A little story –  3 The end? 

This story is in continuation with the previous parts. Please read the two parts, it will definitely make you smile. 

Part 1
Part 2
Thank you. 

All of them moved towards the room. They were silent now and slowly moving so as to cause as little noise as possible. My uncle reached the door and knocked. They went inside with the biggest smile on their face. Congratulations Suresh. You are now a father! They said and the whole family hugged each other. I laid in my mother’s arm and was asleep. My father took me from my mother’s arm and handed me to my Uncle. He was silent, didn’t speak a word. He looked at me for sometime and then said, “We will call her Mudrika.” 

Everyone applauded the name my Uncle had chosen. Nobody ever doubted him or his decisions. The hospital gave us leave the next day and we all headed back to home. It was early morning and Gods had woken up, the ringing bells in the temples marking the start of day. We stopped by the temple near the house. The priest knew us very well. Almost every marriage in the family was arranged by him, every special occasion, every birth was incomplete until he had used his ‘Laal Tika and the Moli, he tied on everyone’s hand.’ By the grace of the gracious God, Lakshmi has come to your house, ‘ and he touched my feet with his head. We asked for permission to leave. At the house everyone was so ecstatic. Nobody slept the previous night except the kids who were too busy absorbing the energy of the previous night. My Grandmother took one look at me and she couldn’t stop herself from crying. She carefully took out some money, waved in circles over me and handed it to my mother. “She is as beautiful as an Angel.”  she commented and welcomed us in the house. So much commotion for someone too young to see the world, I became restless and started crying. But nobody seemed to care. They admired my every movement, everything that I did. But my father, he became too restless seeing me cry. I think he knew what was going inside me. After all, I was his part, an atom of the stature he had acquired in so little time. 

Suresh, or whom I gladly address as Papaji was the youngest and the last Son of my grandparents, so he was adored the most. He was always interested in learning new things and was the best among all his brothers and sisters when it came to studies. He went to the best of schools, best of colleges all by himself. It ran in the family genes. Nobody asked for any help. But they always helped. Suresh(I think I need to address him more respectfully) chose to be a doctor and he became one. The initial days of becoming a doctor are quite difficult. Nobody recognises you until you specialize in something. Papaji(Suresh becomes Papaji here) was always good in reading minds so he became a Psychiatrist. After years of practice, he was the most sought after doctor in the entire city. With Psychiatry, he had some hobbies. He was an excellent Tabla player and a wonderful singer. “I had a huge fan following in College.” he used to tell me whenever we used to get together.

It’s fun. It’s fun talking to people about their talents, about things that bring passion in their eyes, which drips down their mouths in form of words so elegant that they make you fly along with them. 

I always saw Papaji on Sunday evenings. He would switch on the Music System, play Jagjit Singh and would play along the Tabla and sing. He was shocked to core when he saw the death of his favourite singer. 

That day and days after it, our family celebrated my birth with so many occasions. (There must be a DVD lying somewhere in my rack, somewhere.) As I grew up, I realised the world around me, the world outside the world of my family. Many a times I cried, many a times I wanted to shut the doors to my room. But everytime I decided to do something foolish like this, my family was always there to help me. We lived in the same house, the one my grandparents built for us. All of us. Everytime any of us needed anyone, we would just call out. There were happy times, then there were fights.I have seen my parents fight, my uncles fight and even my cousins fight, sometimes over unnecessary things(no, always on unnecessary things.)  Who else fights for tea not served to them in the morning or tearing the homework(this one,  I think that sounds legit). Everyone else used to watch them fight. There’s a saying, we cannot make a blind see what he cannot, so why should one try. They fought when they had no energy left and when they sat down, breathless from the hurling of abuses or utensils or my favourite Red Velvety shoes( God, I loved them), they would realise they wasted some precious time and My Red Velvety Shoes(I must have them in my trunk. I need to stop drooling now) and would hear each one out. My grandfather always said that If one can listen properly, most of the problems won’t exist. And listening for him or for any of us shouldn’t be just the said, it must be the unsaid as well. 

