrictions, and now I have become too weak and vulnerable to decide if or otherwise I should pursue our togetherness any further. Emptiness is precisely the thing I fear most and the thing that troubles me most. If he knew this, would he help me with my situation?

My love though requited, forever remains unrequited. Yet, I see him as an abyss that I am blithely walking toward, an abyss from which I have no desire to escape. The strong thought strikes like a lightning bolt through my mind that my sleepless nights are about to become even more unbearable now that I really do have a problem - a heart in love! I am a cornered tiger with nowhere to run, the only option that remains is to attack.

I take him into my arms and replace his fatigue and insecurity with immense euphoria. I consciously and un-repentantly venture into unknown territories and dangerous waters, destroying the social pyramids of norms and building my passionate love's sanctuaries. I become the mistress of my thoughts and my actions. I can feel again, I can love something I don't possess. The wind has ceased to bother me and has become instead a blessing, like the caress of a god on my cheek. I have my soul back.

No! I am not guilty, but the thought of getting caught pricks me. At times, I feel there is no love and thus the absence of fidelity in his connection. Am I simply being played? A mere pawn who clears the path for the King?

Unable to solve this riddle, I find exactly what was there before. Sadness.

In order to seek peace, I commit to adultery, one that I am not afraid of. An adultery that has walked nonchalantly from generations to generations, though in the guise of words, has managed well to present oneself stark naked before the world.

I return to the safe embrace of the unholy and chaotic communion of thoughts onto parchment!

i feel

The buildings were wrecked, lamp posts ruined, flickering bulbs, and my metallic eyes saw those dilapidated walls coloured in red. The vision was getting blurred, perhaps the fight has drained me down, my unit needs to be charged.

Zzzz... gzzzz... bzzzz... the metallic sounds continued buzzing my electronic eardrums.

In a distance, I see everything aflame. The last of what made this town has shattered beyond the construction of memories. A tire in flames rolling about, charred bodies being scooped up by the crane, and the paradox of all, there is noise and there is silence.

The titanic battle between the flesh-n-bones and nuts-n-bolts, a struggle to know the meaning of mortality, and the last fight that will ever cease to be!

Wait... What just happened?! It's strange! It's strange... because... I feel!

rehearsing life!

I quietly mused at the figure of the beach-watcher, he stood in the soft-sand stone-still, as if time had bowed before him and paused. The waters gently kissed his feet, while the zephyr caressed his salt-n'-pepper french-beard. There was divinity in his promiscuous eyes, a strangely sweet paradox that now engulfed me, and for once I chose to live eternally in this illusion of reality!

Belle Melange

In the usual hullabaloo of the cutlery conversations, he ran from one corner to another attending to the heating oil and slicing apples. The sweat on his brow trickled down on the side, the plaid apron absorbed every drop of excitement, and he seemed pleased with this entire treatment. Twenty-seven years had passed since the last time he had laboured so much in the kitchen. Today, he carefully chose his ingredients, sharpened his knife, and braced up his talent.

That loaf of French bread looked so dry, and under his skilled care, they were soon chopped into little cubes. On the other end, there were three large Granny Smith apples, peeled and sliced under watchful eyes with extra care. The cuckoo-clock interrupted making her grand announcement of the fleeting time, and he realised that it was about time to begin the ceremony of cooking.

He took out the saucepan and dropped in some butter slices into it, having waited for a few minutes, he threw some bread cubes into the pan to partially melt along. Marveling on the harmonious blend of the butter and bread, he took in the aroma, and quickly spread the cubes on a baking sheet. While the cubes were turning crisp and brown in the oven, he moved to making the sugar syrup, after all, he knew that his guest always had a sweet-tooth. In a large mixing bowl, he began combining the apples, walnuts, dried cranberries, cream cheese and toasted bread cubes. As enticing as the mixing was, he wasn't satisfied with this little magnanimity. He added more, the mixture now experienced light drizzles of the sugar syrup. His rough and experienced hands gently buttered the casserole dish, and soon all the ingredients were evenly spread in it and was set to bake.

The top of the dish slowly turned golden brown and crusty, draining all the liquid inside it. The entire spectacle was so mesmerising, and he was completely lost in this amusement. The doorbell disturbed his musing, but it didn't irk him, rather, he was too excited as he ran to the door.

