Writer's Ezine Volume XI : April 2015 Issue

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About Writer’s Ezine: When Alfred Hitchcock said “Ideas come from everything” little did he know that everything would mean literally everything in this world.

Taking inspiration from him, two fellow bloggers and friends – Namrata and Arti debated one day the exact meaning of Freedom of Expression and its rightful usage is today’s times. And so was born Writer’s Ezine, a monthly literary online magazine (E-zine) with the intention of providing platform to emerging as well as established writers from around the world.

Born out of a need and a necessity of solely being able to express all that one feels, thinks and understands Writer’s Ezine is one place where writing and creativity come together to ensure a

wonderful experience to the reader. As you read along and turn a page you will find your mind wandering into places you never thought of before, making you sit up and question the biggest mystery of all times – LIFE. This is one place where readers, writers, poets, photographers, idealists, thinkers, atheists, believers and story-tellers all will be in sync with creativity. We accept submissions in poetry, short-stories, non-fiction, author interviews; book reviews etc. (Please read Submission Guidelines for details).

Cover Photo Copyrights: Top: Sid Balachandran Collage: April Issue: Babban Jee May Issue: Dhiren Shah June Issue: Arti Honrao July Issue: Namrata August Issue: Devika September Issue: Babban Jee

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October Issue: Elango Rana N November Issue: Namrata December Issue: Arti Honrao January Issue: Elango Rana N February Issue: Arti Honrao March Issue: Nishima Avasthi This e-magazine is a compilation of Poems, Short Stories, Short – Story Series, Non – Fiction, Photographs published on Writer’s Ezine.

Image source Google Images, unless mentioned otherwise.

(Photography submissions © of mentioned author.

The photographs in the magazine are printed in grey scale. The coloured and high resolution photographs can be viewed on www.writersezine.com or www.issuu.com/writersezin e The copyright of the work published in this magazine remains with the author of the individual work. Please

contact the authors and Writer’s Ezine if you need to use the content.

You are free to share the content as long as you retain and respect the copyright.

Visit Writer’s Ezine (www.writersezine.com) for details Find us on Facebook www.facebook.com/writerse zine) Twitter (https://twitter.com/Writer s_ezine) Send us an email (admin@writersezine.com) WE on What’sApp

Getting in touch with Writer's Ezine becomes easier. (Please allow some time though, to receive a reply.) What's App on the number provided in the image with your details (name etc.) and your query.

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Writer's Ezine would broadcast alerts frequently about important notices and newsletter with direct links.

All you have to do is add WE to friend list if you wish to get the alerts. You can trust WE, your number would not be shared with anyone and WE would not send you spam. WE expects and requests the same from the readers and writers.

Forwards should not be sent to this number, thus forcing the administrator to add you to the block list. WE hopes you understand. Let's keep it professional.

Relationship Advisor, editor: Arti Honrao: www.artihonrao.in

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Do share your feedback with us. WE would love to hear what you have to say testimonials@writersezine.c om Do check out our First Print Magazine Pothi: http://bit.ly/1sieaH8 Amazon: http://bit.ly/1AKWxnA Flipkart: http://bit.ly/1x6IRZn

About Administrators: Administrator, Editor, Promotions & Marketing Manager, Assistant Relationship Advisor: Namrata: www.privytrifles.com Administrator, Webdesigner, Strategist &

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The Kindle version of the magazine (Volume I to VI – April 2014 to September 2014) is also available now at http://www.amazon.com/dp /B00TWOLKO0

Please visit our badges page http://www.writersezine.co m/p/link-to-we.html and pick your favourite from the various badges to display on your site/blog and spread the word about Writer's Ezine

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WE has introduced segments:-

new

Author’s Quill

Books are magical and the ones who create them are magicians.

Author's Quill is a segment that will bring all those magicians to recreate some of the magic through their quills, as they know it the best!

As we all love to hear what they have to say, WE brings to you some of your favourite authors in this segment.

Month on month WE will invite amazing authors to wield the magic of their quill and take you to their magic land which only they can create.

Prompt of the Month

WE believes that at times creativity looks for a muse.

So here we attempt to give you a muse month on month that will tickle your creative buds and let your imagination take a flight.

The rules remain the same.

The prompt remains open till the last date of submission for the next month’s issue. i.e. till 20th of the month to be considered to the next month’s.

Read what they have to share with you!

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Literati

Cook-N-Tell

A bi-monthly column which will bring to you interesting tits-bits about literature starting from authors to their books, everything that you ever wanted to know about it is here now.

Till now Writer's Ezine managed to gather various flavours of romance, suspense, mystery, longing, pain, life, death, thriller... every chapter a new story and every poem a new song. And that is when we realised WE missed out on a very interesting flavour - one that adds a zing to it. So here we are, presenting Cook-NTell a bimonthly column which will have some amazing, mouth-watering, easy-to-make dishes!

Join our columnist Aneesha Myles Shewani as she takes you along on a journey where the smell of books is in the air!

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To dream and to nourish that dream into a reality is a wonderful experience and what makes it special is your love for it. When you nourish a dream you love; the efforts are worth and you never feel burdened by them.

Writer's Ezine started as a dream. A desire to make a difference.

A wish to introduce a platform for writers without any selfish motives. The idea was to encourage the budding talents to bloom into better writers.

Namrata and I discussed whether we would be able to dedicate ourselves to this magazine, given our other

commitments and responsibilities. We both reached to a conclusion that our love for literature alone would fuel us, energise us to work on WE and in fact, it

would also rejuvenate our minds to handle our commitments and responsibilities in a better manner.

Putting to task the knowledge I had of blogger template and designing, the platform was set for the wonderful submissions we had already started receiving thanks to the promotions by Namrata.

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The beginning was wonderful, except one event of mud-slinging where WE was blamed to have copied ideas from another magazine. It did not take much time and efforts for us to put that behind our backs because when you have pure intentions, such accusations do not stick. The support we received from our readers and

behind every written word.

This is one of the reasons why we did not have the heart to reject submissions like any other magazine and whatever submissions we received were meticulously edited by Namrata and sometimes by me so that the contributors, on reading their own submissions, would be able to

from few followers of that magazine as well, encouraged us to keep on going and we promised ourselves to do better with each issue. The submissions published in Writer's Ezine might be too simple for a few people but WE knows and appreciates the efforts

understand what they lacked in their writing and where they can improve thus helping them to become better writers. The knowledge that we are making a difference is enough for us to continue issue after issue. Namrata and I decided to give prizes

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to further encourage the contributors and not even once did we regret spending money from our own pockets.

There are moments when Namrata and I talk about the words of appreciation from the contributors and praises from readers and we find ourselves overwhelmed with emotions. Not everything can be expressed in words and this feeling is one such thing.

Looking back from where WE has reached, we know WE has come a long way.

Even though we are proud of being where we are, we are also aware that we have a long way to go.

This journey of one year means a lot to both of us and I am sure it means something to our contributors and readers, too. WE had plans for our anniversary, unfortunately they did not work out but there is no

regret in our hearts, at least not the one that would pull us down. Because whatever happened, whatever we did, the reason behind the decision was genuine. This decision was once again supported by our contributors and readers, let me say - Family. When the family is so supportive, the downs do not drain your energy, the downs help you to look up and move on. And, that is what Namrata and I did. We still walk with our heads held high because we did not shred our ethics.

What rules the heart is sometimes more important and sensible than what governs the mind.

What WE has in store for the anniversary might not be something huge but it is a sincere attempt by us, which I am sure would be appreciated, as always, by our Family.

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I take this opportunity to thank one and all for being a part of Writer's Ezine, for letting us know that we are a

part of your lives.

I hope you enjoy reading the submissions as much as we enjoyed compiling them.

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A Reason to Cheer WE

turns a year old with this issue. Without a doubt it definitely calls for a loud cheer but it also made me think about a few things.

Since childhood we have been so trained to look for reasons to celebrate and be happy, that we often forget how important it is to just be happy at times even without reasons. Our minds begin to think like this as adults – the next promotion and I will be happy, that big house and I will be happy, a kid and I will be happy. The list becomes

endless and what happens is we make happiness a quest, a journey rather than the destination. Because we never reach it, once we achieve something the heart immediately makes another desire. It is like being caught into an endless cobweb of

desires.

What we need to remember is that happiness is a state of mind and not something that should decide our state of mind, for that is when we are able to live life to the fullest.

In our life there are 5 life changing events – our birth, we begin working for that marks our official entry into

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adulthood, we get married, have kids and we die – except that there is nothing that is remarkably life altering at all.

That heartbreak which seems unbearable right now actually becomes the very landmark as we grow up. The friends who are lifeline today might drift oceans apart tomorrow but life goes on. It simply does; never stopping for anyone, the sun continues to rise the next day and it sets too.

That is the protocol of nature, what is, will be and shall be.

Our acceptance to this ultimate truth of life helps us deal with both the certainties and uncertainties of life in a better fashion. In life it is imperative to cease

looking for reasons to be happy and rather become the reason itself to be happy!

Coming back to our celebrations of WE – it feels surreal seeing all those author names that have been associated with WE till now and then reading the quality work they bring along to every issue. Every word, every poem, story or picture speaks for itself as they talk

about the immense creativity we are surrounded with and how it just needs a medium

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to bring it forth. WE is proud to be one such medium.

This is our anniversary issue wherein we have featured a handful of previously published authors to celebrate what WE believes in. In this one year if someone were to ask us what all we gathered we would say proudly - WE gathered lot of love, encouragement, beautiful stories, amazing poems, scenic photographs, breathtaking books and inspiring authors.

WE continues to believe that they all come together to create magic and that is what makes every issue special. Sharing some of their magic with you to spread some cheer and love!

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In This Issue: Stars That Shine Orphan Of Her Void and the Yellow Blanket The Story of Minakshi Loneliest Soul Bittersweet Serendipity Anamica Nisha Sanjeev From Blogging to Publishing … and Back A Choice Made Over Friendship I Wish to Live Where 26 / 11 One Lie is All That I Ask For India’s Daughter Son – In – Law Death The Lord Sioux The Blind Date In Silence An Untold Love Story How They Kept Their Love Alive The Other Woman Graveyard of Memories Memories

Sid Balachandran Zainab Attari Kartika Narayanan Oindrila De Kalpanaa Waghela Naina Manchanda Nisha Sanjeev Anamica Sriramana Muliya Ruchira Khanna Daneshwari S Mirji Ompriya Tripathi Ranjini S Ram Govardhan Jatin Kuberkar Chung Chin-Yi Asmitha Jagannathan R Meera Sundararajan Pratikshya Mishra Maitreyee Sunayna Pal Soumya Prasad Aruna Lakshmi Ramu Shubhangi Srivastava

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Your Voyage Bunch of Happiness Hot August Nights The Inevitable Akshay Abbhi The Malady of Sequel In Search of Silence Ray of Hope Won’t Scream Your Name My Childhood Your Childhood Beyond Unabridged Emotions Waltzing With Love The Unknown Hero Pallu And I Pronounce You Husband and Wife Behind the Façade of Ugliness Fly With Me When You Say Nothing At All Monkey Business The Fruit of Actions In A Quest for Conversation A Memory of My Mother

Sagher Manchanda Ada Wiam Janice Thomson Akshay Abbhi The Inevitable Aneesha Myles Shewani Viji Nathan Manish Purohit Sayantini Bhattacharya Simran Kaur Parvathy Farah Siddiqui Arathi Harihar Divya Parwani Janaki Nagaraj Sri Ashok K Parthasarathi Natasha Badsha Poonam Khanduja Anita Nigharika G Aura of Thoughts (Meenal & Sonal) Murli Melwani

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Stars That Shine Story Behind the Photograph: One of the things that I enjoyed the most during my almost-decade long stay in London, were the early morning walks around the parks. It was an amazing feeling - the air was just pure and right, and every deep breath filled your lungs with that purity. And after a couple of rounds of jogging, I'd just collapse on the green, still-moist-from-thedewdrops grass and then stare up at the brightening sky, where Mr. Sun would just be starting to make his appearance known. Normally I'd capture the images using the camera on the phone, but this particular day, I was fortunate to have my DSLR with me. And it would have been blasphemy not to capture this moment.

About Sid Balachandran: Academically engineer-ed and a product manager by profession, Sid believes that his true calling lies in writing.

Having recently relocated back to India after an eightyear stint with various corporate giants in London, he now writes short stories, social satire and about his parenting escapades involving his toddler son.

You can often find him brewing his various thoughts (along with a strong cuppa) at www.iwrotethose.com Editor's Comment: The picture represents the human mind in the mornings so well - shining, shimmering ready to take onto the world with a huge smile.

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Orphan

Look into my eyes and you shall see The innocence and solitude in me I am all alone in this massive ball No one to pick me when I fall Touch my body and feel The absence of countless meals I have dug into several bins To find a morsel from trashed tins I have slept on cold hard grounds A better place, still not found I was soaked by the pouring rains And disturbed by noisy trains I have played with broken dolls

Drawn with charcoal on overfilled walls I have prayed to all the gods I know Their love makes my soul glow I am a child too Don’t deprive me of you Cuddle me in your arms A little crave for love means no harm I know I am an orphan And might not even get buried in a coffin But don’t shoo me away so recklessly Where is your humanity?

Don’t throw that money and walk away Please hear me out or for a while just stay If you know of an orphanage, take me there I no longer want to live in despair

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About Zainab Attari: Zainab is an English Literature Graduate and a Graphic Designer. She loves being surrounded with art and artistic people. She reaches out to the world with her words and other creative skills. Part-time weaves dream-catchers to make her dreams come true. Loves singing and sobbing while watching movies when she is all alone. She also reads. You can stalk her at zainabattari14.wordpress.co m z_attari@hotmail.com Editor's Comment: The pain of being an orphan brought to life through this poem.

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Of Her Void and the Yellow Blanket

I struggle in the nightfall’s battle, The empty howl of the cold silence And the enraged echoes within the self.

The whirling wind brings her aroma Of the wicked forest bloom, The mother of million laurels, she is In the twilights of the wild densities Dancing and smiling at an unfair far-land I twist and turn to the depths of her void

As I remain muted above all my screams She had given the last wink Which I had to seize with mine To span across the infinite stretch.

I pierced through the blue clouds Glided off to the hypnotized surrounding I could never recollect her aura, She towed my wandering soul, With her golden tentacles of rebirth.

About Kartika Narayanan: The poet Kartika is an architecture student and can be reached through email: kartika.yegnan@gmail.com Editor's Comment: Distances just make the heart grow fonder but at times distances hurt a lot too just like these words

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The Story of Minakshi 11:15 AM, 17th August Office I sullenly looked out of the French windows from the 12th floor lobby of my office building. The sky was dark,

but it hadn’t started raining.

This accurately reflected the state I was in – scared and crestfallen, but I hadn’t let the floodgates of my eyes let loose just yet. I had to be strong.

I had just got off the call with my ENT specialist. I knew my headaches were persistent, but that could be hereditary!

After all, my father had migraine.

And there’s nothing that a fingerful of Amrutanjan can’t fix! I also thought it could be sinusitis. I had a rare susceptibility to cold.

This is what had led me to the ENT doc’s clinic in the first place!

But as I stood gazing at the swarthy clouds outside, my doctor broke the horrifying news to me – “Minakshi, you have a tumor in your head.”

I lost all sense of hearing and only focused on the pounding of my heart. Dr. Shetty had also said that there was nothing to worry about. The tumor could, in all probability, be benign. All I would have to do was get some X-rays taken and visit

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an oncologist. But I don’t think my head registered anything. It had suddenly started feeling so heavy. My neck almost snapped as my eyes fell to the ground. I could see my reflection on the sparkling granite floor. I saw a pair of sad eyes that had till then held so much hope – I was to fly to Hong Kong to assist my new team with some very exciting work. The trip was scheduled for the 18th of September.

What was I going to do now?

7:45 PM, 17th August – Home I fumbled with my keys and finally managed to walk into my 1-room apartment in South Bombay. I would not be able to afford this posh location for long once my cancer-treatment started. My mind trailed off on that thought.

Just then, my brain, which was almost dormant until

that point, screamed at me, “Stop this nonsense,

Minakshi! It’s only an annoying headache! Dr. Shetty has only asked you to see an oncologist. This in no way implies you have cancer!

