Pitter Patter

She hit the ‘Shutdown’ button and watched small windows dancing up and down on the screen. To her right, she could see the raindrops making indecipherable patterns on the windows. She stretched her hands and let out a small sigh. “When will it stop raining in Mumbai?” She laughed at herself. Such a rhetoric question! She got up from her seat and started collecting her belongings.


There were two other people in front of the elevator. She waited impatiently, watching the floor numbers flash in the descending order. There were more people inside the lift. Blank faces, haggard from a 10 hour work day, with a distant look in their eyes, pre-occupied by the thoughts of the long hours of commute ahead of them or better still, of a home cooked dinner awaiting them at the end of it. How she wished she had similar thoughts in her mind. She shrugged at the thought of her empty apartment and some left-overs in the fridge.

She walked out of the elevator into the lobby. Many people were waiting in the lobby hoping that rain will subside sometime soon. But she didn’t hold such thoughts. She took out her umbrella and ventured into the rain. There was dirty water all around, nevertheless, people were walking on the road, avoiding potholes with the skills of an acrobat. Wind was gushing in the opposite direction, but she held on to her umbrella with a vengeance. She tried to stop a good number of auto-rickshaws, but no one seemed to be going in the same route. She continued walking aimlessly. She was passing by a slum area and that is when she saw a group of children playing with the rain water. Seeing the paper boats floating around, she felt something tugging at her heart.

She could hear their laughter clearly in her head. The image was slightly blurred though. It was she and her own sister running through the stair-way with some sheets of papers in their hands. They both sat down on the last step and started making paper boats. One by one, the boats started floating in the water – some capsized, but some went on for long distances as though they were on a mission. The neighborhood kids soon joined in and boating races were conducted to see whose boat will travel the farthest.

A loud splash of water and she was brought back to reality. The mud water fell on her too and she bit her tongue hard to suppress the curse words that were about to fall out of her mouth. The wind was playing a tug of war with her umbrella, but she didn’t have any intention of giving in. She continued walking looking for an auto-rickshaw, but in vain. In front of her was a mother-daughter duo; the mother was carrying her daughter and they both were under one umbrella. They held on to each other as if they were inseparable. She looked fondly at them.

She had always loved rain when she was younger. The smell that emanates from ground when that first raindrop hits the ground, the beauty of watching the rain through a window, the cozy feeling of curling up inside the blanket, eating pakodas and drinking hot tea – she loved each and everything associated with the rain. But she still feels nobody loved rain more than her mom. She could see her mom perched in front of a window for hours watching the raindrops hitting the ground. She had always hugged on to her mom and slept during thunderstorms, with the wind and rain singing a melodious lullaby in the background.

Another splash of water and this time it was a car. She was at her wit’s end. Fully drenched and walking in the muddy water for the last half an hour had really made her irritable. She started looking for some shelter around her. Not so far, she noticed a group of girls, barely in their 20s, giggling and walking in the rain. They were jumping up and down, dancing and enjoying the rain to the fullest.

“It is raining, come on everybody let’s go to the rooftop”, her friends were shouting. In no time, twelve of them were on the rooftop of their college hostel, jumping up and down and running about in the rain. Hold no bars; the first rain of the season should be enjoyed to its fullest. They played antakshari, pulled each others legs and danced away the evening in rain.

Again a strong gush of wind; but this time instead of holding on to her umbrella, she let it go. She opened up her arms and experienced the raindrops falling effortlessly on her face. She could feel a small tear drop forming on the brink of her left eye, but she just let it be.

P.S: This story of mine was voted to be in the top ten stories and got published in my office magazine about a year ago. I thought of sharing it here today.

P.P.S. I am travelling for the next two weeks and will be moderating the comments till the time I am back. I will be replying to the comments and reading your blogs as soon as I am back.

Once Again

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 27; the 27th Edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The topic for this month is 'Once Again'.