Every Sunday morning, all the ladies in the house would take to cooking the best meals in the house. My mother always scolded me for sitting and not helping me with her work. But everyone else in the house came to my support. I had to bend to her one day when she asked me to do my hair. (I realised that I was more turning into a boy than a girl.). It was not like the males didn’t knew to cook. When my uncles and father would get in the kitchen, they would make something extraordinary (most of the times, except that one time when we had to call the fire department to save us from the fire.) 

One day I was asked at the school to write an essay on what I wanted to be. I approached Papaji who had just came after a heavy day at work. “People take so much stress these days.” He commented while putting down the glass of water I handed to him. “What is it Mudrika?” he asked. Almost as he knew what was going inside me. “I have to write this essay and I don’t know what I want to be.” I said while making circles with my feet on the floor. He opened the buttons of his cuffs, folded his shirt back and held me by my hands. 

Mudrika, this family is something to which we all have given back something or the other in some form. You have seen your Uncles, your aunts, your grandparents, your mother. They all are an inspiration most children lack. Have you ever seen how effortlessly your mother works day and night so that she could make all of us happy, how the eldest uncle manages his business, how the other two uncles have made a name for themselves in politics and academics. Your Aunts are trendsetters for many ladies out there. Do you know your mother was a successful doctor before she left everything for you. The thing is I believe you are capable of everything you want to be, anyone you want to be. People say one must do what their hearts want. I say one must do what can bring a smile to the people you care about the most. We are here for you whatever happens. We will always be happy in whatever you are happy with. Always remember, family comes first and that you must respect your roots. And I think you will be okay. “ He said this to a nine year old who had just asked what she wanted to be. He went outside the room to help my mother with the food. I sat there absorbing every iota of what he had just said. Next day I went to the school and submitted my essay. 

The title of my essay was” I want to be A Scientist. “

He never asked me again what I wanted to be, nor did anyone in my family. But yes, the Sharmaji’s and the Vermaji’s always did. (I always smiled on their question. My grandfather had taught me this while someone asked him what he was doing after his retirement. His answer was hilarious. “I think I might take part in the Olympics this year.” ) 

There were times when I failed. 

Ideal doesn’t work in the real life. You don’t always win. You will fail. You will fail miserably. You will fail so hard that you would want to quit everything. But no matter how hard you fall, you have to stand up, again on your feet. Try again. Fail again. Eventually you will learn. This was the first lesson my father gave me while I was learning to ride a bicycle. Repeated several times when I was shattered during my course of life. 

But he always kept hope in me. Always believed in me when I failed to do so. 

What is a man? A collection of some orderly tissues and cells that together form something concrete or something more. Does the color of skin, the tone of voice or the abnormalities in a person make him someone? Why is it people cry on seeing a dying bird or don’t even blink while ordering to murder hundreds? What makes a man give his life for a nation when he has a family to take care of or makes him work in the scorching heat so that he could feed his family. 

A man is much more than a collection of tissues and cells. In Samkhyan Philosophy, a school of Indian Philosophy, they believe that a man is product of Prakriti – the one unintelligent, unconscious, matter,  ever active and that has three attributes which define its state; and Purusa – which is the consciousness, the soul of the body. The balance between the three attributes found in the Prakriti defines how the person would be.

I believe, a person becomes what his family makes him. A child is a clean slate when he is born. His mind is ‘tabula rasa’. The society, the situations, the people he comes in contact with defines the character he builds over time.

Mahatma Gandhi had once said, “Hate the Crime not the Criminal.” 

No human is at fault when it comes to something not acceptable. Pity is something cruel to a soul. Don’t pity, just try to understand what the person might be going through and you won’t ever be misunderstood. My father Suresh told me this many times. 

I remember his every word of advice, the way he walked, the way he ate. Everything right here in my mind. I have been asked many times do I miss my family. 

Yes, of course I do. But when I see myself sitting here in my room among the top most researchers of the world, I think they must be smiling. 

I have given them a reason to smile. 

This story was a work of Complete fiction. None of the characters are real nor do they bear any resemblance to the real world. But it totally depends on you, the reader, what you want to be real. Every character here can be real or unreal. The only thing that matters is what you take with you when you finish reading this little effort of mine. 

Please do comment and tell me how this was. I am highly grateful to the few people who have admired my work. Your appreciation is something I cannot define in words, although some of you claim I have a way with words. Funny, isn’t it? 