You are 28. Don’t behave like a paranoid imbecile!”

Almost instinctively, my heart took my brain’s side, “That’s right, Minakshi! Don’t

think about the negatives.

Don’t stress about things that are not in your control. Rise, my dear! Focus on the goodness in this world and do what you enjoy. You are brave. You are strong.”

9 PM, 1st September – Hospital I was afraid of the skullimages that hung on Dr. Binani’s X-ray film viewer.

Those were my X-rays illuminated by the white LED backlight. I prayed with all my heart for my oncologist to

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say I was free of any danger.

“I have good news for you,

was tumor-free at last. But I didn’t know if to be happy or sad. I had missed my golden opportunity to visit a new country. But on the brighter side, I was normal again! I pushed the negative thoughts out of my mind. I felt elated. I could live without a worry!

And I was terrified of being operated on. Besides, it was September already. I would not make it to HK with the post-surgery precautions and all. Just then, my head echoed what my heart had said a few days back – “You are brave.

You are strong.”

3:20 PM, 28th September – Office

Minakshi. Your tumor is not cancerous.” My heart leapt with joy. “However,” she continued, “you will need a surgery to remove it. We can’t risk that think hanging around in your brain for too long.” My heart sank again.

I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am. I am. I am!

10 AM, 18th September – ICU I opened my eyes to see a nurse smiling at me. It was Friday - the day I was to fly out of the city. I was operated on the previous night and

I could not believe what had just happened! My manager told me they had rescheduled my trip to HK. I would actually be flying next month! To add to my joy, all of my medical expenses would be reimbursed! I called up my team in HK, thanked them profusely and then stashed all my bills into a folder and headed to the HR-office. My friend, Robert from the Claims and Expenses desk hugged me and asked after my health.

“Couldn’t have been better”, I told him. I could not hold

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those tears back any longer. I rushed to the ladies’ room and let the tears flow. I was brave. I was strong. I was alive.

About Oindrila De: Oindrila is a 23 year old Computer Engineer at a global investment bank, and also a travel-blogger at http://oindrilade.wordpress. com/.

She has an irrepressible urge to travel far and wide, and experience various cultures and cuisines of the world. She learns Latin ballroom dancing and salsa in her free time, and trains for various long distance runs to promote awareness of and raise funds for causes that affect the society. She also values education and helps local municipal school kids perform better at studies. She can be found at http://www.facebook.com/O indrilaGoesFootloose.

Editor's Comment: Life at times likes to test the bravest souls and that too to the fullest.

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Loneliest Soul

yelled out loud for help, to those millions of deaf ears, who never bothered to help.

On the arrival of every new day, my heart was consoling itself trying to give it a hope, but I had lost myself.

Sitting beside the window, gazing at that empty street, the drops oozed out of the eyes, that blurred my sight.

No one out there to listen to the cry, audible in the silence of the night, wishing if the time could turn back, and things could get alright.

The heart dangled among the ropes of pain,

About Author: Kalpanaa Waghela Editor's Comment: One of the worst pains of the world is to experience loneliness.

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Bittersweet Serendipity The frail frame stood inches away from the white line in no man's land diving India and Pakistan at the Wagah border. The divide had not only separated the country into two halves; it had separated families, friends, and lovers overnight. Each day leading up to the day of Independence when Jawaharlal Nehru was going to deliver the midnight speech, was witness to families being uprooted, looted and forced to flee to escape death. The dreaded date in her life was 23rd July 1947, etched in her memory to the extent that even today, years later since then, the tribulations, the fear, the dread doesn't leave her. That day, she had finally succumbed to accept that they had to leave everything they had, to never return.

The divide had forced her family to leave their homeland, caused each of them immense pain, separated them with a faint hope of reuniting across the border which was being forced down their throats.

Her husband, simple and modest, had already got their parents to board the train to Amritsar the previous day.

She and her husband along with their four year old daughter were due to follow that day.

Memories post that day had blurred. Her village had been set ablaze by the angered mob. They had to reach the station as fast as they could.

The crowd in frenzy had separated them. She had lost the sight of her husband and the hold on her daughter's hand.

Her mind had screamed to run back into the village to find them but neighbours didn't let her.

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"Parjhaiji, don't turn back.

Run forward...”

"Stop Daljeet!"

She faintly remembered hearing these sounds while running back to the village till she was hauled from the back by an unknown woman who had been able to successfully dodge her attempts to free herself and lead her back into the direction of the people running towards the station.

My daughter... My Gurneet ... I can't find her..."

due to the hoards of screaming, impatient, panic stricken people entering the train one after the other. To her miraculously (un)fortunate dismay, she had survived the train to India unscathed!

The 'Refugee Camps' for a peaceful India, sounded like

"No!

She had struggled with words.

Her throat constricted, even today, in painful nostalgia.

She remembered being mercilessly hauled into the train with the crowd. Her subsequent attempts to deboard the train had failed

an oxymoron to her. Her first instinct had told her to connect to her in laws, who by now, would have had been placed in a refugee camp. But, she had received nothing but disappointment there. No official, handling the camps amidst utter chaos, could give her any

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information about them. The struggle of building a life again thereafter had been less painful than the uncertainty surrounding whether she would find her husband or daughter again or not. The incentive of reconciliation given by the government made her go through immense amount of torture, of cleaning utensils, of sweeping the roads, of making pots, of transporting bricks to the construction site with a hope! A hope of meeting them again.

So, when years later, the government announced that they had gotten in touch with the families of a bunch of survivors, she had incessantly hoped that hers was one of them.

But, she lost that hope today, as she now walked back from white line alone, watching others reunite with their loved ones.

She had stood with the constant hope that someone from her family would have come too. It didn't happen.

The officer had just confirmed it to her.

"Maaji, we’re extremely sorry

to declare your husband dead. We tried to find links of his survival but unfortunately, we were unsuccessful. We will have to presumably announce him as dead."

Her legs gave away the burden with which she had been standing all this while and she sat on the ground.

She finally let out the breath she had been holding all these years.

She had finally lost him.

She closed her eyes to hold her sanity together.

"Maaji, if this may give you

hope, your daughter is still alive."

Hope resurfaced. Her eyes snapped open in the direction of the officer.

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"Gurneet,

She's

my daughter... alive?" She spoke

breathlessly. She must be a grown up girl now.

"You can meet her at the

border. Please come with me." The officer escorted her

back to that dreaded white line.

Past the border was the land of Pakistan. Her heart began soaring in anticipation. The gate opened and she saw a tall woman, traditionally dressed, walk towards her closer to the white line.

"Hadiqa Hussain, born

Gurneet Kaur, separated from parents during the partition..." The Pakistani officer began to speak to give the customary introduction but, she had eyes only for the woman standing opposite her, taking in her appearance.

"Daljeet Kaur, mother of

Gurneet Kaur, separated from her daughter and husband during partition..."

The Indian officer did his bit next.

“You may talk to each other for the next ten minutes...”

Saying so, the officers stepped back.

"You ... are my Gurneet..." She whispered as tears began to roll down her cheeks.

“I had no memory of my name being Gurneet...” She replied as she stepped forward to hug her mother.

There were so many questions that they had wanted to ask each other to solve the missing puzzles but they couldn't stop the tears from rolling down their cheeks. What had happened post their separation? When did Gurneet Kaur become Hadiqa Hussain? Where did she grow up all this while?

“Ammi told me that I had

been brought to the hospital with multiple injuries. She was a nurse who had treated me..." She spoke breaking the hug.

That

somewhat

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explained to Daljeet how her daughter would have ended up being named Hadiqa.

“Ammi and Abbu had no idea

about my background. No one had come for my identification.

So, they eventually adopted me...”

Daljeet could only mentally thank them both for doing so.

Her daughter was alive because of them.

No amount of preplanning could have prepared her for the plethora of multiple emotions she was feeling at the moment.

“What did I address you as...?" Her daughter asked.

Before she could reply, their little reunion was cut short by the officer's voice who told them that they would now have to step back into their respective countries.

“Give us a few more minutes sir, please...” she heard her daughter say to the officer holding her mother's hand in a firm grip of her hand. She

forwarded into her palm, a piece of chit with an address and phone number written on it.

“Ma’am, there are several

other people waiting in line for their turn...” the officer

pointed out.

She looked at the chit, took a deep breath and nodded in acceptance. The questions could wait for a while more.

The puzzles could be solved a little later. For now, the officers were ready to escort them back into their respective countries.

"Gurneet …" She called out to her daughter and spoke with a smile on her lips, “you used to call me 'bebe'."

Gurneet reciprocated that smile, "Bebe, please, do call

me on this number. We will meet again."

After all, all hopes had not been snatched.

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About Naina Manchanda: Naina is an avid reader and a dreamer, who believes that the world of words is her sanctuary. She welcomes feedback and constructive criticism. You can reach her @enigmaticthinker18@gmail .com.

Editor's Comment: A story, which makes us believe that it is not the end if it is not happy and there is always hope.

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Book Review – I

man who pampers her they then have a lovely child.

And Anamica is still unhappy.

At first ignores her feelings and continues with her life.

When it stays on to haunt her she sits up and makes an effort to seek the reason for her unhappiness – only in vain. Her friend sincerely guides her but his advice she vehemently discards and his opinion she ruthlessly criticises.

:Intro: Anamica is born into a traditional lower-middleclass Indian home. Educated in the best institutions and brought up by loving parents she becomes a successful professional. Marrying the

Anamica eventually becomes a wreck, ignoring her family, paying no attention to her health and is completely distraught. Finally, her friend takes charge. Anamica’s inner turmoil erupts like a volcano. In the hot, molten stream of tears she sees the elusive piece of her life pleading for attention.

What was it she had ignored that had caused her so much pain? And who was this

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friend who chose to wake her up from the conscious slumber? Anamica's journey could be your life story! :Book Review: 1. Cover: The cover of the book is very beautifully done in an enticing manner making the reader curious enough to grab the book.

2.

Presentation: The presentation of the book is simple with no steep turns or highs in the story.

3. Narration: The narration is lucid and in a conversational style between the main protagonist and her imaginary friend going back and forth in time.

4. Characters: The main character is Anamica around whom the whole story revolves. She comes around as someone who is confused

in life and answers.

looking

for

5. Plot: The plot is very thin in terms of the actual story but the author has managed to write the scenes in details adding onto the narrative.

6. Storyline: The storyline is about following ones dreams despite all the problems faced for it. As a story line it doesn’t have much detailing needed around and hence at places it hangs around a bit loosely in few scenes.

7. Story flow: The story flow is very lucid and linear in every sense.

8. Language: The language is colloquial given that it is a combination of both prose and poetry.

9. Pros: The biggest strength of this book is in the uniqueness wherein every chapter has many poems in it

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related to the various scenes in progression and few dialogues. That is a very different style to have been attempted in a book. A special mention to the wonderful sketches in the book and the cover are attention grabbing and do cheer up a reader in between chapters adding a much needed tanginess to the journey of reading this book.

:Overview: The overall rating for the book would be 3 out of 5 purely to the author’s attempt at this novel. WE team feels the author has potential and would like to thank her for sending across this book for review, also wishing her all the best for all the future endeavours.

10. Cons: There are many places where the reader might lose the track of the progress in the story because of the thin plot. Given the sensitivity of the topic the reader might expect some despair and turmoil to reflect in the story which unfortunately doesn’t come through. The narrative gets a little weak at many places due to which the overall attention grabbing capacity of the book comes down by a huge number.

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Author Interview – I This month WE team had the opportunity to interact with Nisha Sanjeev, author of Anamica - the secret of her awareness

The blurb of her book reads:

Anamica is born into a traditional lower-middleclass Indian home. Educated in the best institutions and brought up by loving parents she becomes a successful professional. Marrying the man who pampers her they then have a lovely child.

And Anamica is still unhappy.

At first ignores her feelings and continues with her life.

When it stays on to haunt her she sits up and makes an effort to seek the reason for her unhappiness – only in vain. Her friend sincerely guides her but his advice she vehemently discards and his opinion she ruthlessly criticises.

Anamica eventually becomes a wreck, ignoring her family, paying no attention to her health and is completely distraught. Finally, her friend takes charge. Anamica’s inner turmoil erupts like a volcano. In the hot, molten stream of tears she sees the elusive piece of her life pleading for attention.

What was it she had ignored that had caused her so much pain? And who was this friend who chose to wake her up from the conscious slumber? Anamica's journey could be your life story!

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have had successful stints with leading publications including ‘Gulf News’ and career magazine ‘Ambition’.

Currently, I’m the Deputy Editor with ‘Emirates24|7’ – news portal.

2. Talking about Anamica when and how was it born?

Join us in this interview as WE tries to know the real her: 1. 1. We would like to extend a warm welcome to you and thank you for sparing your time to be here with us. Can you take our readers through your journey till here?

I was raised and educated in Hyderabad. After completing my Masters in Communication and Journalism from Osmania University I began my career in ‘Deccan Chronicle’ in 1997.

Subsequently I moved to Dubai after marriage and

I began writing poems in school. And I’ve always serialised poems, especially when faced with any issue.

So when I decided to write a book, the first thought that came to mind was why not make my poetry collection into a story. That’s how the idea of Anamica was first born.

3. How much of Anamica is you? Can it be called biographical in nature completely?

Anamica is an autobiographical novel.

Several incidents mentioned are from my life, while some are exaggerated for effect,

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others are reproduced as is.

Also there are fictional elements, too, to lend texture to my beliefs.

4. If today given a chance is there anything you would like to change in the book? Why?

No. I want to amend nothing at all because the work testimony to how much I’ve changed as a person and writer today. Anamica is what I was two years back. It will always remain a first reference to my journey.

5. The book has ended on a high, so is a sequel planned for it where it depicts her journey further?

Well, no such plans as of now. But cannot rule out when the bug bites.

6. In the garb of fiction you have touched a very raw nerve in terms of lower middle class families and their dreams.

Through your book what is the message that you would like to give you to both - young girls and their families?

In order to be selfless, we need to be selfish. There’s no shame in this. It’s important for women to live life for themselves, too, while they take care of their families.

Because if women aren’t happy with themselves what good can they be to others.

Women’s mental state is crucial to the stability of the family.

Most women are in jobs they do not like for the sake of their families. I understand it’s the need of the times. So be it. But what’s heartrending is that I know several women who wait for their kids to grow up to nurture their hobbies and do stuff that they love doing.

Enrolling in a dance class or learning to play the keyboard need not be postponed until one is 50+.

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Majority of women are stressed out today because they take no ‘ME’ time. They live for their families and when their kids fly out to build their own nests they find themselves lonely, abandoned and without purpose. That’s one of the main reasons for depression among women today.

So it’s essential for women to ‘live’ for themselves, too!

7. How does it feel today to hold your book in your hands? Any specific feedback on the book that you cherish the most?

I’m glad to the Divine for this book. The feedback I treasure the most is when Geoff Thompson – the Bafta award winning writer and author of over 40 books – rang me up to say that he had tears while reading Anamica.

future? If yes which ones would you like to explore?

Well, I am basically a storyteller. So fiction will soon follow.

9. Any future projects you are currently working on?

Yep… beating them into shape.

10. Some words for your readers.

Never compromise your dreams for social status. Be yourself at all times. Love your uniqueness as you are all you have.

Thank you very much for your time

8.

Do we see you experimenting with genres in

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From Blogging to Publishing … and Back Ok, I admit. I'm on a blog trip... down the memory lane.

And the worst (or the best, I'm unable to decide) part is, I've blogged long enough to have a post for every memory. Can you imagine?

Every time someone says something, or I think about something, my mind goes "hey, I've blogged about this."

Yeah. That long. About eleven years now, and counting.

