Short story

Here is a short story to entertain you over the weekend.

The Swap

Arpita sat in her office with the whole world stretched out before her.
She was a strong woman.
She was a powerful woman.
She was a bold woman.
She was a lonely woman.
Arpita was the chief minister of a newly founded state in India.
Her career had peaked. She started as a journalist, became an activist and then, here she was wearing the crown of her new-found glory.
She folded back the newspaper announcing the Nobel prize for an Indian economist and sighed pensively….
Nostalgically,she recalled her grandfather’s lovely garden…She recalled how as a child she had buried a dead sparrow under a red and white rose bush, the result of her grandfather’s experiments with grafting. Her grandfather and grandmother stood beside her…The sparrow had fallen wounded from a tree the day before. Her attempts at healing the bird were not very successful. That is why she dug a little grave for the tiny dead sparrow and held a little burial.She remembered ,a few years later,the roses had turned uniformly pink on that bush.
Her childhood was spent with aunts,uncles,grandparents and cousins . She was always surrounded by family and love…but never her parents ,who were too busy setting up their own business and pursuing their careers.
And then she was a teenager,beautiful,lissome … At eighteen she went to university, where she completed her masters in Economics with flying colors and met Tushar. Tushar was an Economics lecturer ,three years her senior. He doted on her,adored her. He had the ability to love deeply,with all his being. And that is what he gave to Arpita, his deepest love and devotion.Arpita liked him. He was the son of the economic advisor to the prime minister. Tushar was smart ,dashing and popular. That he chose her above all others flattered her.
Arpita started work in a newspaper office . Getting a job for her had been a cakewalk as she had freelanced for newspapers from the age of eighteen. She could write on anything really well…sneezing,snoring or politics ,dance or books… anything.
Tushar doted on Arpita and took her out to lunches,dinners, dropped her home and picked her up from work,took her to theaters and movies. Her parents , who were now part retired and harvesting the benefits of their earlier frenzied existence, were more at home. They liked Tushar. The parents met. They liked each other. A date had been set for the engagement and wedding. The youngsters felt life was a breezy dream…
Then ,it happened… the sole event that changed her life.
It was 5 am in the morning.
The phone was ringing loudly. Jay, her father, sleepily picked up the phone at his bedside and then sat up suddenly. “Hello…what? When? How?”
Jay shook and woke up Shilpa, Arpita’s mother. ” Wake up! Tushar just called up with very bad news. His father passed away of a massive heart attack last night.”
Shilpa sat up,” What? What did you say?”
“Tushar’s dad died of a massive heart attack.”
“We just met him two days ago…and now…why ? How?”mumbled Shilpa.
“Heart attack.We have to go there now. Tushar was almost weeping,”said Jay. “Wake up Arpita and tell her to get ready.”
Shilpa went to Arpita’s room. She peeped in. Arpita was fast asleep. Shilpa went up to her daughter’s bed,sat on her knee at the bedside and kissed her daughter’s lovely face and said softly,”Arpita, Arpita ,you need to wake up. We have had some shocking news…”
Arpita loved having her mother caress her awake . It happened rarely. But this time her mother’s words had her sit up . “What happened?”she asked wide-eyed.
“Something very bad. Tushar’s father died of a massive heart attack at night. Tushar just called us up.”
“What will happen to us?”wailed Arpita.
“I think we have to think of them right now. Let us get ready and go,”said Shilpa.
By 6.30 am, they were on their way with her grandmother waving them goodbye.
They found Tushar’s driveway inundated with journalists. Somebody called out Arpita’s name as they got off the car .Arpita turned around. Her mother caught her arm and said.” Do not respond. Walk straight in right now.” Sandwiched between her parents,Arpita walked into the house. It was a huge old British bungalow,the official residence of the economic advisor to the prime minister.
Inside the hall, on the bier lay the body ,covered with a white sheet and decked with flowers. There were men in white pajama kurtas talking in hushed tones. Tushar stood among them with a face that seemed ready to weep. Arpita felt no sorrow but a sense of tiredness and embarrassment . Tushar looked a bit indignified and ridiculous to her.
From inside, came the sound of wailing. Jay went to Tushar and gave him a hug. Tushar detached himself from the cluster of men and took Arpita and her mother to the women. His mother and sisters were weeping.
They had more women sitting around them. When she saw Arpita and Shilpa, Tushar’s mother gave them a hug and wept some more. Shilpa held Tushar’s mother sympathetically to her chest and stroked her hair softly. Arpita stepped back. She found the whole situation awkward. It was nearing eight in the morning. She would like to go to work. Tushar looked in. She averted her eyes. He came up and said ,” Thanks for being here for me.” She smiled vaguely. As he went off to the next room,her father came and told them he was going with the men for the cremation.
Arpita waited for them to start. Then, around eight thirty, she told her mother,” I need to go to work or,at least, to call up office.”
Her mother looked at her aghast,” How can you think of work at this point?” whispered Shilpa.
Arpita shrugged her shoulders and walked out. She felt stifled in this crowd of mourners.
Somebody called out her name again. It was Gitika from her office.Arpita smiled and went towards her.
“What are you doing here?”asked Gitika.
” What are you doing here? His son is my fiancĂ©.”
“I came to cover the story for our newspaper. They are not letting journalists in. We have nothing except a press release from his office. Maybe, you can do an insider’s account as an exclusive for our paper. It would be a great break in your career,”said Gitika.
“Why not? ” said Arpita.”I will inform our office. That way I can keep my mom and the office happy. I can stay here and still work.”
She went indoor and called her office to tell them she would do an exclusive , an insider’s story covering the whole event of death of the economic advisor.
Shilpa was looking for her daughter.When she saw her using the phone(for this was a decade before the mobile explosion), her mother nodded approvingly from a distance ,thinking that her daughter was arranging leave.
When they went back home after an emotionally charged and exhausting day, Arpita told them,”I have some urgent work.” She went into her room and pounded away at her typewriter(for it was before personal computers or laptops became a must for writing in newspapers).
She came out for dinner and told her parents,”I have to drop my assignment urgently in office. Can I please borrow the car and go? Then, I will be back in twenty minutes. I will eat after coming home.” Her parents agreed. Her office was a ten minute drive or a half-hour walk.
The next morning,when her father opened the newspaper,he hollered for Arpita. ” How dare you do this?” He was pointing to her exclusive that filled half of the first page. It was her article with a byline and a logo saying ” An insider’s account”…details of the family’s grief and loss… a vulturine account with morbid details. Jay was furious. How could she infringe on the sanctity of personal relationships and make it public! Where had he and Shilpa gone wrong in the upbringing of Arpita…
The phone rang. Tushar at the other end was incoherent…but Arpita understood that she was free again….
For nearly three decades,she had stayed free of all family encumbrances,including her own…
Now, after almost three decades,Tushar’s name cropped up in her world again…as a Nobel laureate…no longer a mere lecturer…
Arpita thirsted to see him. She loved success and the successful.
How she wanted him now!
But, would Tushar want her ?