“Once Again”, she pleaded. He acknowledged happily. As the world went up and down, she felt like a fairy godmother, flying fast to save the princess in distress. She laughed out loud. She wooshed past several trees and meadows. In all the fairy tales, she had liked the fairy godmother more than the princess. The godmother had all the powers. She could dress up princesses by the wave of the wand, bring chariots and horseman by the twinge of an eye and roam around the world with the snap of a finger. Who wants to be a princess in between all this fun? Princesses had to be locked up in a tower or mistreated by step-mom or sleep through several years. Bleah ! Agreed they will be rescued in the end by a handsome prince, but she would rather rescue someone than be rescued. She would rather roam around the world than dress up and act coy. She would prefer a cloak and hat to all the princess-ey dresses.

She could see the tower at a distance. She imagined the princess all dressed up, waiting to be rescued inside the tower. She rolled her eyes. She practised her dramatic entry and introductory line several times in her head. She will  appear out of nowhere and bring herself to a dramatic stop in mid-air. Then she will look into the sad eyes of the princess and say "I am your fairy godmother and I am here to whisk you off to safety". She giggled imagining the happiness on the face of the princess. But before she could use her flying skills to its fullest, she was back to her dad’s arms. "Uff", she sighed. She had never liked this gravity concept. It is such kill-joy to all the fun we humans can have flying around. "Once Again", she pleaded This time she has yet another princess to rescue from yet another tower.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

55 Fiction: Inner Demons

She peered at the mirror through her calvin klein glasses. “Is this really me?” She thought. The demons inside her whispered "Look how fat you have become". She threw the unbitten apple into the trash bin and walked away in her high heels. She had no idea the way led to her own grave.

55 Fiction: A small love story

I run into your arms when I am depressed or sad. As soon as you touch my lips, I am transported to another world. You play with my tongue and I melt in your arms. You have your own way of making me feel better. Oh Lindt chocolate, what would I have done without you?

A pair of eyes -2

Continued from A pair of eyes - 1

She speaks:

First time I saw him, I was shocked. I didn't know that he was standing right next to me all the while. He smiled and I was in a trance. Even if I had smiled, he wouldn't have seen it anyway. I was too embarrassed to even return his smile and quickly turned my head. It was getting very late for me, so I decided to walk to the nearby autorickshaw stand and take an auto, instead of my usual bus.

After that I kept meeting him in the busstop. We always took the evening buses. He always had a mischievous smile on his lips and he kept looking at me once in a while. I kind of started liking the attention that he was showering me with. Whenever he caught me looking at him, I blushed. Thank god for the hijab, else he would have seen my red face everytime. Once I started giggling after seeing his smile towards me and a friend of mine caught me. I had a hard time explaining to her that I just remember something that happened earlier that day and giggled.

Every day, I noticed something new about him. First, there were those curly locks which kept falling off to his forehead. He seems to be pretty irritated by those locks and kept pushing it off his face. Another day, I noticed that his lips curve to left whenever he smiled. Next day, he was speaking to his friend, I realised he was a weird way of stopping in the middle of a sentence.

Many a time, I thought he will speak something to me, but he never did. Had he spoken something, I don't know whether I would have responded. If someone sees me speaking to him in a busstop, there will be a huge ruckus at home. Babba will scold me to no end and may stop me from going to college the very next day. So I kept quiet and enjoyed all the attention he was giving me. I was happy in those silent moments that we shared.

I don't know when I started timing my visits to the busstop so that I can see him everyday ...

To be continued ...

A pair of eyes - 1

Blog Marathon Post 20

He speaks:

She had dark kohl rimmed eyes. They were slightly green in colour, dove shaped and deep. In short, they were beautiful. Those eyes were all I could see. Her face was not visible to the outside world. However, I envisioned a beautiful face behind the purdah, the moment I saw those gorgeous eyes. I first saw her on a rainy day when I was waiting for the bus at the busstop. She made haste to the stop, with an umbrella which could barely protect her from the rain. Rain had succeeded in drenching her almost completely. She came inside the shed and seemed entirely irritated with the rain. She kept her bag and umbrella on the side and tried to shake off the water from her purdah. She started wiping her hands in a handkerchief and that’s when she saw me. She looked alarmed because she didn't seem to have realised earlier that I was standing there. That’s when I first saw those eyes. There was something enchanting in them that kept my gaze. She quickly withdrew her eyes and concentrated on taking care of her bag and belongings. As soon as the rain subsided, she stepped out and walked away in a hurried pace.

