The Lucky Star

“Twelve”

She counted on her tiny fingers, tracing the paths she had just taken in the villa. It was the most spacious thing she had come across in all her 10 years of life. The rooms were like cities, wide, alarming and drool worthy in all its architectural status. She called the big villa as her castle.

“Twelve, it is” she reassured herself and said it aloud, biting her lips, crossing her fingers and anticipating a broad smile from her new teacher.

“Are you sure, young lady? For If you must be wrong then you need to write 21 horses and their talks a hundred times.”

An old man with the receding hairline and graying beard eyed her with a hidden smile.

“Yes Teacher, it is 12, 2 in the hallway, 4 on the way to the biggest rooms in the castle and one each in all the six rooms” She had to be right. She shuddered at the thought of the 100 times she was to write the 18th-centuryfiction, short story, inspiration, writers, authors, oneshots poem.

Mr. Goving Aarya rose up, towering the tiny girl. With his glazing brown supporting stick and a well-tailored suit, he tried to look young but none of them did the charm except the pride that was now dancing on his face.

He had caught her.

“There are thirteen turquoise blue Italian jars dear, you forgot the one in this very room, there on the highest shelf” He held her towards the expensive jars and found her face drop in a second.

” A hundred times it is” She sighed.

“A hundred times it is, dear” He smiled.

Heaving a sigh of relief and studying the retreating shadow of the girl, made his face glow with a shine, a kind of shine one gets to see when someone knows their bright future.

He was preparing a gem for the literature world.

Having published 20 books and a few accolades in his name. His skills had only sharpened as he had outlived his peers. A divorcee at 30 and kids in far away lands, none had inherited is writing skills. And deep down he knew he was the reason for it all.

His fame had him under its spell and that is why commitment was just a fun word back then.

But the raging time promised him the graying hairs, weakened knees, shivering lips, trembling fingers and sleepless nights.

He would barely write now, with creativity at bay, he longed for his family but it was too late. That was when he met her.

The girl on the streets, begging, trying to read articles out of scrapped papers, stolen glances to the textbooks of the wealthy school going kids. Govind had noticed her on his way to the park for his morning walk, intrigued by her commitment and interest. He once took her to the library and her sparkle in the eyes assured him of the hidden potential in her.

From then onwards, there was no turning back. He adopted the orphan, fed her with literature, put her to sleep singing Shakespeare and triggered the writer in her. He was on a mission., to carve out the best diamond from the nugget.

“She would remember me for this or maybe she will forget me one day like my kids but my heart is finally at peace.”

He retired to his cane chair, lost in thoughts while the future writer crooned on the long chair writing the poem a hundred times, savoring the intelligence of each line, lost in a world that her young mind imagined!

“I will always remember you for this punishment teacher” She yawned…

She just didn’t realize how her lucky star had brought her to her bright future, YET!

The Forgotten Window!

It felt fresh as the long night descended with a crisp of winter morning breeze. It whooshed its way through the broken glass of the forgotten window.

With my withdrawn eyes from the habituated look at the Ganesha idol on my table, I drift to the old teak cupboard situated at the north corner of my dim room. It was flaking brown, a bit of dampness at the back of it spoiled the edges of my neatly ironed shirts.fiction, one-shots, inspiring story, old-age, generation gap

A smile lit up as I knew they were never to be worn again, I was going back in time, flooded with memories of my childhood as the stream of morning light hit my light brown eyes.

My grandfather was still alive and healthy until I was seventeen. With the budding new mustache, there was a new love budding in my heart. Back then, every girl sporting long hairs and a bright smile were meant to be made for me. I smile at those days of daily crushes. And my grandfather was my guardian!

He was more a friend than the generation gap could define. He wrote letters and had me cycle my way near her house. He knew the art. After all my grandmother had fallen for all his efforts and still used to blush whenever she was reminded of it.

The cycle was a priceless possession for it came to me at the age of thirteen and I had cycled my way through the dense forests and roads bereft of people. The clink of the cycle gave me a strength that could have me face the fears of the silence in my world.

He fulfilled all the duties that my father thought was unnecessary. The same cycle took me to the barber shops, it took me to the Gemini circus where the monkeys had snatched my popcorn, it had taken us to the river banks that had crocodiles. My grandfather was an adventurous boy. Yes, a boy.

The best were the crisp night walks that we took after our dinner. He helped me break window panes and run like the little kids would. Even at the age of sixteen.

Then at the age of eighteen, I lost him and it was never the same again. I grew up and married. It has been so many years and he still stays alive.

As I look into the mirror, I smile for I resemble him. My grandson is sixteen now and it was time to meet him. For the first time.

They are settled in abroad and my son along with his family are to be here tonight. My wife departed a week ago and my son is arriving tonight!

I sigh, deeply hurt by the raging timeline!

