Tag Archives: writer

Jilebis.

— Looking for feedback. All are welcome. —

As I stood by the small sweet shop in one of the eat streets of the city, waves of hot air hit me from the stove lit ahead, as the heavy late night air settled around me. It was a hot night. The rains had been distant for two days now. It was not humid but it wasn’t cold either. Not the weather which would have been appropriate for steaming, sizzling jalebis but then you can’t say no to the piping hot, deliciously sweetened, freshly fried orange spiral pretzels. Seems more like a sweat shop, than a sweet shop, I thought, seeing beads of sweat run down the forehead of the man, as he poured out the batter from the cone over the boiling oil in concentric motions. The smell of sugar syrup rumbled my stomach. This is more than just the smell of sugar, I figured, a little puzzled.

Smell of butter melting onto hot pans wafted from across the street. I looked around to see my friend standing at one of the shops there. I tried calling out to him to catch his attention. He was fidgeting with his phone. My voice drowned in the clamour of the street vendors displaying their balloons, scarves, fidget spinners, the vehicles trying to honk their way through a mass of people. No one seemed to make way, all lost in the aroma of food, savouring the spices which hit the tongue in spots you’d forgotten existed. You know food porn exists when you see people eating while clicking pictures here, I thought, smiling to myself. I whipped out my phone and texted my friend, One of whatever you’re ordering for me too. He looked up at me almost instantaneously and gave a thumbs up before turning to the man manning the counter there to place a re-order. I made use of my phone and clicked a couple of pictures meanwhile, of the sizzling and now hissing jalebis as they turned crispy enough to savour, of the people lined up by parked cars, bikes, among the moving vehicles, paper plates and disposable glasses of various juices, shakes and tea in their hands, The ten feet wide alley was wide awake as well as sleepy – the upstairs of the residential buildings lined up on both sides seemed to have slept for the night, lights out in most of them.

“Madam, your jilebis,” he said, handing over my guilty pleasure to me. I took the plate and handed him the money. Foodgasm, here I come, I thought, rushing over to my friend across the street, the oncoming cyclist ignored.

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Graciously Yours!

P.S. : I am trying to work on my descriptive writing and if you think this is at least decent enough to garner a comment, let me know. I would love feedback, good or bad.

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The Wait.

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She was worried. A month had passed since he’d told her about the death. A month and he was still to write another word. He was magical with words. He made you feel the pain of his characters, the joys and blessings of their lives, the romance of the scenes left you feeling the heat and his disgust made you scream in helpless terror. At the end, he left you craving for more. He’d left her spellbound every time he’d written for her. She waited for him to write again. His words completed him. She’d never met another like him. He matched her passion for words.

But then he lost a loved one and the words went away. He forgot to grieve. He felt direction less. He was numbed by life’s cruelty. Determined, he sat with a pen and pad. The ink flowed, but no words formed. His hand moved but the thoughts blew around like wisps. He clutched at straws but they fell through like sand. He knew she waited. And he tried. Until he couldn’t any longer. He cried. Until he couldn’t any longer. His body became numb, but the pain didn’t.

As she slipped her hand through his, he wanted to tell her that he tried. But she knew. She already knew. And her eyes said she’d wait with him. For as long as it would take.

Graciously Yours!

The Drop.

The old man had been unwell for more than a couple of days now. The fever wasn’t breaking. He wasn’t worried about himself though. He was worried about his garden. He’d newly planted Canna Lilies in them. They were Madam’s favourite. He would have instructed his helper how to care for them well but the helper was on leave. Either ways, he wasn’t too keen on his helper’s work.

This evening, he’d tried walking out to the garden but he barely managed to reach the door of his own room. The doctor had been called. He prescribed some medicines and assured it wasn’t anything to worry about. The old man chided the cook, “I told you so.”

It hadn’t rained for a week now. It was unusually hot. If it didn’t rain soon, his garden would start wilting. In a long time, he wished his helper was here. Or at least the rains were. Either wish seemed far from being realized.

His son was around the same age as his helper. Every time he saw his helper, it reminded him of his son; a reminder that wasn’t happy or heart-stopping, a reminder that was melancholic and heartbreaking. His son was a charm with plants, but didn’t see the charm in them. “I want to do something bigger,” he used to say.

But the old man didn’t know anything bigger. Sure enough, there were bigger businesses he knew about, like the one Sir and Madam were doing. But at the end of the day, even they would come and admire his work. “What was bigger then?”, he thought. Even after his son had started working in another city, he stayed back with Sir and Madam. They loved his work and he used to love working for them. They’d given him a place to stay in their servants quarters.

After the doctor left, he tried sitting up to look at what he could of his gardens. It was dim now post dusk and his feeble eyes didn’t help either. He spent his evening alternately watching the blades of the fan rotate and dozing.