After that, I met her several times at busstop. Sometimes she came with a friend, most of the times alone and always took the 5 o'clock bus back to her home. Our eyes met several times and she always withdrew her eyes hastily whenever that happened. Her eyes spoke a lot about how her day went so far. The whole gamut of emotions she went through was very efficiently portrayed in her eyes. They went from bright to droopy to sad to red with anger, depending on her mood of the day. I first found it intriguing that I was attracted to a pair of eyes so vehemently and later found it exciting. I started timing my visits to the busstop so that it will coincide with her 5o'clock bus. I was happy just being in her company but couldn't muster up courage to utter a single word to her. I was happy in the silent moments that we shared together.

To be continued ...

55 Fiction - A Present

“Honey, look what have I got you”, gushed her father, handing over yet another Barbie doll. She looked at the doll; it had gorgeous face and shining hair. Seeing her blank face, her father asked her whether she wanted some other birthday present. She muttered “Time with you”. His blackberry buzzed almost the same time.

Author's Note: This is for you anon, you know who you are :)

The War

Blog Marathon Post 14

White soldiers and black soldiers glared at each other. They were both staying at the nearby towers. The only thing that separated them were two glass panes. The glare was so intense that it could have broken the glass panes itself. The white soldiers stuck their tongue out, black soldiers mocked back at them with a hand gesture. White soldiers shouted "We will see you at the battlefield", black soldiers shouted back "So be it". Strategies were decided, plans were plotted and weapons were sharpened. They waited impatiently in their towers; there was smell of blood in the air. Seconds turned to minutes and minutes to hours. At last, the moment they were all waiting for arrived. They held their breath.

But sadly, that day the diner decided to put only salt in his salad and no pepper. Alas, there was no war as expected. They waited for the next diner so that they can meet at the battlefield.

Authors Note: This post is dedicated to my dear friend PB, who is very sad today. Please send your wishes his way so that he will feel better. PB, I hope atleast you smiled reading this :)

The Chair

She slowly removed the cobwebs from her attic doorway. Suddenly some dust fell on her from the roof. She coughed twice. She had always been allergic to dust. She looked around, the attic was dim-lit. She had a hard time adjusting to the light in the attic. Today she came here to look for an old tool box. It had been so long since she came to the attic. Recent pregnancy and child-birth prevented her from moving around much, let alone the attic.

She rummaged an old cardboard box with the hope of finding that tool box. She searched for a while, got dust covered all over her body, but all in vain. She couldn't find that old tool box of hers. Disappointed, she was about to get out of the room and close the door behind her. Just then, she noticed that chair. Abandoned, in one corner of the room, the chair lay fully covered in dust. She was surprised to find it here because she had long forgotten the existence of this chair.

The chair and she have a long story together. The earliest memories of chair include her Pa reading newspaper diligently, sitting in this chair, every morning. Many a time, she climbed up into his lap while he was sipping his morning coffee and rested her head on his chest. He would continue reading the paper and tell her one or two stories from that days news. Sometimes, she came back from school and insisted that she wanted to eat sitting in the chair, much to the resentment of her mom. Later in college days, the chair remained her favourite hang-out place at her home. She loved spending hours, sitting in it and reading her favourite books. She cried sitting in it when her heart was broken for the first time, she drifted off to sleep while watching her favourite late night tv shows. The chair grew as a part of her and she always felt comfortable in its arms.

Somewhere in the folds of time, as days progressed to months and months to years, the chair was moved to attic. It happened as a natural progression of life. Thinking about it now, she believes that happened after her Pa passed away. She couldn't look at that chair without seeing Pa in it. Soon, she forgot about the chair and other priorities started shaping up her life.