I remember the first time I heard the word 'web-log' was sometime in '97. I'd arrived in Bangalore, fresh out of post-graduation, and landed a job with my cousin who ran a small multimedia outfit back then (the company's long since wound up). The net had just about picked up - we used to hook up with a dialup; remember the familiar long 'beeeeeeep', and then a series of 'bip-bopbip-bop'...and then the lights on the modem would turn steady, and we were ready to go. 56kpbs line. Great connection. Wow! The page loads in half a minute. That was fast, man! And while researching some web designs, I stumbled upon this

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guy (forgot his name now), who had designed this very cool (for those days, these days you get all kinds) website he called his 'weblog'. I decided to save it for later and when I found time, just went through his site. It looked more like a day-to-day account of what he did, who he met - he was a designer himself, so it was more of his sketch works, rough drafts, designs, interactions with visualizers, ad guys and such. But he had a knack of making the mundane so interesting; I kind of got hooked to his page. I remember religiously opening his site every morning, just to read what he'd done that day.

That was then. Over the next few years, when Internet started making its way into everybody's home, weblog had turned to a crisper 'blog', and hey, you and I could have one. I heard about the new

avatar sometime in 20002001, but I still didn't have that easy an access to the net to be able to blog myself. And not many people had begun blogging, anyways.

When I entered the software industry, and found that the Internet was as easy as a click, it opened a whole new world for me. And it was then a colleague invited me to read his 'blog'. I'd shown him a couple of my printed short stories, so he encouraged me to have a blog of my own.

So, finally in May 2003, I signed up for my very own blog - at blurt. I'd to give it a name. That was a problem.

I'd not seen a lot of blogs and this colleague who'd shown me his, had something very simple like 'meandering thoughts' or some such. That wasn't much inspiration. So I went back in time, digging from favorite movie

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characters, comic book heroes etc. Nothing caught my eye. And then, one day over lunch I cribbed lightly about this to a friend. And he said, 'yaar, tu itna emotional kyoon ho raha hai?' (why so emotional over such a trivial matter?). And it stuck! Of course. I'd found my name! I remember long back in school I had this favorite TV show 'Phatichar', and that character had stayed on in my mind for long. Phatichar would always console himself with that line 'yaar phatichar, tu itna emotional kyun ho raha hai?'. I liked it.

So I named myself 'Phatichar' on my new blog.

I’ve always done things differently, written differently. And it’s not because I want to be different. It’s just how I’m wired. I started writing stuff on the blog because I wanted to vent, I guess. It soon gave way to observations of life -

Of happenings around me.

And then some.

Then about 6 years ago, I started writing fiction just to kill the monotony. I felt nonfiction was getting repetitive; everyone had something to say about their lives, I had had my say too; so why not try something different? I pulled back at all those imaginative strings I had as a kid, and put it to use on the blog. One story followed another, and there was no looking back. I and my readers escaped into this tiny little chink in the wall and entered a world where there were no deadlines, EMIs, targets, heart-breaks, breakups, or anything that resembled real life as we saw it. I started enjoying it, my readers enjoyed it. It was good fun.

And then, one day - out of the blue, my wife said - "I think

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you should get these out to the real world. Seriously..."

I'd not thought about that. I was kind of toying with another draft, which I thought would go to the publishers first, but that was, and is, still crawling. And I was happy on my blog; it was my cocoon. Here, there were no strings attached. I was reluctant. But she didn't give up. Meanwhile, my cobloggers started egging me on as well (those who did would remember all those comments, emails, and chats, God bless you) :).

So, I thought - what the hell.

Let me try it. And so, sometime in Feb/March 2012, I sent a few samples to a publisher. I'd heard stories about rejection slips and heart-breaks, so I thought nothing of it once I was done mailing it.

Three months later, I heard from them. I saw the subject line on the email and sighed.

"Ok... here it comes." I imagined things like "Hi Sri… got your samples, but we're afraid we cannot accommodate it in our schedule now", or "Hi Sri, read your sample stories.

We'll get back to you shortly"… etc. etc. But, surprise - they wanted to publish the stories.

I read the email again, just to make sure it was addressed to me, and that I'd read it right. Ok, they had the title right, they had the email subject right. It was indeed me they were talking to! Of course, they asked for the whole collection first. The confirmation came a few days later.

About the publishers; contrary to what I'd heard about publishers in general, these guys are mighty nice.

None of those 'snooty' airs about them; no condescending tone in their

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voices. And my editor was a really nice person.

Anyway, my book Frankly Spooking was published last year, that is sometime in August, 2013. After almost 13 months since the day I received that euphoric email from my publisher. It has been a tiring yet pleasant journey; and I look forward to many more. Ultimately, I dedicate my book to my blog, which in more than one way helped me become the writer I am today.

But, this in no way means I'm done on my blog. And I've been in and out of my blog far too many times. But whatever the frequency, it's always consoling to know that whatever happens in the outside world, there's always a place in cyberspace, where I can take refuge. A place I can go to without having to worry about what I am, who I am, about being politically

correct. It's my space. I could never give it up completely.

Not for anything in the world. So, I'm going be around, penning more stories in our (us bloggers) space.

Here's to bloggers all over the world. Cheers. :-) About Sriramana Muliya: Sriramana Muliya works as a technical editor with Cisco Systems.

Besides writing fiction, Sriramana also likes to blog and has been blogging for the last ten years at http://imsri.blogspot.in. He is an avid movie buff and loves watching quality cinema.

Sriramana lives in Bengaluru with his wife and daughter.

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A Choice Made Over Friendship

“Look through these and make a selection.” She demanded and then concluded, “And be quick

while I wait for you outside.

Do not want to be late for this party.”

Saying that she barged outside with a stern look. I obediently followed.

“Will you be wearing this tonight?” Bindiya asked me with a sneer I hated that expression but knew she meant good, thus I replied with a straight face, “Sure, I will. Is there a problem?” while posing around with a pout in order to lighten her mood.

She had no reaction; in fact she pulled my arm into her room, let go of it and then opened her cupboard; pulled out a few dresses and put them on the bed.

I skimmed through the clothing and made my selection. Went into the restroom to change. Came out to have a second glance at myself in the mirror and could not believe what I saw.

I was looking smashing hot!

Winking at myself, I quickly walked towards Bindiya because I did not want to keep her waiting.

I admired my friend’s sense of style and her caring attitude. Although, she could scoff and taunt me at times but beneath that she had a

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soul that cared. This made me forgive and forget her expression earlier and marched along with her to the social gathering.

Bindiya was two years older to me, but her caring attitude amidst her domineering nature sometimes made me feel that she was like an elder sister to me. Thus, we got along so well (or maybe that’s what made me tread along the path of friendship) Her classmate was throwing a party, and she tagged me along. I did not mind at all since it would give me a peek into the lives of my seniors, thus I readily agreed. Since I did not know anybody I was sitting in one corner, but every now and then Bindiya would come by to check on me and hand me some food or drinks. I was gullible then and did not care to mingle.

Just the thought of being at a senior’s party and then brag

about it to my classmates made me high, and I was on cloud nine!

During summer holidays, we would take turns to be in each other’s home.

I remember borrowing Archie comics from the library and sitting together and at the beginning of each story pretend to be either Betty or Veronica, and then start reading the story, and would cheer if either of us (Betty or Veronica) would get Archie.

We would be sitting and doing the above exercise for hours.

We would also go on trips with our families to farmhouses to avoid the hustle bustle of the city, and it was amazing how much we had in common besides her knowledge of cosmetics that would revolve around lipstick, blush, foundation and powder. Since we would

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be miles away from technology, we used to get our minds occupied with our likes and indulge in them.

She cared about animals and had a passion for designing clothes.

While at home Bindiya would surround herself with various cosmetics as she was fond of dressing up. I was a simpleton according to her. I did not mind being the guinea pig and getting those makeovers from her, which at times would be hideous (since she was also learning) or at times would make me look like a glamor queen.

Now that I look back, our friendship was a lot of give and take. She confided in me when her classmates would be mean to her either because of her low grades or tease her over her plain looks (since no makeup was allowed in school), and I would embrace and cajole

her with flowery words. This would pep up her confidence and she would continue to stride along the path with others. What made it all worthwhile was her appreciation of what I did to her by being her backbone and making her believe in herself. In return, she would deck me up as I had no sense of fashion and was pretty carefree of what to wear. Her downright nasty yet crude language about my grooming sense used to wear me down, but then when her actions would override those words, and when I would emerge as a glamour queen, that conversation would get flushed off the toilet. Thus, proving that actions sure are mightier than the words spoken, huh!

If I had to go to a party I would make sure to swing by her home, and I would step in as a buffoon (according to

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her) and step out looking splashy and glamorous.

Bindiya loved dressing up herself, and she would never hesitate to loan me her accessories, and that’s what made me fall in love with her even if she called me an antic at times.

Her being unattached to her adornments and being able to possess it temporarily made me see her heart of gold instead of her negative nags.

We needed each other's company until she started dating.

Things changed completely since she had no free time where she could hang around with me. She would either be on the phone with her beau or texting him or maybe out with him. I started missing her a lot, but realized that she needed this since; I would see the happy and ecstatic Bindiya. I let her enjoy this moment with the

hope that she will remember me once she is content. Her dating turned into marriage.

She got busy with her married life and, unfortunately; I took a back seat in her life which I totally understood and bowed.

Gradually things became hostile between the two of us. Her constant negative comments and contradicting everything that I would utter created an ugly scene in front of her better half. She would also mock at my style and disclose how I used to borrow her stuff for parties.

Initially, I did not hesitate and agreed to all that she said about me; because that was the truth. But, then when she went on and on about it whenever we would meet, I had enough of it. I grew tired of her negativity and realized that she was never going to change. Although, I would torture myself with

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questions such as, “Why is she acting like this? What did I do to her?” Alas, no answers came forward.

We both needed each other as friends and filled out the void in our teen years so, why this sourness in our relationship? I even tried talking it out with her, but she was in a different state of mind and did not agree to anything that I uttered or wanted to get across.

When mind is confused, it talks to oneself, and I let mine to do so. My subconscious This was not acceptable because gradually her talk was poisoning my mind with a low self-esteem, and that in turn was spreading toxicity to my physical self thus, prolonging the suffering.

Then one fine day, with great courage, I cut the cord. I let her go since this bitterness was not needed in my life. I could no longer force myself up from the torture chamber of low esteem, and mockery.

Since I had the power to make a selection in this, I bid Adios!

Maybe we were destined to be friends until she got married, who knows?

Years rolled by. Social media brought us together again.

I missed her and those plain and innocent days of laughter.

And always wondered how our friendship would have sprouted over the years?

Would she be still looking over me as a good old friend?

And that made me wonder if I did the right thing?

I decided; I had to make a choice.

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I felt childish over my fuss so I extended my hand of friendship by throwing the ball to her court. She refused to accept the accord and said that we have to move on, and so I did, needless to say with a heavy heart.

As teens, we are resilient and full of buoyancy since we tend to spring back and collect ourselves quickly.

However, the memories made during the juvenile years are precious, and individuals fall upon them when middle age creeps in. I had to make a choice and that is currently making me quibble over my selection by making me argue within whether it was a harsh one?

My two cents collected from my youth Thank you dear friend, maybe we were destined to be friends till our 20’s. At times your friendship hurt me, but I am thankful to you for inculcating a sense of dressing in me while being aware of my exterior self.

You have helped me create wonderful memories in my life, and I am gratified.

But then when maturity and memories meet a fine thin line, I try to bicker over the past, and be content with my choice while making amends with my present.

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About Ruchira Khanna: Ruchira Khanna, a biochemist turned writer, began doing freelance writing. Her love of writing grew and she started working on her own book.

After four years of freelancing, Ruchira published her first book, a fiction novel for adults called Choices. In addition to writing books, she also maintains an inspirational blog of daily mantras on Blogspot, called “Abracabadra.” She can be reached at ruchpun@yahoo.com Editor's Comment: A very touching experience about how if some friendships make you some actually break you.

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I Wish to Live Where

I wish to live, by mountains— near the river Murmuring lowly, feeling the utmost pleasure Where I could breathe the scent of cold fresh air Stretch my arms & dance happily, with no care Where the sun smiles through canopy As I lie down on green carpet in harmony Watch the calm serene waves by my door Mountains, sea & the legend beauty I adore Where the evening cold breeze lifts my soul

Water kisses the land, a beautiful shore Watch the foggy clouds through window pane I stretch out & feel every drop of rain At night, watch the moon coming up the sky Count the shimmering stars as they raise high Fall asleep under the green dark silhouette of trees Each day, tweet of the birds would wake me I wish to dance merrily under moonlight night Where clouds break forth every stream of light Dance & listen to genuine music of nature No other great joy, being with Creator!

I wish one day, I move to such heaven Away from this worldly world, my pains lessen Divine beauty of nature always mesmerize me

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I wish to live in Her, I wanna flee!

About Daneshwari S. Mirji: Daneshwari is a student by profession currently pursuing her Engineering in Information Science. Writing has always been her passion & she loves to write at "Where the ink speaks...”

Reading, watching movies & music are her favorite pass time. She is available at daneshwari.mirji@gmail.com Editor's Comment: Nature brought alive through the poet's words.

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26 / 11

The silly smile never left my face, for the entire day I was on cloud nine, once more I looked into my pocket, only to find the little diamond shine.

I couldn't believe my fate, after all it wasn't just another date.

Admiring the beautiful face across the table my heart heavily pounded but what I just heard wasn't my heartbeat like a crash followed by a shriek it sounded I couldn't believe my fate

after all it wasn't just another date.

With a flash everything was engulfed in a deafening silence, opening my eyes I saw the ring lying in the body pile, I tried to get up and look for her but she was gone there was her body lying in the blood pool with a smile.

I still can't believe my fate I remember it wasn't just another date...

It was 26/11...

About Ompriya Tripathi: Ompriya Tripathi is a 2nd year B. Tech student at HBTI Kanpur and can be reached at ompriya.tripathi723@gmail. com Editor's Comment: A life changing incident captured in its complete ugly form

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One Lie Is All That I Ask For

For one second I sit dwelling on those pretty moments, and the next second, they all come crashing over me.

I ponder over all the lies that you said, wishing that everything that caused me pain were lies too…

When you asked me to forget you, tell me you never meant it…

The circumstances made you say so & it would be the last thing you will ever want me to do.

Tell me… it was just a lie.

Tell me that your reactionwhen you saw me was just a display of disinterest.

That you still felt the thrill going through you at the sight of me, and you had it well- hidden, deep within yourself.

Tell me you lied when you turned away…

That it never meant you didn't want to see me, but that you couldn't bear to see the pain in my eyes, when you pretended not to see me.

You lied through your eyes when they no longer held the love for me, that once emanated from them whenever they caught sight of me.

That the emptiness in them was a lie.

The lack of lustre & passion in them was a lie.

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Tell me you still yearned to get close to me, that you were pretending to move away, that you will compensate for the distance you have created, later someday.

It was a lie when you said that you felt for someone else the same way you had once, long ago felt for me.

Tell me the ‘someone’ was a lie… the ‘feeling’ for the ‘someone’ was a lie… the ‘long ago’ was a lie…

Say it convincingly so that I wouldn't feel the pain anymore, say it with all the emotions you could muster to make it sound true, so that I will live with that wonderful memory of yours and erase all else…

One simple lie…

With all your heart that… … YOU LOVE ME …!

Tell me that the only truth is… …’forever’ & ‘for me’.

And if you couldn't say anything that I have asked you to say, Tell me just one lie before I die…

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About Ranjini S: Ranjini .S. hails from Cochin, Kerala. Being a Chartered Accountant Student, she shooed away all her blues by writing.

Apart from chocolates, rain, long drive, music and books, writing too makes her feel alive. She dreams of breaking out of the cocoon of amateurism and fly as a professional in this field someday. ranjini.s22@gmail.com Editor's Comment: Love hurts and at times kills you too.

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India’s Daughter While India's daughter video has gone viral across the world, it has also raised a lot of questions, as a freelance writer, in me.

1. Is Nirbaya, (Jyoti Singh Pandey) the only daughter of India?

What about • Karaikal Vinothini, • Pune's Nayana Pujari, • Chennai's Uma Maheshwari and • Vysya And there are so many to add to the list. The debates and talk shows that go around India's daughter video talks only about Nirbaya case and are kind of ignorant on these women who have suffered an equal brutality when compared to Nirbaya. Should there be regional differences even while raising voices?

2. One of the key fact that these crimes against women, indirectly point out is, (a) Those accused men who either killed women or threw Acid on her or raped and then killed her, were not born in test tubes. Instead, they were all born to women.