There she was, a little old now, with some grey hair. Those aged lines added charm to her face, and her eyes gleamed with euphoria. Holding her hand, and taking her to the table, he gently sat her down. Her beauty was so captivating that the oven's clicking tone had to bring him back from that magical spell. He ran to the kitchen, took out the dish, cautiously sliced it into little pieces, and decoratively placed it on the plates. To top it all, he had set aside some whipped cream to serve along.

As he was setting the plates on the table, she took in the aroma, and a smile spread across her face. It was the same dish which she had tried to make twenty-seven years ago. Callously cooking and not knowing what she was going to make, she had created fire. It was an accident, but he took it upon himself and gave the chaotic dish a shape and a taste. She wanted to know what this new dish would be called, and he simply looked in to her eyes and smiled. She could sense his smile but could not see it. He had held her hand and had given the dish a label.

Yes, it was the same food! "Lovely Mess" or what he in his baritone voice called, "Belle Melange".

Hiring a New Villain

I was tired of all the thought battles, writing was never easy nor it is any better now - I am still struggling! My novel has given birth to many characters, and just like a conventional plot, my story too has a hero and a villain. The very word 'convention' restricts me, and I am unable to move any further. Heroes can be created easily, all that a mind would require is to attribute some virtuous qualities and make him the 'ideal' person, a demigod. But, arduous brain-labour is invested in creating the perfect villain!

Initially, my villain had all the qualities of a bad character, an antagonist who was ready to throw obstacles at the protagonist. He was a flawed character and suited perfect for the job of a villain. But, I couldn't relate to this villain, he seemed far too unreal for me, because most of the villains that I have encountered in real life come forth in disguises and do most of the damage through their malicious remarks. I tried mending the existing villain's attitude and thought processes, but it got me nowhere. There were a lot of creative differences and my villain had to quit. It was time for me to search for a new character, to hire a new villain.

One day, a character walked up to me seeking the position of a villain in my novel. He did have his good looks to attract my eyes, he also had his proper measure of egoistic attitude which surprisingly grabbed my complete attention. Here was a man who had flaws, regular flaws which I could relate to in reality. The flaw of arrogance, anger, over ambition and ghetto mentality. He was a little short than I imagined, but what he lacked in height he made it up in his good looks. His voice too had a strangely sweet melody which was unusual for a 'conventional villain' to have, but he was an exception. He was taking the complete floor, and this new villain was being constructed on a grand scale.

My new villain also came with a sarcastic tongue, witty dialogues and a pride of being a learned man. He wore sharp clothes and stood distinguished from other characters. The well-groomed look and clean and tidy stature coming forth not just in the introduction but also in the climax - all accompanied to praise this new character. Even though a villain, he was still admired. I fell in love with this new villain, and I also hope that the readers would like him as much as I did.

The Last Drop of Sweet Coffee

That was the last drop of sweet coffee that the old tongue tasted!

Years of pressure on the weak body, to behave like that and not like this, to wear that and not this, to do that and not this, and all the other conventional ways according to the society was now being disowned.

'Culture' they said, but the old eyes had seen enough hypocrisy.

'Social Values' they said, but the old ears had heard enough interpretations.

'Success' they said, but the old nose had smelled enough perfumes of phoniness.

'Live' they said, but the old tongue had spoken enough silent tales.

But today was not the same, it was different. The aged mortal body chose to live for itself. Marching ahead on its weak and skinny legs, the body raced to the counter to buy itself a large cup of coffee. Setting the old eyes to work and scanning for the perfect spot to enjoy the coffee, there appeared wrinkles on the forehead and on the sides of those squeezed eyes.

Finally, the old eyes found the perfect spot, in the smokers' longue, and fearlessly walked towards the red chair. The wrinkled lips held a borrowed cigarette, the wrinkled hands showed its magic, and soon there were circular puffs of smoke in the air.

Along with this, there was the happy accident of large coffee. Breaking ties with the fake self, the true self now enjoyed every bit of the action and soon the large cup was almost finished, just then the aged tongue stuck out to catch the last drop of the sweet coffee, and the inner child was realized and released.

Bear with Sore Head

The husband came home tired every day. It was probably the excess work load at his office, but his wife suspected him. Every night, when the husband would doze off quickly, the wife would sniff around, she would check his shirt, pant and jacket pockets to find some evidence. She was furious, and if she did find something, then that would be the end of their married life.

The couple spent many a nights arguing about this, the husband always told that he had excess work at the office, but the wife refused to believe the nonsense. To the husband's unfortunate-ness, his wife check his savings in the bank account passbook only to be stunned at a withdrawal of whooping five lakhs. The wife couldn't take this anymore, she wanted to confront her husband in the office, and she immediately rushed to his office.