You must be thinking about the question mark in the title. That question mark is something I will leave to the imagination of the reader. If this is the ending you would want or something different. 

Ideals don’t work in the real life. A belief I want everyone of you to take home with you when you finish reading this. 

Thank you for reading till the end. 

A Little Story – 2

This is in continuation with the Part 1. If you may like, you can read it.

Thank You.

Room number 29, the already too tired receptionist told them. My Aunts had managed to prepare some Besan Laddoos, both my parents were too fond of. They had carefully wrapped it in their shawl and the little blankets they had brought along with them. My Uncle adjusted his glasses, there, there it is.

My Uncle was a rugged man. He had long moustaches that sit on his fair face, making him a man of admiration. But he had a beauty far greater than his face could ever show. He was the eldest of all the brothers and sisters in the family and was more of a father to them than their elder brother. He grew up faster than his age. There were too many mouths to feed. Although my grandfather never said anything to him or to anybody about the high toll of work that was falling on him to keep the stomachs and aspirations of everyone full, my uncle thought he should do something to ease him. He had learnt a thing or two about selling things when he would visit his friend who had a flourishing business that ran in their family. He was inquisitive right from the day he could sense and would take interest in anything new that fell upon him. He had quickly made friends with his friend’s father who inspired him a lot. While kids of his age were buying things, he was busy selling them. With every passing day, he honed his skills to perfection, so much that Alok Ji his friend’s father called him a day when he was going back home.
Son”, he said ” I have been noticing you selling those colored stones after school. You are pretty good at it.” 
Yes Sir”,  my uncle said. ” I love selling things. They make me feel someone important. I provide whatever the time demands.” 
“Time? “ Alok ji’s curiosity was now centered around him.
” Sir, at the school, we have our geography lesson. There they teach about the various types of rocks that are found in our city. So I sell rocks when they teach about them. When it is too hot, I buy milk from the vendor next to the school. In it I add sugar which is cheap and also bright colors. The days when I am free I sell them for Rs 5 per pint. And when I am not free, I take the boy who comes to my house for cleaning and make him sell it. He doesn’t take money from me. I give him two or three pints of the sweet milk. Sir with this business I have managed to collect Rs 500 in a week.”
Alok ji was silent on hearing this. He asked, “Would you be interested in doing this at a bigger scale?” 
My uncle was calm, a reaction  unexpected of a boy of his age. He said, “when do we start?” 
He had found what he had to do. School never seemed something that would hold a person like him.
Education is like a drop of color in water. It doesn’t depend what the source was. It colors you anyway.
There was retaliation by my grandparents at first. He was locked in the room, beaten hard, given many things to just keep him away from this idea of his. But nothing worked. He sat down one day with my grandfather while he was on his chair reading the newspaper.
“Papaji”, he said. My grandfather has a habit, if he doesn’t want to talk, he won’t say, but he would always listen.
“Selling things excites me to my very core. Everyday I wake up to devise new ways just to improve myself. I have worked so much on myself Papaji that if this goes in waste, then I would be of no use to you.” he finished and sat near his foot.
My grandfather stood up, went to his study and brought along with him a box that he used to keep his collection of his favourite songs. “I give you this box. You have a month. This box should be full by the end of this month or else you will do as I say.”
Then there was no turning back. My Uncle gave all his time and energy to setting up his work. He had realised while working with Alok ji that he needed to be his own boss, which Alok ji accepted with a smile. He helped him set up a business of his own. He worked day and night. His hard work paid off when he was able to buy a furniture manufacturing factory just outside the city.
Grandfather had cut the ribbon on the day of its inauguration. He had the widest smile that day, his chest had expanded by few inches.
All of them moved towards the room. They were silent now and slowly moving so as to cause as little noise as possible. My uncle reached the door and knocked. They went inside with the biggest smile on their face. Congratulations Suresh. You are now a father! They said and the whole family hugged each other. I laid in my mother’s arm and was asleep. My father took me from my mother’s arm and handed me to my Uncle. He was silent, didn’t speak a word.
He looked at me for sometime and then said, “We will call her Mudrika.” 
I was so filled with gratitude with the response I got on the first part. This is my try to write the next part. I hope all of you like this small piece of work. This type of writing is new to me and I am doing this for the first time.
Please do comment on how this part was, it will be my inspiration to write the next part.
Thank You!