In fact, these criminals were born with sisters, aunts, cousins and so on. They even had friendships among women in their neighborhood. Some of them are even married.

• The accused, who threw Acid on Karaikal Vinothini, was a friend of her father and mother.

• The Accused Venkatachalapathy, who killed Vysya at perungudi railway station, was actually her friend.

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(b) Women are generally regarded, matured and strong both by body and mind. Having said that, Should they keep mum when they get to know that, their son or brother or uncle or husband, is potentially capable of hurting another women?

(c) Having said the above, are our sisters, aunts, cousins and friends in girls, really safe? How, as care takers and well-wishers of our young women, are we going to ensure women's safety? Is our responsibility in

ensuring women's safety, limited only to providing her immediate helpline numbers? (d) Who are women’s real enemies?

3. It is clear that not every one of us can be good. Nature has its own

balance. If some are good, some are bad. We can never think of a world which has only good because nature doesn't work that way.

On looking at cases like Karaikal Vinothini and Vysya, one can say, harms come to

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women through people whom she has acknowledged as good.

On looking at cases like Nirbaya and Uma, one can say, harms come to women through people whom she hardly knew.

If you look at the criminals from the eye of their friends and relatives, it would be clear that the bad has thus far been one among us. The Accused Venkatachalapathy must have been a good friend to all genuine friends of Vysya.

4. The Biggest Irony that I can see here is, much of the accused men are already married and have kids. I see this as a potential threat to the society that we belong.

Because, the killing instinct and the brutal instincts against women that they carry in their DNA has already been passed on to a child. No matter whether,

Ram Singh who was the prime accused in Nirbaya case, or any other accused is put to jail or hung to death, the society is left with his DNA and while saying this, I would like to also remind you of Darwin's theory of evolution here. All you have to do is just a Simple Mathematics.

These are the real facts that should be in debate but 'India's Daughter' doesn't utter anything in this regard.

It is pathetic to see most of the media arguing or highlighting women's freedom in dressing and freedom to roam around at midnight, ignoring the above things, which I believe are the core things that seek critical evaluation and attention.

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About Ram Govardhan: Ram Govardhan’s first novel, Rough with the Smooth, was longlisted for the 2009 Man Asian Literary Prize, The Economist-Crossword 2011 Award and published by Leadstart Publishing, Mumbai. His short stories have appeared in Asian Cha, Quarterly Literary Review of Singapore, Muse India, Asia Writes, Open Road Review, Cerebration, Spark and several other Asian and African literary journals. He somehow survives the deadly humidity of Chennai, India. He can be reached at ram.govardhan@ymail.com Editor's Comment: Heart-breaking eye opener. It thrusts the mirror into our faces.

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Son – In – Law Sudheer stepped in to the noisy economy section of the bar. He walked steadily towards a fixed spot at the end of the hall, past the clusters of tables and chairs that were arranged neatly in the multiples of two. The bar hall was huge and was decorated with designer mirrors on its walls. The dim lights vaguely brightened the table tops and exposed bottles, glasses and ash trays with formations of smoke coming out of them from the dying cigarettes, whereas the people sitting around the tables looked greyed out as if they were not the spotlight.

Sudheer hurried to reach his regular table. On finding his space vacant, he quickly grabbed it and signalled the bartender for a drink.

Positioned at the left most corner of the hall, Sudheer’s table could accommodate

two persons. He sat facing to the wall so that no one could see him there. He was still getting comfortable when his cell-phone beeped. It showed the caller name to be ‘Sangeeta’.

Sudheer disconnected the call but his own reflection on the cell phone screen made him wait for a while.

It showed something of a neatly groomed person whose presence in a place like this was never meant to be. The dark circles around his tired eyes narrated silent tales of his sleepless nights.

His clean shaved face resembled that of a professional who aims big.

All the worries and problems in his life could not cover the youthful shine on his cheeks.

Twenty six or may be twenty seven years- that was all he had studied life so far. He suddenly stopped gazing at himself and slipped his mobile back into his pocket

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and sank into the chair to join the fraternity of greyed entities.

The bartender appeared with a large peg of whiskey and greeted his regular customer.

“He isn’t in? Your friend sir…”

The bartender questioned shyly while preparing the drink.

“Who?” Sudheer questioned back. His tone was a little annoyed.

“Peanuts or finger-chips for snacks sir?” the bartender asked abandoning his previous question.

“Peanuts please. Less salt and chilly.”

Sudheer confirmed the order and the bartender vanished into the darkness.

Sudheer took the first sip as if it was a tradition to not to finish the drink in one go. In the next sip, he emptied it

and signalled for the next one. After finishing this one too at a record speed he signalled again and closed his eyes relaxingly. His breath slowed down, the wrinkles on his forehead blurred and they finally disappeared. As the medicine started to work, peace returned back to his mind.

“Sir, your drink.” The bartender’s voice brought him back to this world.

When Sudheer’s eyes opened, a smile of happiness flashed on his face. His eyes widened out of surprise. He saw his booze friend sitting right in front of him.

“Get a peg for my friend too.”

He ordered and leaned forward, excitedly.

The booze friend of Sudheer’s was his personal little secret that he told no one about. They both were

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different from each other; lived lives of their own, Sudheer couldn’t even recollect his name. Every evening, they met each other at the very same place and at the same table. Sudheer shared his happiness and sorrows with him and he listened patiently with out being a judge of anything in Sudheer’s life. The booze friend often replied in nods and spoke occasionally. Most of the time, he was keen on finishing his drink but Sudheer was sure that having a free drink was not his only motive.

the smile on Sudheer’s face did not last for long.

“I have news for you my friend!” Sudheer said merrily and continued. “I got

Sudheer yelled at the bartender and signalled him for more pegs. The booze friend figured it out beforehand that now Sudheer would narrate his story again. He had been doing this every day since their month long friendship.

May be that was what Sudheer wanted. He wanted

promoted! Wait that is not all of it…I will be relocating to the U.S!” He finished with so

much happiness that it showed up in the face of his booze friend too. They both raised their glass and had a “cheers” in celebration. But

He looked at his booze friend and sadly spoke, “I am going to miss them, my friend…”

Sudheer’s feelings reciprocated in his friend’s face. He calmly closed his eyes and softly said, “Let go,

my friend. I know why you are leaving.”

Suddenly Sudheer became aggressive in his tone.

“Bloody, is there no way that

I can be with them, and live happily? Bloody, I am talking about my Wife and my two year old Son!! What the hell?”

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some one who could listen to him.

The booze friend knew how it would start. “It’s been seven years…” he said mentally and Sudheer started just like that.

more than just good friends.

We had started loving each other.” Taking a sip from his glass, Sudheer continued his story.

“We won good jobs and

Sudheer

wanted to get settled in life.

It all happened so fast…asked our parents, they agreed and finally we got married. This

met each other during our college. She was my best friend.

So much that I used to discuss my crushes with her and she used to help me out in deciding the right choice.

Shortly after completing college, we both realised that in fact, we were

was the happy ending of a Bachelorette. BUT as they say, the real world is beyond the ‘The End’ banner of a romantic movie. It happened the same way.

“My

wife, Sangeeta.”

her

name

is

reiterated as if his friend knew nothing about him.

“We

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You see, friend, I never cared what Sangeeta’s family background was. I didn’t care who all were in her family, what they expected from me and further more, what I must expect from them.

Because to me, Sangeeta was my new found world. She was my unfailing partner for the rest of the life…

Ah! All that I knew about being in a marital relationship was about to be proved wrong” As Sudheer crept into the flash back, his face turned serious.

The glasses continued getting filled up and emptied at regular intervals and the reciting went on.

“My equation of a happy

marriage is simple: A happy wife, a contented kid and a worry free home. That’s all…Oh! No, no no….that where I failed to read and

understand the T&C of a married relationship.

First rays of realization fell on me when my wife and my mother had ‘ego’ issues for reasons best known to them.

After a little dig, I found the root cause for the frustrations. To summarize it I quote ‘A mother-in-law cannot withstand her daughter-in-law speaking to her mother for a long time.’

The confusingly endless T.V serials taught me that it is a common phenomenon with the ladies. My friends and coworkers advised me that it’s ’best’ to leave it untouched. I thought time will settle it.

And I am still waiting…”

Sudheer slammed his wrist heavily on the table. Another sip of whiskey, kind of, brought the temper down.

The booze friend visibly looked bored but the situation was out of control.

He knew the next story too and it went thus;

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“The second bouncer was

such that I could not even duck. My father-in-law, a retired man had extinguished all his savings in his daughter’s marriage.

One sunny day, my wife calls me at office to inform that my father-in-law has had a heart attack and my services are needed urgently.

Sangeeta’s corporate insurance had her parents name in it. The insurance limit for the year was fully utilised, I had to chuck away a part of my savings that had kept aside for buying a home.

My mother gave me a sour look for doing all this. But my wife was happy and I was hopeful.

Alas! We lost him!”

Sudheer was now five pegs down. He was hardly able to open his eyes and look up.

Yet, he ordered one more.

“Sir, it will be the last one for the day.” the bartender told courteously.

“Ok, make it two then. One

for me and one for my friend…” Sudheer said in a

shaky voice and waited for the drinks to arrive. As soon as the drink arrived, the story began again.

“After the sad demise of my

father-in-law, the equation of my life turned tipsy-turvy. I don’t recollect when my little dream of a two-bedroom house transformed to become a ground plus one.

Guessed it? Hahahaa… my mother-in-law will now stay with us. That is when I realised that there are some combi-packs too.

My Brother-in-law is thirty years old and is too young to work.

My sister-in-law has just completed her college. And the situation is also perfect. I am buying a house. What if I have to take a hefty home loan for it? What if

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everybody say that I am doing the worst mistake of my life? I had no other option. After all I love my wife...and after all, the arrangement is only for a time until my brother-in-law secures a job…”

The drink was now being forced in by Sudheer. He didn’t wanted to go home, He was just avoiding encounters with Sangeeta… he was painfully trying to separate himself from his own family.

The booze friend was equally doused as Sudheer yet he stayed on till the end of the narration.

“Days and months passed but

not a single day was going easy. My mother-in-law intervened in our day today matters.

My mother’s frustration for this showed on me, I shouted at Sangeeta.

She started getting angry and frustrated with my behaviour. My brother-in-

law joined a gym and built a well toned body, Sister-inlaw was always busy over the mobile. Her so called secret love affair was no more a secret. Sangeeta quit her job and was worried about her sister’s marriage.

Sangeeta and I spoke rarely though we fought everyday.

Amidst all this mess, I was awaiting for something good to happen in my life. Finally God sent someone who can be on my side. We were blessed with a boy.”

At once, Sudheer’s face glowed like a full moon. His eyes shone bright and a smile crept on his lips killing all his worries for the moment.

“My

sweet heart…My heartbeat…My sun shine, Sunny, when I first took him into my arms, he at once stopped crying and smiled at me. Right there, he had become my best friend. I promised him at that

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moment that I will give him a best life…My sweet heart, sun shine…He changed my life. I got a reason to live. He is lucky to me, you know.

After his arrival, I got good promotions at work. Things at home too started to return to normal. My sweet heart…sun shine.”

Sudheer kept repeating and murmuring until suddenly he remembered something else.

The moment of peace was lost again. He grinded his teeth and spoke vengefully.

“But…they are so self-centric,

especially mother-in-laws, all of them…given a chance, I will kill them all. One day when I returned from work, a sense of something negative, hit me hard. That day I was not welcomed home. No one smiled at me.

Sangeeta did not get me a glass of water and she did not even ask me how my day at work was, Sunny cried

pointlessly, my mother was sitting on the chair like a heavy pumpkin, mother-inlaw was not present in my hall, which was un-natural, brother-in-law gave me challenging looks by breaking his knuckles.

Mustering courage, I spoke to Sangeeta. It was clear that the ladies in the house had found a new reason to fight.

‘Sunny’ My mother wanted to play with Sunny at the same time when my mother-in-law wanted to take him for a stroll…and Sangeeta spoke in her mom’s support. Do I need to tell more?

After that day, nothing was normal. The inmates in my home literally competed to grab Sunny. They didn’t event give me some time with him. Suicidal thoughts came to my mind but they negated themselves telling me ‘think, what will happen to Sangeeta and Sunny after your?’ That was the first time

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I had come here. I found solace in the amber colour of this medicine. It helped me realize that it is completely my fault that I am not THE son-in-law who demands for dowry. I cannot be the one who tortures his wife and does not care for her family. I am the son-in-law who delivers a son’s responsibility and yet is taken for granted.

Relocating to the U.S with my family was also not the option. I cannot ask my mother-in-law to stay away and still keep my mother with me…how can I ask Sangeeta not to support her mom but still obey my mother. Is it not a part of thinking that both moms must be doing to keep their children happy? Can’t they just leave us alone? In such desperate moments, I met you!

Do you remember that day, I decided to leave all my

worries here and fly away to the U.S, alone? Today is the day when it all ends.

Tomorrow evening, I will be hitting the skies; I will be across the seven seas, living all alone. I will be like an A.T.M machine that just delivers money when demanded. That is all…that is all….”

Sudheer emptied his glass.

The bar was almost closed for the day. The bartender and the guy at the counter were anxiously waiting for their regular customer to finish. It was time the bartender acted.

“Sir, it is closing time…” He said in a low tone.

“I know... I know…I am going.

Going for ever.” Sudheer was so drunk that the bartender helped him walk till the counter. He even forgot to see off his booze friend. He

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didn’t even look at him for the last time.

While paying at the counter, Sudheer blabbered, “Guys,

your bar was like a refuge to me…thanks! I am leaving to the U.S tomorrow. Leaving for ever, leaving everything behind…Bye bye…and thanks!” Paying a handsome tip to his regular bartender, Sudheer walked away.

“We are loosing a regular customer. Poor guy.” the bartender spoke to the cashier.

“Poor guy? mean?” questioned curiosity.

“Looks like

What do you

the cashier out of general

he is in some grave problems…all these days, after a few pegs, he used to start talking to his own reflection in the mirror on the wall. He questioned and answered himself; he smiled and cried in front of it.

He treated him as his best friend and poured his heart out. He used to even order a peg for his own reflection!

Poor guy… God help him!”

About Jatin Kuberkar: Take an ounce full of imagination and a scoop of humour. Mix them well. Now put a few teaspoons of feelings and emotions and stir until it smells good. Put the mixture on the pallet of dreams and garnish it with a few peanuts of desires; that is all it takes to be Jatin Kuberkar.

A software engineer by day and a passionate writer by night, Jatin wants to experiment with different genres. He lives in Hyderabad, surrounded by his friends and well-wishers. Jatin can be reached at: itsjatink@gmail.com.

Editor's Comment: Irony of life brought out in smiles.

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About Chung Chin-Yi: Chung Chin-Yi completed doctoral studies at the National University of Singapore in 2011.She has published widely on deconstruction and dabbled a bit in poetry and readings of contemporary literature and Shakespeare as well.

Death

Death lies at the heart of existence As the nothing that conditions the present There is no time without deferral

Editor's Comment: The poet has made something like death seem attractive.

There is no space without communication through a medium Death is thus the nothing that is the condition of what is present Death is the end we live towards and conceive ourselves from From dust we emerge and to dust we return

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The Lord

or in manmade customs and rituals, I believe, eternal is your presence, in shimmer of reliance.

You always succored my soul to revive when it was trapped in mud of lily-livered.

From blest cradle of demiurge we all started our venture.

Your supreme power, is an armor to your believer.

On my knees, an entreaty from divine disguise I feel forlorn in your absence within me, my lord.

The quest for you never is a rummage for me though, like between the walls of temple

In amidst of nature, watching testimonies of your virtuosity, makes me discern the musing happening inside of me, waft makes me feel your quiddity, ascertaining my conscious about your capability, soul jilts the ego, just inhales a grin and murmurs in sane, kid, we are just flurry… in front of his power!

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About Asmitha: A believer, who believes in her beliefs’, an optimist, who could see an opportunity to learn whenever she fails, an acceptor who considers everyone as they think as an individual and listens to their perspective and accepts.

Who persists she is God’s favorite cup of tea!

Editor's Comment: The magic of the Supreme power captured in beautiful words.