But I promise that I will give the rest of my days to the grandson who has never met me. I will let him feel what it feels like to be adventurous and happy. I will let him know that the broken window panes give much joy than the seamless streaming of games online.

I will show him a new world through the forgotten window and things are never going to be the same.

I took my old camera, this will do the rest! I smiled as I drifted to a new dream!


photo credit: akigabo Longing via photopin (license)

Sparkle- A Shade Of Narcissism

Sparkle.

I named my new dog Sparkle. When my brother grimaced at my choice of the name for a ferocious looking german shepherd. There was a grin on my small face!

After all I had a reason to name him that. As I stood in front of the long mirror examining the woman I have grown into. Well defining features, authenticity in my being, the absence of the usual dove-like feminine features. A smile that could conquer a crowd. A perfect height and a dusky beautiful Indian skin-tone.fiction,one shots, motivational post, inspiring post, narcissm,

I might sound a bit narcissistic but hell with the society norms and the ideal pages from history. It is time to rewrite how we look at ourselves. Yes, we need to appreciate the beauty and we are skipping all the skinny, fair standards the magazines and the glamor world defines. I want everybody to look upto themselves for the beauty is authentic, it is formed and defined by the fights you fought, the tears your pillows embraced, the punches your punching bag silently took, the bruises that faded without notice, the smiles that enriched your life, the falls that taught you to pick yourself up.

Yes Everybody should have a shade of narcissism in them when it comes to how you look to the world. Create the world you want with whatever you have, however you are. Because you are not mere bones and muscles and skin tones, you are made of experiences and survival stories.

My survival through my ordeal had come by as a present in the beautiful package, yet there was something missing in the perfect reflection.

Yes.

The sparkle.

The bright sparkle in my eyes was lost surviving the ordeal. Hence I named my dog sparkle to remind me to embrace and regain the lost sparkle in my eyes and to light the world around me.

I was sure of the birth of the sparkle in my eyes as sparkle came running towards me and licked my legs!

‘B’ack-up Passion…AtoZ Challenge

I don’t know if such a thing called back-up passion exists but one thing that I’m sure of is that we are all born to be passionate about one thing or the other in life. Something that makes us feel alive. It might start as a mere curiosity or just a connection felt when doing it as a random act.

Coming to it I love to read, I mean a lot. Not the text books per-se but all the stories in the world. It was the tinkle series that got me started or should I mention that it was my mother who brought that Tinkle and ignited the fire of reading in me. Well thanks to both of them then.

I remember as a little kid, while commuting to school in a van that fairly takes over forty minutes and I always felt the time fly and it was then I realized that Time doesn’t travel but our brains make travel. Einstein was a genius for the relativity concept ( A bow). Courtesies to my tinkle and other magazines for connecting to Einsteins relativity theory. 

So that said it all, I realized that reading was my passion. I was wrong. Writing was my passion albeit not as literary concern as possible! Yet I still found time to write horror stories when I was young putting all my flexible muscles in my fingers to scare my brother who was and is the most honest critique of my works. And then we all grew up, started to believe that the real world out there scorns at your hobbies and passion. You had to be an engineer or a doctor to make a mark in life and so I was set for the career choice that I was believed to be the best for me and that was the best decision I ever made .

For it opened the doors to a new world, where learning and knowing the importance of the stage, coming to know of the value of friendships and the value of your passions were decrypted. Until then I had forgotten all about reading and writing until I came across like-minded people , Mangs(Mangala) , one of my closest friends who wears that shy traditional name and it was from her ; I discovered the plethora of books that I could read and tend to get a gist of the genre I like and thus my journey revamped.p

So , passion is fine but how long can one be only passionate about a single thing. The process can propel in the loss of creativity as the mind tends to dry up in the same dampened lane. This is when one needs to have a back-up passion , one that supports you, inspires you, gets you on your strong spirits and re-directs you to the goal.If that is what I have to say , then photography especially when it came to conceptual photography was more inclined towards my choices until the death of my camera. Then I was least interested with the low picture quality that comes from the not so expensive smart-phones. I have always felt that they never made justice to the object.

Then what else, when I had nothing to write about or click about, dilemma imposing it’s ambiguous sword against my neck.  had an option , there is always a choice.Find something that you like and I like singing with my feet and contemperory style has always fascinated me. It’s the most complex yet graceful forms that I have ever come across. The tilts , the jumps , and the way you lift yourself into the air, it feels like flying(not that I’m a dancer, but still…) and maybe that is why I was more attracted towards the form.It inspires me, it makes me wake up with a purpose, re-connecting me to the goals, to the dreams that I have planned for myself.

And that is how you motivate yourself back to your true passions and  back-up passions are a blessing to human kind. Embracing it would lead us to the unknown paths that’s lighted only for us intensifying the passion to learn more in all the ways possible.

I’m grateful for all the good things in my life and many more struggles that only has strengthened me so far.In the process of backing up more skills.

Happy day:)