She was woken up from her day dream by the wails of her new born son. She directed her maids to clean the chair and bring it to the front porch of the house.

With her son in her arms, she walked slowly to the front porch. The chair had settled in the porch as if it has a long association with this house. She sat in the chair, with her son's head resting against her chest. While she patted him to sleep, she felt life has come a full circle. She felt that somewhere up above her Pa must be smiling at this beautiful picture.

Authors Note: This post was triggered by a picture that was send to me by my friend Madhu. He sent it to me thinking that I will get an idea for 55 fiction, but I couldn't contain the story in 55 words :) The picture is given below:



Madhu is a Freelance Eclipse Trainer and Consultant and is the master mind behind the website eclipseBible.com. He also blogs about his experiments and the latest advances in Eclipse over here

55 Fiction: Companions

Blog Marathon Post 8

“You are treading muddy waters”, they tried to warn her. She didn’t listen. She carried on with her stride, oblivious to her surroundings. No matter how neglected, they remained with her, through highs and lows. After an hour long run, she placed them carefully in the shoe rack. They waited dutifully till the next dawn.

55 Fiction: Dolls

Blog Marathon Post 4

“Don’t go”, she said. He looked at her. She was teary-eyed. He wished he could do something about it. Instead he said, “I can’t even promise you that I will come back”. Just then, the shopkeeper took him and wrapped him in a glossy giftcover. He started his journey to make another little girl happy.

Authors Note: This is my first attempt at 55 fiction. While writing this I could understand how difficult it is to potray your thoughts in lesser words. But, if you can manage do that, how powerful it can be :)

A canvas

Blog Marathon Post 2

She always had a way with the colours. Red, Blue, Green, Yellow, magenta, every other colour in the world had been her good friends. Give her a plain canvas, she mixes her favourite colours and gives strokes as if she is writing a poem. A dash of this, a dash of that, and out comes a lovely picture, be it scenery, a portrait or something abstract. She started every picture as if her colours are telling her something and the picture at the culmination of the whole process reflected that.



One fine morning, she drew a cottage on the bank of a river, with a picturesque backdrop. But, what was prominent in the picture was a vase, which could be seen through the windows of the house. Once, she had finished the picture, she couldn’t keep her eyes off that vase, it was so beautiful. That evening, her childhood friend came to see her. They were meeting after years and spend hours talking to each other. Once the dinner was over, after putting the dishes into the dish-washer, she carefully unwrapped the present which her friend gifted her. It turned out to be a vase, shining in the tranquility of dawn.

She dismissed it as one off an incident. But she couldn’t stop laughing the day her husband came back from office, irritated, with his clothes smeared in mud water. That very afternoon, she had painted a picture of children splashing mud water and playing in the rain. The predominant colour of the picture was brown. Another day, she drew a golf course; she had always been fascinated by the lush green surroundings of golf courses. Her daughter came back home from school that evening disappointed. Her friend had got a new pencil box and it was from her uncle who came back from London. Her daughter always thought her pencil box which her dad got from NewYork was the best and couldn’t believe that someone can have a better one. As they say, she was green with envy.

Sometimes, she tried to use these coincidences to her advantage. She drew a bunch of yellow roses, when she toyed with the idea of her husband getting some flowers, while coming back from office. She drew her childhood home and surroundings when she wanted to go back to her parents place. She drew a nice cozy candle-lit dinner and expected her husband to take her to one that evening. At times, it worked, at times, it didn’t. However, she was happy with the rare coincidences that her intuition and canvas provided.

However, today was different. Her mind was disturbed from the moment she took her paintbrush. She poured colours into the canvas like a maniac. Her paint brush was moving swiftly; her strokes bold. She noticed that today she is using red as the prominent colour. And the end result was abstract, she herself couldn’t make any sense out of it. It was a flow of red colour, in a more darker background, with shades of black. The picture had an eerie feeling to it. She threw the paintbrush away, as if disappointed with herself and fell into the couch. She was woken up by the blaring sound of an ambulance. Before opening the door, she looked back at her colours for one last time. They were smiling at their own cruel joke.