From my window…

Every morning when I wake up and see the sun rising ,I feel a new hope in my heart. I feel happy when I see the white butterflies fluttering among the green trees. The golden Orioles add color when they flit from tree to tree. When the Angsana trees are filled with yellow flowers,the Orioles become an extension of the blooms as they flit from tree to tree. It seems as if the flowers are hovering and are on the brink of fluttering their petals and moving out of the trees.

The Angsana Oriole

I saw the Angsana flowers take flight
And become a Golden Oriole bright.
I soared with the Oriole
And saw the flowers
Colored by the sun
Turn yellow in pure fun.
I saw the water lap the trees
And felt the warm sultry breeze.
The grass below giggled
And wiggled,by the breeze tickled.
I saw speedboats’ cruising rippled
The water into big waves.
All this I saw with the Oriole
Before it returned among
The golden Angsana flowers
Again a part of the sunshiny ,yellow towers.

Indistinguishable….lost….part of the whole.


The Flame of the Forest and the Angsana did a merry dance
And out of it was born a vibrant new plant.

All came to see
As the blooms outdid the other trees
Phoenix like ,red and yellow,
They seemed to rise
In a fiery guise
And reach for the sun.
They shone with gold
Outdid all flowers of old.
In a burst of purple flame,
They seemed to rise
Eternal birds
In their endless flight towards a happier time.
With their red and gold, they foretold
Of a future where all are bold.
Where there are no fears,
No need to wipe trouble torn tears.
No boundaries drawn,
No limits sworn.
Where the flowers can turn to birds
And rise,flying towards a paradise.
… Songs of infinite life and harmony…


When I look at the waves running at me
And sunshine dripping off the trees
I know I must have done something right
To have the privilege of this lovely sight
To look
To see
To have the ability
To put together
These things
And realize
Our blessings
In the turn of each leaf
In the drift of each breeze
To put them into words
And sing for
The Eternal Bard
With the gift of his own song
That gushes out in a language
Made by Him
I am privileged
To see
To write
To sing
None of this is mine
Don’t you see
It all belongs to Him
The Maker of waves
And the Painter
Of sunshine on leaves.
All this is a part of
You. Me.