Night fell early and in spite of having slept almost all day, he slept like a log through the night too. He awoke well after the Sun had risen. He was rolling in sweat and blankets. The fever had broken. He turned towards the window and there were drops of water clinging onto the grills of the window.


Picture Courtesy : @main_samay_hoon on Instagram.
Picture Courtesy : @main_samay_hoon on Instagram.

Hopeful, he went up to the window. It wasn’t an easy walk but far less painful than yesterday. Indeed, they were water droplets. As he stood in the pool of water below his window, his eyes saw moist and glistening grass outside his window. The flowers were gleaming and waving at him in the morning breeze. He was ecstatic. The God loved His work too!

Graciously Yours!

Sacrifice.

In the One Word – Many Moments Flash Fiction series,

Previous Word : Rain.

Brother Sister

She was bawling! He tried asking her what happened. Their mother shushed him.

“This is for you, Mary. You only get to play with this,” the mother said to her crying child.

“What happened, Mom?”

“She wants the train your Daddy bought for you.”

“Oh! I’ll get it for her. Wait.”

“No. She’ll play with her doll. Or else she’ll break both toys by tomorrow!”

“But she’s crying!”

“Let her cry. I’ll get her milk. You go and play with your train. Your friend is waiting for you,” the mother walked away, patting the boy on the head.

Quietly, he went into his room, picked up the train much to his friend’s surprise, and went and gave it to his step-sister.

“There you go!” he said, placing a peck on the three year old’s cheek, who miraculously stopped crying immediately!

***

Police

“This time we’ll go to the fair together!” he told his son, placing him on his shoulder and walking around in the house looking for his wife.

“Maa! Maa! Papa’s back!” the child shouted excitedly.

“What happened?” asked the mother as she came out hurrying from the bathroom, soap suds on arms and a semi-washed towel in hand!

“We are going to the fair together this time! I got my leave from office,” a smiling husband told his wife.

The next morning, the little kid heard his parents talking. The police force required more personnel. The father’s leave had been cancelled. They didn’t know how to break it to the son.

“Papa, we’ll meet you at the fair. And then you can buy me an ice cream,” the kid said, boldly walking in to the room.

Tears welled up in two pairs of eyes.

***

Dogs

Finally, a customer entered. She greeted the person with a bright smile!

“Would you by any chance have change worth Rs. 500?” he asked, extending a note of the same denomination.

Her face fell! She barely had 250 bucks in her cash counter! Her shop was running at a pace slower than a snail’s. She politely turned down his request. Murmuring not so kind words, he left the shop.

Soon enough she heard the dog whimper outside. Taking that as cue for her lunch hour, like everyday she divided her lunch into two equal halves. Keeping her part aside, she went and served the rest to the old street dog lying on her spare ‘WELCOME’ door mat by the side of the shop.

Graciously Yours!

P.S. : The sacrifices made silently are the ones most worthy of applause, because they are least driven by it!

Your eyes.

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Your eyes. Your eyes always saw the good in me. Your eyes reminded me of how much I should love myself. Your eyes were not scared to see my darkness. Your eyes took me in from bottom to top, within to without. Your eyes wanted to know me to the core, not just the crust.

Your eyes smiled each time I did. Your eyes scanned the crowd to catch just a glimpse of me. Your eyes didn’t waste a moment, not admiring me. Your eyes made me blush.

The fire destroyed it all! Your eyes were the last thing I saw before losing consciousness. Your eyes were also the first thing I saw after gaining consciousness.

That day it was to be either both of us or none. But you went away leaving me alone in this big, wide world. Or so I thought. Your eyes are now mine. And they still make me blush.

Graciously Yours!

MISSING – Fellow Blogger.

Dear Fellow Blogger,

You swooped down on my blog one fine day and showered me with comments. We almost started a mutual admiration society. You excited the writer in me and made me want to please the friendly critic in you. You introduced me to the Army man’s perspective of the written word and rendered me speechless over more than a creation or two! You appreciated all, criticized where absolutely necessary, saw the good, tried to reform the bad. The beacon to many in this dashed world of hopes. The country’s soldier, loving wife’s caring husband and a doting father to two adorable little girls, you aroused sentimentalities in numerous fellow bloggers.

It’s been more than six months since you last wrote. It’s been more than four months that I kept thinking about what made you stop. It’s been over three months since I left you mails, still lying unanswered.

For the sake of you and your family and the numerous people you’ve trapped in your swiftly and delicately woven web of words, I sincerely pray that you’re just stuck in one of those Indian Army assignments, which has probably taken you to a WiFi-barren remote location, where you just haven’t found the access to share your stories with us yet!

I cannot think of anything more depressing than this.

I miss having you around.

Graciously Yours!

 

 

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