The new washing machine…

​”Gande kapde neeche phenk do.” Amma with high of her voice would order me to throw down the clothes that now need to be washed. She was regular, disciplined in her act so much that the days when she wouldn’t ask for my clothes,  I would check if the washing machine is working fine. Washing clothes was never so easy for Amma. I still remember the days when our first washing machine came to our house. It was my birthday and papa had given it as a gift to me. “What will I do with it?” I had said to him and he said,  “Use it.”

The washing machine was prepared for a war that it had to fight for all the weekdays. Its enemies trained in special bunkers to cause massive destruction to the image of washing machine. 

Every Sunday was the D-Day. Amma and papa would wake up early, taking out clothes from every nook and corner of the house. The school shirts, ties, socks, curtains, bedsheets. Nobody was spared. They all laid helplessly in huge piles. 

Amma used to wash clothes in batches. White clothes, colored clothes, discolored clothes and even the foot mats. 

We had that top loading washing machines in which you had do everything yourself. Filling up the water, putting in the detergent, twisting the neck of shirts. Everything but the wash which sometimes was not even visible. Amma separated those clothes. I will wash them when I will have a bath. She would say and continue her fight with the machine. 

Peeeee!,  the machine would sound,  telling Amma and all our neighbours that the first batch of washed clothes was ready. Amma would gradually take them out,  check if they are spotless,  wash them under a running tap over a bucket full of water,  completely immersed in that water, her clothes begging her to stop. But she wouldn’t. Until all the clothes were done with. 

We would quickly bring buckets to carry the done clothes to hang them to dry. Sometimes it happened that the rope broke under the pressure. But Amma wouldn’t. All those clothes she would wash again, without any word, without any complain. 

The drier of the washing machine had surrendered long ago, even before we knew what its use was. When we found out that it was to be used after washing the clothes, our wallets had become lighter in weight. “Who needs a drier when we can dry them in the sun. Natural light is the best.”  Amma would say and papa would bring two more buckets. “These two are done. How many still remain.”  He would ask. “Bas thode aur. Ap jaiye, main dal dungi.” she would say. “Accha” papa would say and go back to his Sunday news,  waiting patiently for the sound of machine. 

I remember those days when Amma would keep on washing the clothes, every Sunday of the year, no season skipped, no fever skipped. We never realised what Amma and Papa went through while using the machine until the day when we started washing them ourselves. 

It is said that great wars are fought over the grounds of a wish, a desire or maybe even an oath. The washing machine served us well. One Sunday it stopped working. We had taken them for granted. But now we could afford that shiny front loading washing they showed in the television. In which Bugs Bunny stuffed the hunter or Mr Bean who had a ride of lifetime. 

After careful consideration, we got it for us. 

The previous machine we had was very light. I could lift it up by myself. But this one was so heavy. I dared not to. The representative came the next day amidst all my excitement. I was alone at home that day. And I was so excited that I took him straight to the machine. And boy, he took so much time in unwrapping that beauty that stood in front of me. I and him, we two took out the machine and placed it where he directed. I watched him as he prepared the machine. That small pipe for inlet and that huge pipe for outlet. I was amazed seeing that artist perform Infront of me. He called me and explained me all the functions. “The clothes will come out dry.”  He said. I was shocked. ” Matlab we don’t have to do anything.” “Yes,  you don’t have to do anything,  except putting in the clothes and taking them out. ” he said and left. 

Amma came back from work and she could see the excitement on my face.” A gya machine vala. Chla di machine? ” she asked and I replied in affirmation. 

Papa came in evening.” Zra tika toh lga do ispe.” he said. 

And we had finally welcomed the machine in our family. 
Today, when I see Amma washing clothes in the machine,  I remember all those years of hardwork that she and papa did for us. We used to live in a rented 1 room flat, had nothing but the warmth of our relationship.  But now, when I look around, I see their hardwork has grown from a seed to a beautiful tree. “Tum Dono Bhai hi toh hum dono ki mehnat ho”,  they say whenever we all sit down together. 