Today, my uncle turned 67 and he wrote to me :”Nobody had ever told me I’d turn 67! So with some surprise here I am. The best stage of my life has begun and is going quite well”.
It is wonderful to see the celebration of life, energy and sense the enjoyment of movement towards a fulfilling ,ripe age. These poems with their celebration of life are dedicated to him.


Let us celebrate life
Happy days
Let us all celebrate while it stays.
Let us celebrate life.
The chirping of a bird.
The colors of a rose.
The patterns of
A butterfly wing.
Let us celebrate while it stays.
Let us celebrate life
Strains of happy songs
Trees swishing
The breeze whispering.
Let us celebrate while it stays
Let us celebrate life
Just the sensation of being.
Let us celebrate life while it stays
Let us celebrate life.


Let us celebrate
The glory of sunshine ,
The greeness of the grass,
The brilliance of the sun,
The fragrance of clean air,
The opulence of life ,
The fluidity of water.
The uprightness of mountains.

Let us celebrate
The flitting of butterfly wings.
The intensity of a red rose
The colors of the rainbow.
The touch of a friendly hand.
The sound of a kind word.
The feeling of happiness.
The chirping of a little bird.

Let us celebrate….


Wake up! Look at the sun rise!
Raise up your face to the skies.
Feel the wind.
See the world.
Stretch your arms out.
Twirl around and dance
To the rhythm of the trees
That rustle in the breeze.
Feel your hair fly astray.
Breathe deeply and see….
See how lovely is this creation
For you and for me….
Sense the ecstasy of the universe…
The vastness…the littleness of the earth…
And yet it is there like a flawless gem
Set in the endless infinity.
Revel….that we live…
Revel ….that this is an experience,
An adventure
From which we may never awake.
Perhaps all a figment…
…..A figment of a fabulous dream…

I love being a woman

I am amazed at all the raging controversy about how women should be perceived.
Someone said women are like “a box of sweets” . Some view us as Barbies.
This is how I see women.

Do you not see me?
I am Durga.I am Kali.
I see no color,
No race,
No religion.
I sense no boundaries.
I have no borders.
I am beyond crime and criminals.
The world is contained in me.
The macrocosm is my body.
Do you not see me?
I am a woman.
I can kill. I can destroy
All those who touch me
With unholy hands.
I have the cleansing fire in my soul.
Can you not see me?
Can you not sense me?
I am Gayitri
The magic incantation
Which turns a man into a divine.
Have you forgotten?
Forgotten it all?
I destroyed the Asuras
With their bestial souls.
I am the mother
The nurturer of all
I am the part that completes the whole.

A traditional woman

I am a woman of traditions.
I believe in being a mother.
I enjoy being a wife.
I loved being a daughter.
I never felt it was not right.
I am proud of my sons.
I am content to create .
I like to care for the young and old.
I have no need for an identity outside my roles.
For I am a successful woman.
I know this on my own.
My heart is in my home.

This is my protest

This is my protest against
Women who are helpless
Women who crib and cry for being underprivileged
Women who allow themselves to be cowed
Women who do not acknowledge the power with which they are endowed
Women who look for approval
Women who fear reprisal

This is my cry
To arouse the latent forces in us
To get in touch with the creative
To waken the strength of the mother
To nurture what is good and kind
To revive our inherent powers

Rise up
Rise up and get in touch with the divine
Beyond all weaknesses of the body and mind.

Let us chant…
I am a woman strong and contained —
Come be my companion and friend.

Sisterhood of women

We,in sisterhood,stand together
Weatherproofed women.
Young and old.

Life passes.
Life thrashes.
Life laughs.
Life pauses.

For centuries and ages untold.
We meet ,young and old.
Women through the ages.
Part of an unbroken sisterhood.

In our minds
We have steel.
In our hearts
We hold fire.
In our arms
We nurture flowers.

Wives, friends

We are here to rise again.
Forever and ever,
The sisterhood never ends.

We are women of untold strength.


I started this blog because I believe that all ideas are born free and have no boundaries. I want to share my thoughts with the whole world. I get so much joy from thinking and writing that I want the whole world to celebrate life and happiness with the ideas and thoughts that bring me this sense of exhilaration.