Adding to the chaotic moment of the day, the wife did not find her husband in the office. Some people who were still working there told her that her husband was fired three months ago. The wife simply couldn't control her temper, all the way back home, she was literally cursing her husband and herself for marrying him. Upon returning home, she packed her bags, wrote "I had been to your office today. I checked your bank account transactions. I am leaving this home forever. I can't live with a liar anymore!" on a piece of paper and left it on the table.

The husband came home late in the night, which was not unusual, and kept calling out to his wife in an excited voice, for he had managed to get a new job. He looked inside every room, but didn't find her. It was much later that his eyes fell upon the note that the wife had kept on the table. Shocked and depressed, the husband began crying loudly. This did not end for almost an hour. After sometime, he sat by his desk, and began contemplating on his actions.

If only he had been honest to his wife, she wouldn't have left him. If only he had told her that he lost the job three months ago, she would have somehow understood him and still supported him. If only he had told her that he had to take a huge loan from the office, where he worked, for her heart surgery three months ago, then probably she would have understood his plight. The doctors had insisted that no stressful news should be told to her, and all the while the husband buried all his difficulties under the carpet of pain.

The Emperor who Ruled

There once lived an emperor, mighty and strong. He was revered by the people of his kingdom. This emperor was the ruler of many lands, but he was generous. People admired him. He was the first to begin the whole monarch movement, and for generations his blood took to the throne. People loved him. He was easily approachable, and was always available to the common man. People spoke highly of his nature. Till his last breath, he ruled all his lands with absolute pride. People respected him in all ways. Emperors who came later did bear the same qualities of this ancient emperor, but...

Generations after generations the people were only ruled by monarchs, the soldiers were chosen from the best of lot, and they fought bravely to protect their lands and its people. Widows of these soldiers did not lament for too long over the brutal murders of their soldier-husbands, instead they prepared themselves to send forth their sons to the battlefield. If there were daughters, they were made to look after the comforts of these men. Thousands of years passed with the same tradition in practice, but...

Born into these lands, every new generation of bloodline was forced to follow and practice the tradition, until one day, a rebel chose to voice out. Things changed, matters became worse and people were made to believe in a different truth called democracy. Democracy believed in a ruler chosen by the people to run the workings of the land for the people and give the profits made to the people. A well-veiled authoritarian leadership grew in the name of democratic leadership. People liked to revel in this interpretation and never chose to come to light. Even to the present day, people believe that they are in a democratic country, but...

to feel small the right way

Untidy clothes and unkempt greasy hair, Akshara loved playing in the fields. She was no seeker of education, but she loved to learn. Everyone in the village adored Akshara, except for when she refused to go to school. The elders of the house somehow convinced her and Akshara had no choice but to accept.

The school was not made of tall walls, but it did block the much needed air. The dilapidated condition did not invite Akshara in any manner. Days passed by and she forced herself to go to school. She had made many friends though, and she seemed to be an average student. It wasn't like she disliked studies, but she felt that the amount of homework being dumped on her and the rest was not nice. There were times when she would finish all her homework, and there were times when there would be red bold lines on her tender palms.

Cribbing and whining all along the year, Akshara managed to clear her exams with average marks. The school was working on renovating the walls of the classrooms, and to care and encourage children to become educated adults.

Akshara's parents had now moved to the city, and the father went in search of a good school for his little girl. Soon, Akshara was going to one of the schools in the nearby vicinity. This school was different from the almost torn former school in the village, but was not that appealing. She was made to read books in the 'Library Hour', and they were little story books. Akshara was the kind of girl who would do things halfheartedly if she didn't like doing the imposed work. To her surprise, she enjoyed reading the little stories and soon made it a habit.

Akshara would borrow a book each day from the library, and would promptly read all through the night. Looking at Akshara showing interest in reading, her parents worked hard to give her a quality education. As Akshara began spending most of her time with story books, she made very few friends, but she was happy with books, classroom and few friends. This didn't stay for long though, for her friends soon began distancing themselves from Akshara as she was always seen reading books and not talking much. This behaviour became a little annoying for her friends, and soon Akshara was left with none by her side. Akshara, at that moment, felt that the whole world had abandoned her, for it was an age that believed friends mattered most.

Years rolled down, and now Akshara, a young woman, is sitting on her couch reading a book. It's a novel now, and she is at peace for she has realized that both people and books make one feel small, but people do it the wrong way, while books do the right way.