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The Enemy in a Vision, with courage He doth muster, Four Robes on Him, and his fangs bared.

Sioux

Here goes a story, once upon a time, Was a General, with His head held high, Armed with his blade, on a stallion so fine, Rode into the war with a blithe sigh.

The Land smelt of blood and bones, Scarlet Armageddon on precipice.

Custer on his knees, Death now on the fore.

'Twere his groans that echoed, not the sighs he bore.

The Little BigHorn: ‘twas named, General Custer he was called, Ran the river red against The Lame White Man, And the Crazy Horse with his Black Shawl.

Incensed by the Gall of Custer, The Sitting Bull arose, nostrils flared.

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About Jagannathan R: Jagannathan R codes software by day and is a billionaire vigilante by night.

Powered by Espresso and a few shots here and there, he blogs about whatever quirks he finds in Nature.

Philosophical, witty and sarcastic is what puts him a level above Bruce Wayne.

He's the blogger this world deserves, and also the one it needs right now. Contact him using the Batsignal. Or Email would also do. Email: jagannathanr@outlook.com Editor's Comment: A prose in poetry which speaks about the unheard stories

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The Blind Date “Coffee World” was filled with young people. The background music was perky without being too loud to interrupt conversations. The young waiters in their Tshirts bustled up and down taking and delivering orders.

Biju looked closely at every girl who came in. He had arrived half an hour ago and positioned himself at a strategic location inside so as to give him a view of anyone who was entering. He had kept the bouquet of roses he had brought on the chair next to him. He did not want to draw attention to it before he could present it to her. It had been an impulsive buy.

He looked up at the door, a pretty young girl in jeans and a kurti was entering. She sat down at the alcove opposite him and started fiddling with her phone. “Was it her?” he wondered. He felt his phone

every now and then to see if it was ringing. The girl opposite was now talking on the phone to someone. Her voice was shrill and loud. No it was obviously not his beloved.

Two girls sitting to his right were staring at him and giggling making him feel a bit self-conscious.

He smoothened down his hair nervously. They were joined by two young men and Biju was relieved to find that their attention was now off him.

A blind girl walked in and felt her way around the shop with her stick. She was sitting to his left. From the way she was talking to the waiters there, it was obvious that she was a regular.

He tapped his foot impatiently wondering how he was going to kill the next fifteen minutes. He decided he would call her at 5.10 if

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she did not come by 5.00 PM as she had promised.

It had all started a month ago when Biju had called the toll free number printed at the back of his credit card to seek clarification on his billing for the month. Her voice had been soft and

warm answering his queries in a professional way. The voice at the other end had captivated him so much that he had called back again trying to speak to the person whose voice it was.

Unfortunately, the second time he had encountered a male voice which was equally helpful… but help was the last thing on Biju’s mind. He was trying to get the voice that called itself “Nina” to talk to him.

After several failed attempts he discovered over the next few days that he was most likely to speak to her if he called between 2.30 -4.00 PM. And thus had begun a routine of calls with questions that were very obviously made up and imaginary. He wondered how long he would be able to keep up this charade. He was sure that she must have guessed by now that he was calling to talk to her. She was always

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professional and polite; brushing off the questions that she could not answer or transferring his calls to others.

He usually disconnected when these transfers happened. He was not sure he could keep up the charade with someone else.

He had tried to look for her through social networking sites like Facebook. But it was obviously not so easy considering there were about 100 “Nina”s that the site kept throwing up.

He had patiently gone through twenty of them but had given up after some time. Besides, his friend Unni had told him that most employees at call centres like the one that handled his credit card queries used assumed names.

Unni was his only friend in the city. As a new migrant to Bangalore from Cochin, Biju had been drawn to a fellow

Malayalee. Both of them worked in the same IT firm, albeit in different teams.

Unlike Biju, Unni was a native of Bangalore having grown up there. He had introduced his “country cousin” (as he liked to refer to Biju) to various haunts in the city. Unni often made fun of Biju’s strong “Mallu accent”. Of late he had taken to imitating Biju on his afternoon trysts with the toll free number.

“Dude, you don’t have to find

her. She will find you! An accent like that is hard to miss” he had said once laughing loudly at his joke. Biju listened to good humouredly. At Unni had not said that would be put off by accent.

own him least Nina that

Meanwhile, he spent all his free time thinking about her.

Her voice was the sweetest thing that he had ever heard-

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not too shrill like that of most girls or too husky in a way that would intimidate.

He had often imagined how she would look. Probably fair, small built with long hair, he thought. He did not know why but that was the image that came to his mind.

Unni had teased him mercilessly when he had shared these thoughts with him. “Do you also imagine she applies coconut oil to her hair? And idiot, how do you know she is fair? Stop these Mallu fantasies built around what your Velliya Ammachi and various Kochammas talk about” he had said. Biju had been a bit embarrassed after that. But he knew there was some truth in what Unni said.

A Syrian Christian from Kerala, Biju Varghese knew that his idea of femininity had developed from what was considered beautiful in his native Cochin. And anyway, it was quite possible

that she looked like he imagined her. After all, God worked miracles in strange ways. And he was a god fearing young man. He had never missed a single Sunday at church except when he had malaria as a boy. He was sure God would reward him for this uninterrupted attendance in more ways than one.

The almighty had finally decided to reward him yesterday. Unni who had been doing some “detective work” for him on the side had had a sudden windfall.

“You remember my cousin,

Usha? I ran into her yesterday at a wedding. She mentioned that she works at a call centre. And good friend that I am I quizzed her for more details and found out that she works at the same call centre that handles queries from customers of your credit card company. I asked her to find out about

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your Nina.” Unni had said, his eyes flashing mischievously.

Biju couldn’t believe it! Fate seemed to be smiling at him.

He just hoped that this Nina whose details Usha Chechi had promised to find out would not be some matron with four kids. And hopefully, her last name would be Kurien, Cherian, Chacko, Mathew, Mathai or any one of the hundred odd Syrian Christian names that cropped in his church in Kerala. He was not sure how he would deal with it if it was something else. What would Ammachi say? Appachen might disown him if she was from another religion or region.

He must confess he was a bit worried when he finally heard her full name- “Nina Rao”!

“She would have to convert” he thought folding and refolding the paper napkin

under his saucer. He looked at his watch 5.15 now. It was safe to call her now. He hoped she had not ditched him. But she had promised to meet him here at 5.00 PM after her shift got over when he had spoken to her yesterday. He did not think she was the sort of girl to play such a cruel joke on a small town fellow like him.

He took out his mobile and called her number all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the entrance in front of him.

“Hello Biju” she said. He felt a bit disconcerted to hear her voice. It seemed to be coming from somewhere beyond the electronic device that he held to his ear. Yes, indeed it was… a real person was speaking. Ignoring the voice in his ear he turned left in the direction of the voice. He did not have to look at her to know who it was!

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“Hello! Biju? Where are you?” said the blind girl, speaking into her mobile.

He watched her silently as she repeated her question again before he disconnected. She was thin and fair with long hair, exactly as he had imagined but her eyes were covered with dark glasses.

He wondered if he should go up to her and introduce himself.

But something stopped him. He could deal with a Nina Rao, but not a Nina Rao who was blind!

He rose and signaled to the waiter to bring his bill. He slid out of his seat quietly and walked towards the door trying not to look back at the blind girl sitting inside.

“Sir, you forgot your bouquet” shouted the waiter running after him.

Biju walked faster turning around the corner panting.

He did not want to bear the

burden of those flowers.

Those were meant to be carried by a much stronger man!

About Meera Sundararajan: Meera Sundararajan is a blogger from Chennai, India.

She writes on various themes ranging from fiction to nonfiction. Writing for her is a consuming passion. Most of her themes revolve around life and its everyday happenings.

Editor's Comment: A love story is also about what doesn't happen between lovers. One such heartbreaking love story.

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In Silence

Sitting in silence, watching the crowd pass Sensitive and intuitive in my own space Thought to be a wallflower in the corner I'm just an over thinking observer.

Against the fear of being left behind.

Empathizing the weak and the strong I understand- The past glory doesn't last long.

In the sidelines, the footpaths of life I have crossed travelers aplentyInspiring entities, lifelong friends, I've met pathfinders and lost wanderers.

But alone once again, life feels stranded So, standing in silence, I wait for the inevitable end.

I witness the run, the sprints, the overtakes And the stampedes in the rat race I see the joy of success, the pain of failure I see moments lost in the loud murmur.

I feel the yearning for a revive and a rewind

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About Pratikshya Mishra: Pratikshya Mishra is a selfconfessed dreamer who loves the world of fiction more than the real world.

She’s currently pursuing her BTech in Electronics and Communication Engineering.

A passionate blogger, she juggles her time between lab works, programmings and assignments; reading novels; watching Korean sitcoms and learning new skills to satisfy her curiosity every now and then. She dreams to own a big library, make a literary museum and eventually publish her work one day. In the years to come, she aims to sign off her name as‘Pratikshya Mishra, Engineer by profession; Writer and Blogger by passion.’ She can be reached at pratikshya.mishra72@gmail. com

Editor's Comment: The poet tries to unearth the mysteries of life in her words.

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An Untold Love Story “Not many will make you think how beautiful you are, but he did.

Not many will make you believe in yourself, but he did.

Not many will do things out of the box for you, but he did.

Not many will think about you, but he did.

Not many will make you feel good about your presence, but he did.”

The words never had so much impact on her as they were having right now. She went through the lines again and again.

She had never felt this way before.

She had only read that love was a sacred emotion. But she was experiencing it now.

The time she had spent with her "friend" had made her go through emotions she had never experienced before.

He had made her more connected with herself.

He had gotten through her walls and managed to strike a chord deep within her heart.

His patience, understanding, maturity made her hold him in some kind of awe.

She couldn't name the emotions she had for him.

It had felt divine when she spoke to him.

It felt as if a light shone within her... making her feel blessed.

Though he wasn't with her, near her, she could feel him pulsating through every cell of her body.

He hadn't touched her even once, but it felt as if she belonged to him.

It was more than lust or a mere carnal desire...

She felt love in the purest form...

His innocence, his tenderness bought a lump in her throat.

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Never in her nightmare had she thought she would fall for him. But here she was staring at his picture realizing she was in irrevocably and unconditionally in love with him! *3 months later*

*The spark of the first moment doesn't last long, But it does light a flame that would keep us warm!* She had marvelled at the beauty of the sentence right from day one. And now again when they met after 3 months, it still felt the same.

The spark of the first moment was still there. They never had to say a formal 'Hi' or shake hands when they met, it was always said and done by their eyes and their mere presence. What a handshake did for others, a simple smile did it for them.

The fact that they had not

seen each other at all throughout these 3 months suddenly seemed so unreal.

It didn’t feel like they had vanished from each other’s lives for such a long time, the spark was still alive!

They went to Bandstand...

The breeze was hot and humid. It hadn’t rained since 3 days, and she was secretly praying for it to rain now.

She liked the wind hitting her face. Her hair flying wildly behind her, and a happy grin plastered on her face. It was bliss. A perfect moment. A perfect day. A perfect memory. But then, he always had created perfect

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memories for her. Right from their first outing, to till date.

He had given her perfect memories to cherish. Be it the surprise visits, the early mornings on marine drive or the long walks in the unknown lanes of Colaba, they were all beautiful perfect memories.

They sat there in complete silence. He was holding her hand, he always did. She liked it made her feel more protected. Today no matter what she was going to tell him how she felt. She had decided. She was still waiting for the sun to set… or maybe just trying to gather up courage.

They saw the sunset together. She had gathered up a lot of courage till now!

She turned to him and before she could say anything...

He said, “We should leave now."

“I don’t want you to go. Not yet.” she said and looked away.

"What is it Rose? Is something bothering you?"

He looked concerned.

"No, nothing… Let's leave!" she said.

He dropped her outside her gate and before she could turn back and head home...

"By the way, you are looking really pretty in this top." He said She blushed. She wondered how he still managed to make her blush and giggle all the time.

"Thank you!" and she turned back and again he stopped her.

"I'll come back soon!" He said, looking into her eyes.

Every time when he looked at her, her eyes failed to meet that striking vitality of his and she just looked down and smiled.

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She didn't say a word, she didn't have to, silence always spoke for them, and even now, she left the unspoken words for the silence to convey.

About Author: Maitreyee Editor's Comment: The spoken is as precious as the unspoken especially when the language is love.

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How They Kept Their Love Alive I studied her as she waved goodbye. She was standing on the couch so he could get a better view of her through the glass pane.

Her protruding belly, almost touching the window.

After a huge grin, there was a sense of relief on her face. I found it strange. Why was she alleviated to see her husband go to work? The relief turned to a pleasant smile as she left the window to get to her unending chores. She saw me looking at her with questions in my eyes and asked "What are you wondering" If I understand properly, there was a slight tension on her face before the relief, so yes, it was relief. But why the tension?

"Kaku" she calls me again, and breaks my line of thought.

"Didi, I may be wrong, but if I

am not, then can I ask you something?"

"That statement made no sense but do share your thoughts."

"There is a sense of relief on your face as you bid Jiju goodbye.

I was just wondering why are you happy to see him go to work tod.."

I saw her smile change to a giggle and then her laughter didn't let me finish my question.

"I thought you knew me better than that" she said mocking me.

“I...”

“You know how he is?”

“That is supposed to be a

rhetorical question, I know that but how am I supposed to know him. I am two days old in this la la land of yours.

I saw you wave goodbye

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yesterday too but didn't see your face. Today, I noticed a flash of relief amidst the happiness. I find it weird. So, to answer your question, I don't know how he is.

Honestly, I don't want to know either but I am curious. Why the relief?”

“I am scared that he will forget to wave.”

“Since when is this going on?”

“He is like this from the start.

Professors are born absentminded.”

“I meant the waving.” and let out a cold sigh.

“Oh! Since we moved here.” she answers with a giggle.

“You are afraid that an …

eight month habit will break?” I calculate the time in my mind.

“Every day is a new day. I

don't know, maybe I am wrong to think that he will forget.”

“Ok!

Answer the next obvious question. Has he ever missed waving goodbye to the love of his life?” I couldn't help roll my eyes.

“Not that I can think of.

Actually, never.”

“Then?”

“I can't explain. There is a

sense of excitement. I wish him a good day and see him walk till the bus stop. I pray that he has a productive day.

Till he turns, each moment is vexing. It annoys me but also

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gives me a sort of tease. It is like there is an increase in my heartbeat with his every delay. You follow?”

“Not at all.”

“It's okay, you will when you get married. This ritual is important to me. I think it is to him too. I think he waves on good faith. He can't see me from that distance. He does it for me. He knows that I am waiting.” Yes, actually,

why didn't I think of it? He can't probably see her. It is true, love is for fools. Her next statement gets my attention.

“I have never told you this

but we went thought a slightly rough phase when we turned two. Life had become stale. Then one day, he went out and almost slipped on the sleet. He looked back. Since he was close and could see my silhouette, he showed a thumbs-up to tell me that he was Okay. I waved good bye

and he waved back. He walked all the way to the turning and waved again. I wasn't sure he could see me; I pulled the blinds and waved to him. He left. This became our ritual. Somehow, things just changed for us after that.

We felt younger. Crazier. We trusted each other more.

Now, when I look back, I feel that this is what saved our marriage. Maybe it is a bit strong, I don't know how things would be otherwise or how long the itch would have lasted or what we would have done … Anyway, now you know.” With this, she got up from the couch and went for the kitchen.

I didn't know how to react. I am glad she didn't ask me for one. I am amazed at her maturity and the change these trivial things can do. I don't know if I will get married or how it will be, I know I can depend on my

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sister and ask her for help anytime. ~ About Sunayna Pal: The corporate world couldn't hold Sunayna Pal's interest for long and a 9 to 5 didn't appeal her much. So, she quit her job, converted her hobbies into her profession and started “Art with sunayna” to teach and sell art from NGO's and became a full time graphologist and a home maker. In between all this, she also gets time to write.

She is the Mumbai reporter for Evergreen Magazine. She is a part of the anthology “Mighty Thoughts” and has published her articles in TOI, New woman, online fashion magazine-Style and Sparkle, Vinay's HR Zone and E magazines like Ignire and WOW (World of words). In her little spare time, she also maintains her blog at

mannkiwindow.wordpress.c om and can be contacted at sunayna.pal@gmail.com Editor's Comment: Beautiful tale of how love survives, against all odds always and all ways.