Ideas are born free
There are no bounds
Don’t you see
There are no forms
No dos and don’ts
Where ideas come from
There are no rules
There are no preconceptions
There are no definitions
No fences,no borders.
Only stars in clear space
With glittering bright lights
The inside of our mind
A conglomerate of intricate network
Where ideas dodge ,flit and float…
Occasionally get caught
Then free themselves
Again to float among the stars
Till again caught
By a mind like ours.
But where do they come from…
These ideas
Where do they start….


Ideas have wings
They are born with the wink
Of fairy star eyes.
Then they they take off….
They fly
They flit and float through the blue skies.
They hide behind clouds
Slide on rainbows
And soar.
They know no bounds.
They slide and glide
Through infinite minds
They hover in the air
And pause a little there.
People think
And people declare
Ideas like this are really rare.

But are they?
Do you think?
Who thinks?
How do you know?

Where do your ideas come from?
What makes you think?
How many more think like you?

And it all starts with a fairy star wink…..



I see the distant bounds of land
Where the oceans greet the sand.
I see the trees
Sway in the breeze.

I see butterflies flit
Among the flowers
I feel sunshine smile
On all that is ours.

And yet,

I see mankind
With fury seethe
Raging on built up ,pretended, unreal needs
Need of creed
Need of greed
Who creates these boundaries?

When man first walked the Earth
What countries bound his girth?
What languages tied his tongue?
What cultures drew the lines?

Was he happy?
Was he sad?
Was he just very glad
With God’s plenty
And sunshine in a friendly land?

Why is it we crib and cry
Over words and over lines?

Why is it we do not see
How wonderful is God’s plenty?
Why is it we do not share
What is available everywhere?

Full of joy and full of fun,
I see the little brook run.
Here I am , one with the brook
A grain of sand
In God’s mighty land.


Singapore…. Things that I love


The nicest thing about Singapore is the sea…not the downtown beaches or the East Coast but the remoter beaches with their wild wind and frisky waves….


The blueness of the sky
The madness of the breeze
The swishing of the trees
The colors of the sea
The whiteness of the sand
The swiftness of the waves
As they rush towards the land

What a joy it is to be living!


Every minute ,
I see the sea change
The sky keeps rhythm with the waves
The sunshine spreads a glaze over the blue and green
And then loses itself in the sheen
Becoming an extension of the frothy water.
The sky turns grey
And the sea is an aquamarine blue
With touches of somber notes
The sun has set
The day draws to an end
The sea from molten lava red
Has become a mysterious deep grey
With pin pricks of distant lights
The waves sing a soothing lullaby
Now it is night.
Time to sleep,deep, sweet, soft slumberous sleep.


Darkness descends on the sea and me.
I can hear the quiet secret of the breeze
Strong, resonant , yet muted.
The distant lights glimmer
The waves become whiter at the edges
As they rush towards the beach
The water is a luminous black
Strange, opaque yet translucent and fluid.
The mysteries of the sea reach out to me
In their strange antiquity
Below the dark liquid
Lies buried treasures of yore
Life holds mysteries at bay on the shore
But if I could plunge into the deep
I could perhaps see the secrets that the sea
Holds back from humanity….

The Returning

I can see the waves run
Run at me with open arms
Spreading out all their charms
Inviting me to go into the sea
And be one with infinity
I can sense their rhythm and their beat
Become one with the breeze
I can sway like the trees
And glide in with ease.
I can feel the cold water
Close around my knees
I can feel the drift of the waves
And I float , I swim ,
The sea has now become a part of my blood stream.
I drown,drown my senses in the waves
Till like a seagull
I rise again
Refreshed by the salt sea
Returning back from eternity….


Listen ,
Listen to the mad race
Of the wind and the waves
See the bubbles that chase
With the colors of the rainbow
Sparkling, bejeweled , shiny
It’s like laughter that is sunshiny
Happiness, gayness, frolic.
The bubbles bounce into the sea
And become a part of endless eternity.
When they blow towards the beach
It’s like pieces of the sea
Run out to greet me
Like water without gravity
Is it all a part of the same reality?


The sea washes away my tears
Salt unto salt
Water into water
The waves lap the edges of sorrow
Till it wears off
And I can see again
The calming in the vastness of the ocean
The madness ,today, is rhythmic and gentle
Like Ophelia, my tears mingle with the salt water
And my joylessness is lost
Lost in the blueness, the vastness, the endlessness of the sea.
How small are my tears in this infinite universe!