Her eye's view

After a hard day's work, she was sitting in a swing in the balcony of her flat, with a cup of coffee in her hand. Nowadays, this has become her favourite way of destressing herself. The swinging action gives her body a rhythm which brings back the memories of her childhood. It reminds her of the summer holidays which she used to spend in her grandma's house. The innumerable hours, she with her cousins, used to play in the swing, in the mangrove. Big battles were fought to decide who will swing first and how long. Those were the memories which refused to leave her, which brings back a smile to her face even after so many years.

Looking down from her balcony, she could see many glimpses of a busy metropolitan city life. There were buses and vehicles rushing past in the road below. People were frantically rushing towards their destinations. Everyone is busy with their own lives. Everyone is in a search for a better life, a better job, true love, more money and many other things which they feel will bring them happiness. This mad rush had been a part of the life for some time now. Four years back when she came to this city with a job, leaving the close comforts of her home, she had no idea that life in this city will change her attitude and views to such a great extend. It had transformed her into a different person, a person whom she herself finds it difficult to relate to, at times.

She shuddered at the flow of these unnecessary thoughts. She glanced around. Towards her left, inside the flat in the floor just below hers, she could see a woman in her kitchen. Her face is red with all the smoke and heat that is emanating from the vessel. She was preparing something in a hurried manner. Maybe her husband is about to reach home after a day's work and its already dinner time. It made her wonder whether she will be there in that woman's place any day. A marriage? She hasn't found a person to get married to and she is already thinking about cooking a meal for him. She laughed at her own folly. After all dreams, they are sky bound.

In the balcony of the flat two floors below, she could see two cute little girls playing with their dolls. They had got a papa doll, mama doll and two other dolls as children. They were enacting the whole play as in papa goes to work, mama cooks and cleans, children go to school, the whole happy family drama. It reminded of her own childhood games with her girlfriends and dolls. How much fun they had while acting as loving mamas, bringing up their dolls as their own children, cooking meals for them and dressing them up in beautiful frocks. She still has the first doll which she got as a present from her aunt, somewhere deep inside her cupboard. She doesn't feel like giving it away though it had been years since she stopped using it. Maybe we cling on to certain things because they give us a breather in those moments when we feel like giving it all up.

Suddenly she could hear the loud music and feel the thumping on the floor. A bunch of teenagers must be partying in the adjacent flat. Those carefree days, when all you worried about was what clothes to wear and which classes to bunk. Gossiping all the way through a plate of pani-puri, those hush hush conversations about secret crushes, the teachers you silently admired, the list of craziness never ended. She misses her friends, friends who have chosen their own paths and moved ahead in life. Friends whom she lost contact with many years ago. Sometimes she feels being ambitious makes life much more difficult to live. Somewhere down the line, in the process of being successful, you miss out on the small happy moments with your friends, family and loved ones. At the same time, she is happy about whatever she has achieved in her professional life. She let out a sigh thinking about the irony of the whole situation.

In the balcony of the flat on her right side, she could see an old woman in her armchair. She has seen this lady at the same place so many times. Someone had even told her that the old woman is a widow and her children are all settled aboard. She is living in the flat with a servant. She imagined what it feels like to be living all alone when you are old. Inspite of being young and having a hectic work schedule, she finds herself lonely at times. Boring weekends, lonely evenings have all become a part of her life. All of a sudden, she felt sorry for the old woman. She said a silent prayer for her.

Different lives, different phases. She may have donned a dozen roles in her life, but she has more to don and many more acts to play.

She continued swinging, sipping coffee.

120 seconds

When my auto had stopped at the traffic signal, I looked at the timer. It showed 120 seconds. Damn! I cursed myself once again for being late for the seminar. My thoughts were fleeting between the seminar, the presentation and the time left with me to reach there. At times, my random thoughts were interrupted by horns, blown by vehicles rushing to the two side roads connected to the junction. I get increasingly irritated when people blow horns at the traffic signals. I looked at the timer again.