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The Other Woman Suraj dressed up as quickly as he could. He looked around the room for his pants which were now tossed across the room.

Shipra lay spread out naked on the bed, with the satin golden bed sheet wrapped around her haphazardly.

How much he loved her body. She did miraculous things to him and he was thrilled to have had a piece of her. Having met her at a

social gathering, he had fallen lust over heels for her.

And unfortunately for her,

she had fallen in love with him. Once he was done, he walked up to her and kissed her passionately.

“I’ll see you tonight then?”

She asked cupping his face.

“No, this is it. I’m not coming back.” He picked up his bag.

She jumped out of the bed startled, totally oblivious of her naked frame. Suraj admire her body yet again. It had been more than a year since he owned every bit of her, and yet he wanted more. But his wretched wife had come to know about his affair and was threatening to leave him.

It would not do well to his image in the society if this news came out. He had no choice but to let go off this beauty.

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“What are you Shipra blurted out.

saying?”

“My wife found out. I can’t do this anymore.”

“No, you cannot leave me like

She gave him a disgusted look and pushed him away.

“How dare you, Suraj. You

stay away all night and now you do this.” She looked him in the eye.

this. I love you Suraj, you know that.” She hugged him

“I was at work Neha, I was in

The smell of her made his go crazy. And before he knew it he was peeling off his clothes again and pouncing on her, pushing her into the sheets.

Thirty minutes later, he bid a goodbye and walked away.

Forever.

“I know what your meetings

Suraj arrived home just before 9 am. His wife was already up and sitting at the table for breakfast. She was fully dressed and looked very pretty. Suraj smiled.

leave her and I did. It is only you in my life now, please don’t do this.” His voice

tight.

“Looking gorgeous darling!”

He bent down to kiss her.

meetings at night with the clients.” are. I’m leaving, Suraj. I need a divorce.” Saying so she stood up.

Suraj stared at her with fear in his eyes.

“I’m sorry Neha. I told you I’ll

choked with emotions.

“It’s

not that. I have somebody else in my life now and I want to move on with him. I need a divorce at any

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cost.” Her voice was firm and clear.

“You… That is why you want

a divorce? After making me feel so guilty for having an affair, while you yourself were having one?” He spat

in the bathroom. The door was unlocked and he opened the door wide with a huge smile on his face. The color on his face drained as he saw his mistress’s limp body in the tub with her wrists slashed.

out.

“Oh, you shouldn’t judge me

Suraj. I did the same thing what you did. Clearly we cannot stay together, I’m leaving.” She said and walked

Strangely it was the other woman who had remained loyal throughout.

away with her luggage in tow.

Suraj grabbed his car keys and rushed to go meet Shipra. He could be all hers now, Suraj thought. He drove as quickly as he could to reach her place. He found the door open and saw her clothes strewn across the floor. He smiled; maybe she was expecting him after all.

Not finding her in the room, he looked around the house and heard the flow of water

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About Soumya Prasad: Soumya is an avid reader and a passionate writer who works as a Software Engineer in Bangalore.

Danielle Steel is her inspiration and she hopes to publish her own novel some day. A hardcore romantic, most of her stories and poems are about love and the various shades of it. She is also a fashion critic, baker, dancer and a painter and in love with anything this gets her creative juices flowing.

She loves spinning tales and uses her real life stories as an inspiration. Rhymed poetry is her perfect orgasm.

Editor's Comment: Relationships are fragile and their only desire it to be loved, fully and completely.

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Graveyard Memories

of

In the graveyard of my memories, I dig deep, To find something…

I didn't know what I'm searching for, I couldn't find what I was looking for, Deep in my dream, I realized, I'm searching you..

Seeing you holding me hurts, Seeing you kissing me kills, My tears warm me up and I'm tired of cleaning this mess, That's why I buried you, Please stay underneath!

About Aruna Lakshmi Ramu: Aruna Lakshmi Ramu is a Psychology student from Madras University. She has her recent publication of her poem with TWJ Magazine.

She loves to express herself with words and view Aruna Lakshmi's blog, "Journey" in arunalakshmi.wordpress.co m. She loves chocolates, friends, music and movies but nothing beats books.

Books were all time favorite for her and she is crazy for books. She can settle with a book at any kinda situation.

Editor's Comment: The ugliness of love very well depicted.

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Memories

Memories are like a crowd, when you are alone, They are the most precious possession, that one owns, They make you laugh, cry, angry and excited, They sometimes make you feel delighted, But one cannot forget that memories are only memories that happened in the past, And they cannot happen again at last, it is a thing of a very large sorrow,

Memories give us memories like fast trains, When we deeply think of our memories, We feel to have them in our present life’s stories, But once anything happens, it is converted into memories, That one can remember and cherish like past histories, No matter how big you become or grow in your life, Memories are your own shadows which follows you till the last breath of your life.

Memories of one’s life cannot be relived in tomorrow, I wish that they can come true again,

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About Shubhangi Srivastava: Shubhangi Srivastava is 18 years old currently preparing for engineering exams. She has been writing from 3 to 4 years. She usually writes what she feels or when she is going through some emotional conflict inside her.

Human emotions and worldly affairs fascinate her very much. Writing brings peace to her soul. My email address – mailtoshubhangi@gmail.com Editor's Comment: Memories are what our lives are made up of. The poet weaves an imaginary around them warming up your senses.

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Your Voyage

to baseless delusions, pay no heed!

Be the wise sailor who chats with winds of energy, yet washes in water his rage.

You must know it and know it well, Life, amidst all needs, is your voyage...

In the traverse covered so far, you have outlived, every wound and scar.

May your cause be clean, at every stage, rise above storms of all age.

Life, amidst seas of quests is your voyage.

Bedecked with faith in his mentor, the learner has always and will ever captivate with his fervour!

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About Sagher Manchanda: Sagher Manchanda is a promising fiction writer and has an impressive hand at writing poetry. Born in New Delhi, India, Sagher completed his schooling from St. Joseph's High School, Solapur, Maharashtra. At present, he has applied for Arts in a renowned college in Pune, where he is residing these days. During his school days, Sagher showed special interest and enthusiasm in writing imaginary or fictional essays and stories. Sagher Manchanda works under the pen-name, 'Sagher' and prefers to be addressed by the same in the literary field.

Editor's Comment: In the poet's words the journey of life is charming.

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Bunch of Happiness

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About Ada Wiam: Ada is 24, married and she lives in a colorful plethora of dreams. Words are her safe haven - the only place she goes to hide when the world scares her. She is a selfconfessed chocoholic and a bookworm. She published her debut novel 'How I Won The Love deal' on June fifth, finally. She blogs at 'The Bookworm's Harbor' http://ada2writes.wordpres s.com. You can contact her @ bells.teddy@gmail.com. She is eager to hear your opinions.

Editor's Comment: Flowers always have a charm of their own - they speak not only through their colours but also through their smells.

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Hot August Nights

I want to go back where the wind blows free on a hot August night down by the sea, listen to the sandpiper call to its mate, tease the tides advance and watch it abate.

I want to feel the salt spray stinging my face feel the ocean breeze in a wide open space, muse on the sun's ultimate descent its red haze of glory a lasting lament.

while the waves wash away the tears that fall and the moon hides her face amidst the squall.

I want to say goodbye to the things that hurt then softly dance before the lighthouse turret while the moon looks on with radiant glow sending lambent rays to the shadows below.

Aye, take me back where the wind blows free, where pain succumbs to the water's Banshee for a few wee hours of peaceful delight on a hot a glorious August night.

I want to call out in deep anguished pain midst the sweet lapping of the ocean's refrain Writer’s Ezine – writing one word at a time www.writersezine.com | admin@writersezine.com| Facebook: /writersezine | Twitter: @writersezine

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About Janice Thomson: Janice Thomson is a multimedia artist residing on Vancouver Island, British Columbia, Canada. She is a Chinese brush painting and digital graphic artist whose works have been shown and sold across Canada. She writes all forms of poetry and has been published in various chapbooks, anthologies, magazines and newspapers. Janice has also studied Japanese poetry and creates haiga and taiga from her paintings and photographs.

Editor's Comment: Beautifully written poem, which infuses a sense of serenity in the reader.

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Book Review – II

angle, the stories alternate between noir and drama, etching deep creases of the darker side of human emotions while painting vibrant shades of love, poignancy and irony all the same. Interspersed with thought-provoking poetry, each story is introduced with a poetic prelude that gives the reader an insight into all that’s coming next.

:Book Review:

:Intro:

1. Cover: The cover of the book is inviting with warm earthy tones. It has a very soothing effect on the reader.

“The Inevitable” is a melange of fictional pieces of prose that explore the plethora of human emotions in the face of challenging situations.

Celebrating the humane

2.

Presentation: The presentation of the book is simple in every manner be it the fonts, the tone or the style of presenting the details.

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3. Narration: The narration is gripping, one that keeps the attention of the reader intact till the last word of the story and long after that also making them brood over it.

4. Language: The language is simple yet impactful one that creates the desired impact on the reader’s psyche.

5. Pros: The author has written a poem before every story which is in a way connected to the story and sets a tone for the reader in terms of what to expect next.

That is very unique and something that gives this book an upper hand amidst all the other anthologies that keep flooding the market.

this there were also some stories which were so powerful that they more than covered up for this.

:Overview: The overall rating for the book would be 3.5 out of 5 for the author’s innovation in writing this book, storytelling skills and most importantly the narrative which is the strongest part of this book.

WE team and would like to thank him for sending across this book for review, also wishing him all the best for all the future endeavours.

6. Cons: At very few places the editing went a little haywire and there were few stories lacked a certain charm when compared to others. However having said

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Author Interview – II

Ashay Abbhi, author of 'The Inevitable".

Ashay Abbhi is an analyst in the field of energy studies, and enjoy everything from good literature and Sufism to movies and music.

He wields the pen every now and then when his muse visits him, dabbling with a bit of poetry and prose.

This month WE team had the opportunity to interact with

He also volunteers with the RedElephant Foundation, and write op-ed styled

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articles for international outlets on contemporary energy issues and surrounding geopolitical angles.

The blurb of his book reads:

“The Inevitable” is a melange of fictional pieces of prose that explore the plethora of human emotions in the face of challenging situations.

Celebrating the humane angle, the stories alternate between noir and drama, etching deep creases of the darker side of human emotions while painting vibrant shades of love, poignancy and irony all the same. Interspersed with thought-provoking poetry, each story is introduced with a poetic prelude that gives the reader an insight into all that’s coming next.

Join us in this interview as WE tries to know the real him: 1. Welcome to Writer’s Ezine.

Our readers are curious to know more about the author Ashay Abbhi and the real Ashay Abbhi.

Thank you, Writer’s Ezine, I am glad to be here. Well, the author Ashay Abbhi is quite different from the real Ashay Abbhi. The writer is actually a manifestation of another life that the real one has created to escape the reality.

I have always been a

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contradiction to myself and these two sides of me are proof of that. One would think I am not a happy person after reading my stories, but the truth is actually quite the opposite.

These stories were written in the happiest phase of my life.

already written a poem. And from the marriage of these poems and stories was born ‘The Inevitable’.

2.

Talking about The Inevitable – it is considered to be the first of its kind of melange. Can you take us through the process of how it came into being?

That is something for the readers to understand. I don’t want to cloud their perception by what I say. But both are forms of literature and not too different from each other, verse and prose are but the children of the same parent.

If you read the stories and the poems in the way they have been presented in the book, you’d think they were written together. But very few people know that the poems were written long before the stories came into existence. After I decided to turn these stories into a book, while leafing through my poetry collection I found traces of stories in the poems. For each story, I had

3. Poems followed by stories is a very unique style that has been followed. Was there something that you were trying to tell the readers through this?

4. I know it would be unfair but any personal favourites you might have from this collection?

It is indeed unfair to ask the parent to pick a favourite child. So to be fair to all my children, I’ll pick the acknowledgment as my favourite.

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5. How has your journey to being a published writer been till now?

It has been surreal. I wrote without a purpose and one day suddenly, I was sending out my manuscript to publishers. As with any journey, this one came with its own set of difficulties – the rejections, negotiations, editing issues and whatnots made it all worthwhile. I enjoyed every bit of it and the moment I held my book in my hand, I knew I was redeemed.

6. Your stories explore life at large rather than following any particular genre or narrative. What is that one of about life that entices you so much to write about it in this depth?

The one and only aspect of life that fascinates me is the finality of it. The end. But to reach that of course I have to explore the life of my

characters. One must endure the journey to reach the end.

7. Your thoughts on the current scenario of Indian Literature where the number of aspiring authors keeps rising daily.

I believe that the Indian literature is undergoing a transition, which may not necessarily be good. There is nothing wrong with aspiring to be an author but one should seek to lift the standards of writing and not degrade them.

8. Do we see a full-fledged novel coming from you soon?

Any particular genre you would want to explore through your writings?

There is a novel in the making but it will take some time to be ready. I would like to write crime fiction because that is what I love to read.

9. What would you like to be remembered as, then, now

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and forever – in not more than 3 words please?

‘Lived by Death’

10. Any words of advice to newbie writers?

Being a newbie myself, I’d just like to ask them to write responsibly. We have a duty towards the language and the skill, so let’s write to protect the sanctity of it.

Thank you very much for your time

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The Malady of the Sequel

Classic literature is a fascinating candidate for sequels to original works.

Many of these sequels are

A sequel is a follow-up or expansion of an existing work of art, such as a movie, a book, or music. When a sequel is limited to three individual yet interlinked pieces of work, it is a trilogy and when it extends to a number of stories or renditions, it is known as a series. In the parlance of television, many series make a season.

sanctioned by the author’s estate, may be in a hope to relive the cherished characters and themes in world famous works, and of course with the intent of financial gain. The most popular sequel of all times is Scarlett - the sequel to Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind. And for those who might not be aware, an authorized prequel to Mitchell’s book was released

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in October 2014. Ruth’s Journey has received mixed reviews, from the straightforward “Boring story. Save your money.” and “I couldn’t finish reading it.” to magnanimous praise and 5-stars.

There are many great literary sequels written by the original writer. The Anne of Green Gables series, Enid Blyton’s innumerable writings, and the works of Louisa May Alcott come to my mind. The Wizard of Oz and Harry Potter book series are much loved to miss this list. When the original has been popular, the sequel is welcomed but faces stiff competition from the previous work. The countless works on Jane Austen’s literary universe is a case-inpoint. Sometimes a sequel may be really good but may not invoke hysterical reaction because the premise is already well-known, the

novelty lost, unless the characters are as lovable as a Sherlock Holmes, Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, Father Brown or even Noddy. A scifi or a detective novel series has greater scope of success, specially, when the original writer continues to render the work.

In this age of self-publishing, many sequels may be unauthorized works, stimulated by an avid fan’s desire to reconstruct and relive a classic through their own interpretation, and with a financial end. For some writers it is just a great starting point to build their work on a foundation of welldefined characters and an eager fan-following. The challenge for ghost writers/non-commissioned writers is to do justice to the imagination and the treatment of characters, places and stories in classical works. The current trend of

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retelling fairytales and mythology is actually banking on the reader’s love for the original characters and stories.

I believe sequels or prequels, or trilogies can be and will be successful if written by the original writer, who has a vision and a plan and continues to be in love with the characters. This premise becomes slippery and prone to criticism when the pen changes hands and the sequel is written by another writer, or is based solely on financial motives. Another writer can never bring in the same style of thought, writing and rendition as the original. At the same time even a well-meaning writer cannot give the same flavor to the sequels of his own work if the sole driving force is financial needs, and commitment to a publisher.

In 2013, the famous writer Vikram Seth faced the controversy of a revoked multi-million dollar writing assignment on the sequel of A Suitable Boy. Penguin calculated a lot of mullah but Seth probably couldn’t find “a suitable girl” in time to feature in his sequel (pun intended)! However, he was rescued by Orion, and the latest is that A Suitable Girl will now be published in the autumn of 2016.