Life is tough. Living through it is even tougher. But there is some kind of divine force that helps you guide through it. It doesn’t provide you with a bed of roses,  neither a bed of thorns. It keeps on giving you something or the another. It really falls on us to realise the potential of those things, those small little gestures, the fights, the celebrations.

After all, this life is all we got. 

Image source-Google. 

Joy- are you a dog?

Not a single day passes when we don’t ask Joy if he’s a dog or not because of traits he displays similar to the human..

There is something enigmatic about how dogs (say hi to Joy) behave around objects so simple to the human eye. The clothes lying scrambled on the floor, the birds that seldom chirp and take away a part of their lunch, a knock on the door, the biscuit your hand holds. The way they run hearing something inaudible and yet trying to show us the thing that they have seen. Many articles, many interviews, even more movies had made an image of unconditional love of a dog in my mind. I had seen one in my uncle’s house and was amazed. I always wanted to pet a dog, was always fascinated by those TV ads that showed how a dog and its owner become a single soul. 

“Hutch wala kutta” was the thing my parents first said when I declared I wanted a dog. But like other things, deep research went into finding Joy. We zeroed into Labrador and it was decided Joy will be our new family member. Of course, joy has become a family member more quickly than anyone of us could ever imagine. The way everyday he barges into my parents room and whenever he finds it locked, he instructs one of us to open the door. Joy came to us on a hot summer day of August. My father and brother had already seen joy and were busy playing with him. I was told to go and meet him. But I waited. Not because I feared the little pup. But the selfishness of enjoying that feeling when we meet someone for the first time, all by myself relucted me. They were done playing with him. That’s when I went to see him. He was drinking milk from a saucer in which Amma used to serve the guests.” Haha, Amma itna royal treatment.” I commented. Joy had finished drinking milk. I now saw what 26 days of coming to life meant. His eyes were closed and he moved around smelling things. He came around my foot, smelled my slippers, put his tiny head in that slipper and went to sleep. We all started laughing seeing what just had happened.

In the night, joy came and slept around my parents bed. He sleeps where they sleep. And while he sleeps, he dreams. In dreams, he runs, tries to shoo away something we all try to gauge seeing his movements while he sleeps.

I don’t have many pictures of joy because he is a bad poser. Every time you ask him to pose, he will run away. And it could be that whenever I see him, I just play with him leaving beside everything( have been scolded million times for this).

Joy has been the biggest listener to me. He knows about all my secrets, all my misadventures, what I do when no one is around. Many a times I got angry at him, many a times he got angry at me. But everyday just at 8 in the evening, he comes wagging his tail, with sparkling eyes commands me to take him out. I have seen all his shades. The sleepy one, the excited one, the sad one, the angry one, the one where Amma begs him to eat his food, the one where Papa scolds him when he lies aimlessly in the middle of his way, when we say Joy “biscuit”.All, but still joy is an enigma. 

This 23rd of July Joy will be 5 years old. 5 years have passed in a blink! His beard has turned white. Today Amma commented when she was going away for some work. ” Amitabh Bacchan jaisi dhadhi Uga Rakhi hai. Kaise kam chalega.” I laughed and joy acknowledged.

I sometimes imagine what life would be after joy because his voice has become addictive. Just like the anger of papa, the bells Amma rings everyday when she prays, my brother calling me “bhaiya”. It would be heartbreaking for all of us, we all know deep down and we don’t discuss it. We don’t fear losing Joy. Because Joy will be always with us. Joy causes us Joy.

I remember Amma had named him Joy…

I now see…… Why

I picked up the pen


Comfortably it had stayed there for a long time,  searching for an excuse to be made a free soul,  a free maker of its own destiny,  to cover canvases of imagination,  to erode misconceptions of the many,  to say things unsaid,  to just play. 
My hands were shaking,  a deep sensation ran down the very nerves that drove these hands,  this body, this mind.  How shall I? What should I write? Were some of the questions that bombarded my peace of mind.
I picked up the pen,  adjusted the glasses which had seen the many,  unseen the many and wrote-

Ma’am,  I need 16 marks to qualify.  I will study seriously the next semester.

I did it.


The story of most of us engineers. I hope you enjoyed. 😀

Do comment.