It showed 110 seconds...

I looked out of my autorickshaw. In the nearby vehicles, i could see people listening to music, talking over phones and browsing through magazines. All of them seemed to be mesmerized in a world of their own. Be it air-conditioned cars or two wheelers, people are occupied with their own thoughts. All of us have different destinations. As soon as that green light glows, we will all be rushing to our respective destinations. Just 120 seconds of togetherness.

90 seconds...

It was then I saw him. He was standing there with an intriguing face. We glanced at each other. There was something in his innocent eyes which held my glance for a longer time. He smiled at me, that too a very cute one and I found myself smiling back at him.

80 seconds...
He was wearing a torn shirt and dirty trousers. He couldn't be more than five years old. He was standing a few feet away from the road. He checked whether all the commuters are noticing him or not. Then as if to draw everybody's attention, he blew out a whistle. He was joined by another boy who looked one or two years older than him. They had a ring, a metal can and a stick with their hands.

60 seconds...
He held a ring up. Putting the ring through his head, he gyrated it at his hips a couple of times and let it fall off his body. He together with the other boy bend their bodies into a perfect circle and started rotating with the ring. The perfect synchronisation between the boys made the whole act to look like a rotating ball. The fact that they were doing all of this under blazing sun and the sheer innocence of their faces made my heart weep. With a few more somersaults, they stopped their act.

30 seconds...
Both of them started moving from one vehicle to another, with metal cups in their hands. They knocked at car windows and waited near some passengers hoping that they would be kind enough. While some of the passengers handed over a couple of coins, some blatantly ignored them. Some seemed to be too occupied in their conversations over their mobile phones. How mobile phone helps us to ignore those we want to, was quite visible for me that day. Some were even ready to get rid of them by scolding them.

10 seconds...
He came closer to the rickshaw in which i was sitting. He held out his can for me. I wanted to tell him something, but my inability to express myself in a language which he will understand, kept my lips seated. But i think my eyes conveyed something and he smiled at me once again. I didn't know whether the money i was giving him, finally went to someone else's pocket or not. Yet while putting a handful of coins into his can, I wished he could eat atleast one meal of the day to his heart's content. I could hear the groaning sound of the engine and my rickshaw rushed past the signal. But those 120 seconds lingered in my thoughts for a longer time.

Sand Houses

The little girl always loved making sand houses by the seaside. She made them in innumerable sizes and shapes. The vast range of creativeness it offered made her happy. At times she wanted her houses to be a king's castle, while other times it was a peasant's house. At times she wanted all her houses to be perfect rectangular blocks, aligned in rows and columns, while some other times the lines bent to form arcs, circles and triangles.

Maybe her loneliness was one of the main reasons behind her fondness for sand houses. She wanted someone to listen to her. Who can do that better than a heap of sand? A heap of sand which can act as an interpreter between she and the sea? Who can translate her thoughts better to a gushing wind? Who can tell her worries to a falling rain in a better manner? So she protected her sand houses as if they were a part of her soul. In fact, she believed her sand houses alone formed her soul.

But making those sand houses was never an easy task for her. At times her houses were washed off by sea water or blown off by winds. Some other times they were demolished by jealous souls. Many people told her that she should be concentrating on other interesting things in life than building vulnerable sand houses. But being the persistent self, she never wanted to give up on the sand houses which she loved so much.

As each day passed by, she continued making them with increased fervor. She believed that one day she would be able to make a sand house that would withstand all the pressures. She ardently wished for that day when all the obstacles in front of her will move sideways and pave way for her. She waited for that day when all the people mocking at her at this point of time will actually be showering her with accolades.

Seasons passed by, climate changed from scorching heat of summer to leaf-shedding autumn to cold winter. She grew up to be a fine young woman still passionate about making sand houses. She still hopes that one day would be able to make that perfect sand house...