Writing is a craft, and like all creative professions of the world, dependent on the emotional and mental state of the writer. It cannot be forced upon someone to be creative and produce a fine work of art. No wonder some works seem bland, distant, different, and the writer may seem distracted and even bored with his own work. I believe that a writer should not sign a series or trilogy, even if the idea is there.

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While the publishing commitment might be fulfilled but who vouches for the quality and flavor of the work, if the writer ends up losing steam midway! It is an extremely unjust situation for all stakeholders, especially the writer and the eager fans.

I will take the case of Shiva Trilogy by Amish Tripathi.

Readers devoured the first two books in the series. Then there was a wait of 9-12 months for the last book. As a reader, I lost the touch and feel of the characters in the series and then reviews told me that the third in the series was not worth the time. I didn’t bother to buy the book. I am sure the last book in the Shiva Trilogy ended up being the weakest financial link for the publishers (until Bollywood offered a movie tie-in!).

When sequels are precommissioned the writer usually leaves certain strings untied in the first book. It may work well if there is an immediate sequel to pick up from the bookshelves but if a wait is involved, a reader is usually left feeling dissatisfied. And in the zipzap-zoom world of modern publishing (and especially free e-publishing) you need a true fan to remain clinging to the cliff, in anticipation of a sequel.

Come April and we are waiting for the last in the Ibis Trilogy - Flood of Fire by Amitav Ghosh. And then there is the much-talked about Harper Lee’s second novel, Go Set a Watchman, which is available for preorder on Amazon. While Ghosh’s work is a planned trilogy, I am surprised by the 88 year old Lee’s decision to publish again. In fact as I write this article there is a

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news item that Lee might have been “bullied into” releasing this work.

Another awaited sequel that is surely going to miss the bus, much to the chagrin of readers, is the forthcoming sixth novel - The Winds of Winter - in the epic fantasy series A Song of Ice and Fire

by George R. R. Martin. This final novel will not be completed by the time the HBO series Game of Thrones catches up with the storyline in the currently published works. With more than 1800 pages of manuscript, the wait for the book may go as far as 2017-18.

In a perfect world, writers should write books and sequels with élan and not under any compulsion. The memory of any great work or character should never be spoilt by a sloppy or over ambitious prequel, or the name of a good writer

tarnished in an attempt to overdo! Prevention then seems to be the best cure for the malady of the sequel!

To conclude an interesting list of prequels that never got written – http://litreactor.com/colum ns/12-unpublished-novelswe-wish-we-could-read/ Postscript: The day after I wrote this article, I came to know that bestselling author, Gregory David Roberts of the Shantaram fame is releasing a sequel, The Mountain Shadow. After a ten year gap, it waits to be seen how this book appeals to erstwhile fans and acquires new admirers in its wakes.

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About Aneesha Myles Shewani: Aneesha Myles Shewani is a full-time IT professional currently employed as a technical editor. She is a voracious reader with a wide foray of reading interests from historical literature to science fiction. This working mother is also an amateur writer/blogger and her blog –www.felinemusings.com is a reflection of the various facets of her personality. She aspires to be a published novel writer. She can be reached at aneesha.myles@gmail.com

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In Search of Silence She switched off her Android One and cursed the handset makers, for every soul on earth had a smart access to her

whereabouts. She glanced at her elegant watch and accelerated the SUV faster.

She wanted to escape the mundane activities of life, forget her office deadlines for a day and gear up with the thrill drive!

As she drove down the lush valley filled with apricot and apple orchards, she had an uninterrupted view of the mountain slopes and lakes.

She slowed down, parked the vehicle and hurried out to get a breath of the fresh chill air.

The lush green meadows were dotted with grazing cattle, and the backdrop of the sky, so azure, bounced back on her iris. It was just a sleepy hamlet with few random houses and a lone shop selling some wind-chimes and aromatic stuff. Except for the chirping of the birds and a faint conversation from the apple orchard, there was a deadly silence.

She set aside her black tresses while the cool breeze swayed the wind-chime held by a passer-by and a melodious tinkling filled the air. She simply relaxed in the abode of nature.

It rejuvenated her spirit and she was totally lost in its

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serenity. She realised how her priorities... power, fame and money had shattered the simple joys of life, which lay strewn all around.

the wiper blades and a deadly silence engulfed her.

It was pristine.

The clouds grew darker and darker. She had to leave but felt difficult and hard. Was she leaving something behind? She had to come back one day....

The rain came pouring down.

She pulsed the engine and the SUV leapt and paced down the valley. She gazed at the wiper blades, which worked incessantly, slish....slash.....slish......slash...... and the rain drops got scattered in a rhythmic pulse.

She hummed a peppy number, nodding her head in gesture. Her joy did not last long.....for in the wink of an eye the SUV veered off the road and plunged into a gorge several metres deep. It was a split second crash.....blood trickled from

About Viji Nathan: Viji Nathan is a responsible homemaker, whose passion for reading, has taken a different turn and she loves to write and post her scribbling on fb. This short story narrated carries sweet moments of her daughter’s date.

Editor's Comment: The author says - Some desires are better left unfulfilled for if their fulfillment might not mean joy for us.

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Ray of Hope

That shadow so dark makes them shiver Slowly and slowly they lose their steam Those spark within wilts and scream Someone please stop as they fall so blind Come O’ Miracles to enchant their grind

Random thoughts - playful and frolic Climbing new heights being enthusiastic Carrying half born desires in their womb Unaware of the realities so dark so gloom Higher and higher cheerfully they ascend Incognizant of omens who follow their trend Destiny and reality obstruct their spur

Lo and behold . . . there comes a ray The Ray of Hope – so warm so gay Embracing tenderly those falling thoughts Giving them wings to fight those odds And the dying desires rejuvenate for life Basking in the glory resurrects to survive With no fear of reality they surge to converge With the brighter tomorrow that awaits with urge

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About Manish Purohit: Manish Purohit is qualified accountant by profession working in a finance domain in private sector struggling & juggling between spreadsheets and slides, to carve out a niche for himself amidst this mechanized world. He blogs his random musings at www.musingsofawanderingh eart.blogspot.in. He can be reached at camanishpurohit@gmail.com Editor's Comment: Hope is the fuel that ensures the wheels of life keep moving .

A touching rendition on hope.

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Won’t Scream Your Name

When I’ll trace my path through the secluded woods, Isolated- like no one cares if I lose my way, If I lose my way and hurt myself, If the thorny bushes make me bleed, Bleed till the last drop of blood drips, I won’t cry and scream your name, I won’t become an annoyance.

And keep me drowning till I reach the foot, I won’t cry and scream your name, I won’t become an annoyance.

When I’ll stroll by the railway tracks, Unaccompanied- like no one cares if my feet slip, If my feet slip and I trip over the iron rails, If I muddle up the Reds and Greens, And couldn’t hear the distant screech, I won’t cry and scream your name, I won’t become an annoyance.

When I’ll swim through the chilly sea, Alone- like no one cares if I stop breathing, If I stop breathing and faint, If my limbs get frozen and numb, Writer’s Ezine – writing one word at a time www.writersezine.com | admin@writersezine.com| Facebook: /writersezine | Twitter: @writersezine

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About Sayantini Bhattacharya: Sayantini Bhattacharya is from a small town near Kolkata. She is pursuing her Post-Graduation in English Literature and Language and is a blogger by choice. She loves to transform her feelings into words. She is an avid reader and loves poetry apart from shopping and dreaming. She can be reached at mailme.sayani@gmail.com Editor's Comment: The poet manages to this soul stirring depiction of hurt.

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My Childhood Your Childhood

A reminiscing scent of memories today I commemorate past stories the best half clandestine sequence they're sweet and full of innocence ... my childhood your childhood when impish acts were considered adorable and amusingly wondered everyone around with affection today the same people count perfection

... my childhood your childhood do you remember those days? when our carelessness was considered a little mistake and a single word 'sorry' was enough to forgive and elate it seems by the time those forgiving hearts have compress for, they find every possible reason and flaw to suppress ...my childhood your childhood Are those days lost somewhere to an unknown place unaware ?

Do you have any idea about where can it be found, rout? ... my childhood your childhood No need encompass seek just have an inner peek it still resides there in me and so in you

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you yourself hide it among the crew ...my childhood your childhood

...my childhood your childhood

and behavior is what makes one beautiful in a true sense.

She has a great passion for writing poetry and has inherited this talent from her Grandmother. According to her '' Writing is best way of powerful expressions and only lucky ones are blessed with it''. She can be easily read on her blog 'My Friendship' where she frequently pour down her thoughts and feelings especially about 'Nature, Love, Relations and Friendship'. Besides that she loves doing photography, cooking, art, making friends and travelling. Bloglink: http://myfriendshipsimran.b logspot.in/ She can be reached at simrankaur606@gmail.com

About Simran Kaur: Simran Kaur, a 17 years old teenage from Gorakhpur, Uttar Pradesh, believes that simplicity in thoughts, words

Editor's Comment: Childhood memories are supposed to be the sweetest; the poet has managed to recreate those unforgettable smiles in her words.

Everything around has changed right from people to their age Transformation, nature's rule perkiness of yours and mine can't be pule ...my childhood your childhood We have an impulse to dissolve readily a walk in caprice cove life at present becomes of past a blind race for the future that won't last as

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Beyond She stared for long at the blank page. Filled with the void of words that wouldn't flow out of her heart. She had the words somewhere within her. Like clouds brimming with yet-to-be rains, her heart tried to bear the heat of the words she couldn't give voice to. They formed images. Abstract, yet every atom of it made sense.

Atleast to her.

She envied the artists; the brush strokes, that would lead them to a heaven of contentment. The canvas.

The palette. They were but foreign to her. And the ink that kept her alive, today, seemed dry. Words were evading her.

She sealed the cap of her pen.

What if the ink flows out when alone? What if they ripple to form the words she

concealed from the world?

What if?

A walk. Fresh air and the world to look at. That was all she craved for right now. The lake was always a haven.

With the bright darkness of the night by her side, she walked.

Sitting on the edge of the bridge, her legs swaying to the duet sung by the solemn zephyr and the coy ripple, she gazed at the world. The lights that flickered. The world that rushed, never to halt for a moment to live this beauty. The beauty, they wanted to capture in cameras for the future. The beauty they forgot to live.

The world that seemed no more than blinking neons.

Mere points, yet poignant.

The world that existed beneath the very clouds as her, but never saw the clouds. Never knew the heartbeats of the lake that

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silently lived by. She sat there hand in hand with silence. An entity, the world never knew existed.

Silence.

The one who sought their company to always end up disappointed, for they found a better ally in turbulence.

Like an answer to a call from somewhere within, she stood. The leaves that flew in the air always fascinated her.

And now she could imagine how light they felt. How free they were. As much as she was. Now. And within moments she would explore a different world. The world of water she has seen only from the surface. The water that reflected her once. Would it reflect from inside too? She would come to know. Soon.

Finding answers thrilled her.

always

Why this?, the world may muse. But within the sonnets they craft for her, never would they sing how she loved her life. How she loved herself. And how much she loved this life . The life beyond the skies of the world, that gave her wings to fly above the world that wanted to cage her. Love was in many ways strange.

And the words that evaded her then, they died too. To be heard never.

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About Parvathy: Parvathy, a girl of 18, hails from Thiruvananthapuram in Kerala. With a deep passion for writing, she gives words to her innate thoughts at her personal blog http://silentdrizzleparvathy.blogspot.in. She has her world pivoting around her brother, pen and music and can be reached at parvathy296@gmail.com Editor's Comment: Journey need not always mean towards something, at times it also means a journey inward within you to know your own self.

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Unabridged Emotions

I am ideally drawn towards you like lore My Heaven is you and my deep Joy is due to you My eyes sparkles and it's just because of you

With each kiss of yours, I end up all my dilemma With each hug of yours I feel the intact Charisma Now I don’t consider myself lonely Now I have a heart that’s so holy You are reflected in my identity as a mirror You are hovering towards me as a treasure Let the unabridged emotions overflow from my heart Let the whole sentiments settle perpetually as my part I am completely lost on a way of Love

About Farah Siddiqui: Farah Siddiqui is pursuing D.Phil (Ph.d) in English from the University Of Allahabad.

Editor's Comment: Romance brought to life with the poet's magic.

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Waltzing With Love

The wetness of the memory spreads Marking my heart with stains of pain The stubborn stain sets deeply inside I try to break away from them From the cracks I see ray of light Seeping inside like a balm Dancing in the veins they beckon me Crushing the past I waltz I fall in the arms of Present Hands of Love surround me Kissing me with fresh breath I surrender to pure love Wisdom guides me to peace

Enjoying the moment without border Free once again to enjoy the rhythm of Life

About Arathi Harihar: Arathi Harihar has started blogging very recently. Being a statistician helps her to analyse, as a musician she is able to relate and as a amateur artist she tries to express and also being a Reiki healer she understands people. She can be reached at arathiharihar@gmail.com and arathiharihar.blogspot.in - Ragas’ of My Life Editor's Comment: A perfect ode to the universal language called love.

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The Unknown Hero

About Poet: Divya Parwani Editor's Comment: An apt definition of Hero.

In this heavy crowd With a heavy heart yet a vibrant smile Taking his sister along, he moves.

She four, he, at nine On his father's cycle rusted, dispirited, not so fine Selling each balloon for two Yellow, green, red and blue.

In order to feed his family He gave up his childhood And schooling too Taking the road Which not many have the courage to Bearing every burden, he could.

He is, indeed, a Hero.

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Pallu Savithri was in the kitchen chopping vegetables when the doorbell rang.

Involuntarily her eyes fell on the small clock perched on the refrigerator. 7.30 and ticking!

As she opened the door to her domestic help Shivamma, the pressure cooker went off for the third time. “You are late,” she muttered and got back to the kitchen without waiting for a reply from Shivamma.

Nor did Shivamma give one. Savithri turned off the gas and saw that the milk was boiling and threatened to spill over. She searched for the pakkad.

“Just when you need something, you don’t find it,” she mumbled as she turned off the gas and removed the milk vessel with the edge of her saree. As she poured the milk into two glasses, she

heard the vegetable vendor, Raju call out to her from the gate.

“Amma, what do you want to buy today?” She looked out from the kitchen window, which faced the road.

“What is fresh?” she asked.

“Everything is fresh. Should I

give you palak? It is fresh from the farm.”

Savithri saw Shivamma straightening the pallu of her saree and tucking the edge into her waist as she took the

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broom to clean the front yard of the house. She called out to her, “Shivamma buy the

palak and ask him to give me some fresh coriander too,” and to the vegetable vendor, “take the money tomorrow, Raju.” Shivamma made a pouch of her pallu and kept the greens in them and walked in.

Savithri saw Vanaja, who stayed across the street, come out to buy vegetables.

Savithri thought she would talk to her, but instead she went back to her chores.

Vanaja’s son came out of the house ready to go to the school.

Vanaja laughed seeing her son. In a hurry to get ready, the boy had applied talcum powder over his wet face, which was now streaked white in places.

Taking the edge of her saree she wiped her son’s face clean. The school van arrived at the street corner and honked.

Vanaja saw

Lacchamma, one of the school peons seated in the van. She was fanning herself with the edge of her saree.

“Lacchamma,” Vanaja called out to her.

“Amma?”

Lacchamma questioned.

“There is packet for you in

Varun’s lunch bag. Ask him to give it to you as soon as you get down else he will forget.”

“Ok ma…thank you,” replies Lacchamma gratefully.

Lacchamma was one of the oldest employees of the school. She was a widow with two teen daughters who worked as domestic helps at various houses in the neighbourhood they stayed.

Laccamma went to the Head Mistress’ cabin once she reached the school. Gayathri Murthy, the Head Mistress was engrossed in some work.

Without lifting her head she said, “Lacchi, you are late today. My room is a mess.”

Everyone treated

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Lacchamma with respect and kindness, especially Gayathri who taught her kids to read and write after they finished their work in the evenings.

“Sorry Akka, I missed the bus

and had to hitch a ride in the school van. Mmmm Akka, is it some festival today or are you attending some function?” she asked.

“Hmmm,” replied Gayathri.

“You are wearing a silk saree today.”

Gayathri looked up and smiled. “We are going to buy

wedding trousseau for Shalini. I will be leaving at the lunch hour. That reminds me. Ask both Sita and Gita to take leave from their work for Shalu’s wedding. I will need them both to help me around the house. I will need them for at least 15 days. You know, I am filled with dread already. Imagine the house full of relatives…having to put up with their behavior and idiosyncrasies. But again,

what would a wedding house be without people, chaos and confusion?”

The school bell rang. “Clean

the room by the time I am back, Lacchi.” She got up and

took the loose end of her pallu, draped it over her right shoulder and walked out of her cabin to conduct the school assembly.

Gayathri’s two elder sisters after weeks of market survey had zeroed in on this particular saree shop in the heart of the city market.

After navigating the narrow lanes of the market for more than 20 minutes where the noise levels reached a new crescendo every minute, Gayathri reached the shop.

Her daughter and sisters were immersed in the process of saree selection with a neat pile of different shades of sarees before them.

Shalini had draped a peacock green Kanchivaram saree

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over her shoulder which had an intricate jari work pallu, which had the embroidery of Radha and Krishna playing Raas Leela and was encrusted in fake diamond stones and she was admiring herself in the life size mirror.

There was mind-boggling variety of sarees with equally mind-boggling designs of elaborate pallu designs. It was the pallu design that determined the grandness of the saree.

By the end of four hours they had bought 30 silk sarees of varying range for almost all the family members and also for Lacchamma and her daughters.

Upon reaching home Shalini ran to her grand mom excitedly and asked her to see the sarees they had bought. Gayathri’s motherin-law was an orthodox woman who followed the vidaha-vratha, who had

vowed to a life of renunciation. She wore white saree and the pallu draped over her shaved head. Shalini draped the sarees over her shoulder one after the other and paraded in front of her ajji.

After an hour, both the sisters of Gayathri left for their respective homes.

Lalitha, her eldest sister lived nearby. Her daughter had recently met with an accident and had a broken leg. Their house help, Gangamma, was looking after her in Lalitha’s absence.

Gangamma opened the door for Lalitha. “Ganga how is

Anju? Did she have her food and take her medicines?” asked Lalitha.

“Haan, she had coffee and ate

some bread with it around 5 in the evening too. I made her walk with the help of the walker. Now she is watching TV. I have to leave.”

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“I will make coffee for us both,” said Lalitha and went into the kitchen. Ganga had a weakness for coffee, she could not say no. Lalitha brought coffee in two steel tumblers and gave Ganga one of them before going into her daughter’s room to update her on the wedding shopping. Ganga sat down on the floor with her back to the wall. With the loose end of her saree she cradled the hot tumbler in her hand gingerly taking a sip she closed her eyes to relish the taste and warmth of the coffee. After that she left for home.

of the pallu. She fanned the chula with the end of her pallu and sometimes wiping the imaginary sweat on her forehead all the while talking to her friend as her mom would talk to her. And once, when the imaginary cooking was over she wiped her hands and sweat from the loose end of her saree as a big sigh escaped her lips.

Her eight-year-old daughter Lakshmi was playing ‘househouse’ with her friend and she had draped Ganga’s saree and was imitating her mom.

Ganga watched them in amusement. Lakshmi was pretending to be cooking food at the mud stove in their hut. Time and again she wiped her hand at the edge

your face and wear your good frock. We have to go to Tunga chikki’s house and we are already very late.”

“Putti, done with your fun?”

Ganga asked her daughter.

The girls so far were not aware of her presence. They cover their mouths with both their hands and giggled.

Ganga smiled. “Putti, go wash

She then went out and shouted, “Seena….Maada.

Come home you two. We have to go out.” Both her sons came running to her.

They were older than

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Lakshmi. Seena was almost 12 years old and Maada was 10. They both looked dirty and unkempt from playing in the street all day. “Go, wash

yourselves and get ready. If I find you both fighting for water or even wasting it I will whack you both with the broom,” she commanded.

By the time they reached Tunga, Ganga’s younger sister’s house, it was already 7.30 in the evening. Tunga was in her 7th month of her pregnancy and it was her shrimantha. A pandal had been erected outside the house to accommodate the guests. The function over, the men were already having their dinner. Ganga went into the house. The function long over, the women were singing songs in turns. No one was really listening though.

Tunga, Ganga’s youngest sister was just 19 years old.

There she sat on the decorated chair wearing a green polyester saree, an imitiation of a silk saree. Her long braided hair was decorated with jasmine and kanakambara flowers strung together. She was bowing her head under the burden of it.

Her face lighted up as she saw Ganga. Tunga was glowing. Her forehead was covered with kuukum and her cheeks with haldi. Her hands were almost full with green glass bangles from wrist to elbows. Tunga’s mother-in-law chastised Ganga for coming late as Ganga applied kumkum and haldi on Tunga’s forehead and cheeks. Lakshmi was glued beside her mother holding onto her pallu. Ganga then took the glass bangles and put it on both of Tunga’s hands. Tunga then opened her pallu and spread it out in front of her. Ganga put three fistfuls of raw rice, a big piece of jiggery, and half a

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dozen of bananas. She then put her hand into her blouse to extract a small box. She opened it to reveal gold ear studs. Tunga’s eyes opened wide as Ganga kept the good ear studs in her pallu. “Atte!

Look what Akka has got me,” said Tunga. Tunga’s motherin-law’s eyes went wide too.

“Bless you Ganga. You are the

only one to care for your sister.” With that she took the box and folded it in the corner of her own pallu and knotted it, making sure that it would not get lost.

Later that night as Ganga’s family was returning home, they saw a crowd in front of the house. “What could have happened at this house?” wondered Ganga’s husband aloud. He had joined them at Tunga’s house. The boys ran ahead to see what the matter was. When Ganga reached the crowd, she made her way through the crowd. A middleaged woman had passed on

and her dead body was laid on the front yard of the house on a mat. The ladies around were crying and sobbing silently while they wiped their eyes with the edge of their saree. Ganga offered a silent prayer. Then she saw something that intrigued her. The dead woman was covered with a silk saree, a purple one with gold jari border. The pallu was very elaborate and grand. Ganga took her sons hands and walked away.

“Why have they covered the dead body with a saree?” she asked her husband.

“Brahmins do. It must be

their custom and she must be a sumangali,” he replied.

That night as Ganga was lying down on the mat her thoughts went to the dead woman, more to the saree that had covered her. As she turned to her side and closed her eyes, she thought “What a waste!”

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About Janaki Nagaraj: Janaki Nagaraj is an emerging writer who blogs at http://janakinagaraj.com/. A graduate in English Literature, she is a homemaker living in Mumbai. She mostly writes poetry and blogs about her personal experiences. She can be reached at janu.memoirsofahomemaker @gmail.com Editor's Comment: A slice of life from every Indian woman's life.

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And I Pronounce You Husband and Wife I feel I can write about the most simply complicated marriage system since I have done it twice by the age of 35. The first time was because I was asked to do it the second time around I wanted the mistake to be solely mine.

People marry for different reasons, for parents, for society, for regulated and legal sex, for children, for companionship, for money, for sharing responsibilities and because it is expected of you just to name a few. Let’s not forget the one main reason that drives one and all into the holy matrimony is ‘Love’. As clichéd as it sounds, love does make one do crazy stuff. Imagine if there was no concept like love or marriage, how would you react if someone approached you and said

“Hey, I was looking for someone to live with me and share my bodily fluids and responsibilities and care for me till death do us apart or till we cannot stand each other” ... not a very good pick up line in any language. But if the word love was involved with an addition of a proposal of marriage then it sounds good.

Somebody once told me that if they had a good chance at education and was financially secure then they wouldn't have endured several years in an unfulfilling marriage. Even people with all these luxuries find themselves in this pickle.

Only a selected few can say that their marriage has worked. Maybe we should find out their secrets, who has helped them work it out, is it GOD, is it a friend, perhaps family or maybe a book. I think the answer lies within you as GOD is within

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you so is every solution to the problem and strength to face the day to day issues in a marriage. No one book can show you the depths of a marriage as every couple are different and every individual unique, that’s what makes marriage highly complicated. Complicated or not thousands of people get married each day and many more marriages are dissolved in the court of law.

comes in different forms for different people. What makes you happy? Find out. Is it spending time with your partner watching a movie, cooking, going for a drive in your car alone with music up loud, is it seeing your children talk, is it crying in your bed, is it talking to your

No two people get married to lead a miserable life which would lead to separation, heartache or divorce. But how does one avoid going in that path of destruction is the main question. For me the first and foremost thing to be satisfied in life not only in a marriage is personal gratification.

Again that

school mate or catching up with your friends for a cuppa, or is having Friday take away with a couple of beers. It could be anything from taking a trip to sleeping in late in the weekends. Once you know what it is, hold on to it, maybe it will change or maybe there will be more, but hold on to it and do it

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once in a while. If you are happy you can keep others in your life happy.

If all else fails at least you have got the memories of the days spent in joy and trust me it will put a smile on your face and your partner can complain, argue, or whinge and you can continue sitting through it with the same smile. What I am trying to say for so long is that I do not know how to fix marriages that is completely your problem but I am providing an alternate world where you can indulge in yourself which will enable you to face the harsh climates that marriage will throw at you, more like a sunscreen or a moisturiser.

about not answering the phone in the first ring. You definitely won’t recollect the reason why you did not speak with each other for weeks. What matters is that you know that there is this person in your life who will be with you when you need to fight at a ripe age of eighty, that this person still prefers to sleep beside you with your snoring, will come back home even for a left overs dinner and will get you a glass of water if you are tired of shouting at them for not lifting a finger on weekends.

If you are lucky you might get a squeeze if ever you are choking to death. Hey that’s what you can hope!

At the end of the day you will not remember the silly arguments you had about who put the dirty socks in with the laundry. You won’t care about the fights you had

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About Sri Ashok: Sri Ashok is a prolific writer who writes poems, short stories and articles on just about anything. She believes that good humour can take one through anything in life.

You can reach her at srividhya66@hotmail.com Editor's Comment: Marriages are so beautiful their beauty glorified in this post.

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Behind the Façade of Ugliness I was in the market with my young daughter of seven years old. I had just finished buying some groceries and cakes and chocolates from a bakery. The evening was pleasant and there was a

torn knickers and oversized T shirt. His hair on the head was unkempt having seen no wash for days together. He was bare legged with dirt and grime on his legs. As my daughter rushed towards the bench, I called her back and said “Let us sit on the other bench” “Why mom? I

would like to sit here. There is a boy there” she

gentle breeze. My daughter wished to sit near the fountain outside the market and watch the falling water. I moved towards a bench where a young boy was sitting already. But as I went near, my appraising eyes found him to be dirty with

asked innocently.

Without elaborating I simply commanded her to come to the adjacent bench where I sat down. She turned and looked at the disappointed boy before coming to me with a crestfallen face. She did not speak to me for a while but kept turning often to look at the boy. The boy smiled back with his eyes sparkling in joy.

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“What is wrong if we sit by

his side? Is it because he is poor? I don’t understand you” she said in a tone tinged with sadness and anger.

“He is dirty and grimy. Look

at his matted hair. He has never had wash for months, it seems. I do not want you to be near him”

She sat grumpily by my side and did not look at the fountain that she longed to see. Her face turned towards the boy frequently. The boy stood up suddenly and pulled out something from his pocket. I looked at him sideways. It was a wrist band, a friendship band, one that he got from somewhere with Raksha Bandhan ahead in a few days. He dangled it before her with a childlike smile that was inviting. My girl stood up and begged me to let her go and have the band.

It was then in a blinding flash of realization that I became

aware of how peevish I have been and failing to see a beautiful child in that grubby outfit. I could no longer see the filth in his hair or dress.

His smile looked angelic to me. I remonstrated myself at my superciliousness. I told my daughter to her great surprise “Why not? Go to him

and have the band tied around your wrist”

She jumped in joy and was in the next moment with him.

The boy gingerly tied the band without touching her with both of them watching me carefully. I told my daughter “Give him your

hand and a warm shake and bring him here to me." They

both came to me running with their hands held together. I could see the happiness writ large on their faces. They then ran around the circular fountain I handed my daughter a packet of chocolates asking

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her to give him. The ugly boy no longer seemed so and I could see the beauty that was not initially visible. A guileless warm boy from humble circumstances spread instant cheer around him. Soon I was lost in thoughts of my younger days in a large family with my parents struggling always to make both ends meet. Life is often like that. Where we are born or how we are born is God’s gift to us. We may be born in a rich or poor family or possess a charming or ugly face but these are things over which we have little control. But being like that little boy exuding warmth of spirit and joy despite the poor circumstances is within our reach. There was no trace of envy in the urchin’s eyes save the stoical reconciliation to his destiny.

My girl too taught me a big lesson that day that real beauty lies not in outward

apparel or appearance but one has to look deeper to see the inner beauty. A lame man guiding a blind across the road is far more admirable than a well attired dude driving the car and hooting at the slow pedestrians in sheer petulance. If we care to linger and see, we can perceive behind the façade of seeming ugliness, an inner beauty of rare charm.

About K Parthasarathi: K Parthasarathi is a freelance journalist and regularly writes short stories in various genre in his blog random thoughtswww.kparthas.blogspot.com Editor's Comment: There is beauty in everything around us, even amidst ugliness. All it needs it someone to seek it.

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Fly With Me

When you feel defeated, But the spark is still alive, Cold surface but a warm heart inside, Aching for love and a place long lost; Will you fly with me?

To the oceans and the streams, Over sadness and reality, Where life is nothing but a dream?

When you feel empty inside, But know what’ll fill your life, Unattached but a beating heart alike, Want to feel home where there are no lies;

Will you fly with me?

To the mountains and the valleys, Over pain and betrayal, Where you find music in every alley?

When you feel down and low; But don’t want to end up alone, When you want out of the race, And live life, not how it’s known; Will you fly with me?

To the clouds and the tress, Over power and mortality, Where life begins and Real happiness comes with ease.

So, Will you fly with me?

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About Natasha Badsha: Natasha Badsha is someone who can’t be described in a 100 words. She’s a writer who likes to have her hands in everything. She’s worked in films, television, the elearning industry and what have you. She loves anything that has to do with words; be it reading, writing or talking.

A post graduate in media with a major’s in physics, she’s always on the lookout for a new path that’ll lead to a new color in her life. You can follow her at amordiaries.wordpress.com and can reach her at tashaatwork@gmail.com.

Editor's Comment: In life there come few moments when you just want to spread the wings and fly high taking your loved one along.

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When You Nothing At All

There's something in the air Seems to be a hush - hush affair You go about it with flair What's going on in your mind's lair?

When You Say Nothing At All...

Are you trying hard to recall?

Whether you want to spill it or stand tall It's entirely your call.

To the mind goes a stairway the eyes, Are you trying to cook up some clever lies?

Or is it some genuine surprise?

I wonder as my eyebrows rise.

When You Say Nothing At All...

Does it point to the beginning of your fall?

Are you attempting to build around yourself a wall?

Don't stay mum. In your court lies the ball.

I wonder if away from all this you're shying Or simply for my attention, you're vying?

On silence, are you relying?

Or is there something hidden, underlying?

When You Say Nothing At All...

Is it about some matter big or small?

Or is misfortune going to befall?

All this is causing a gall.

Speak up, for God's sake!

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Have you done some mistake?

Why has your perception turned opaque?

Please don't take it for granted. What's your take?

When You Say Nothing At All...

My anxiety starts to take an upward crawl Have you been through a disturbing brawl?

You've managed to keep your emotions under an unintelligible shawl!

About Poonam Khanduja: Poonam is a parent, teacher, and now, a blogger. She holds a M.Sc. in Anthropology. For the past three decades and counting, she has been the one who teaches not only by curriculum, but by practicality. She aims to invoke a sense of responsibility in her readers by her blog, at http://stiryoursouls.blogspo t.in. The blog also sees poetry, photography, creative writing and her musings on life. She comes from a family of bloggers, with her husband and daughter, giving her company in the world of blogging. The author can be reached at poonamkhanduja@gmail.co m.

Editor's Comment: Saying it all at times doesn’t have the charm of not saying anything and yet being understood.

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Monkey Business

HE was always larger than life for her.

HE was the one she could remember.

She loved HIM passionately since inception.

Complete surrender & faith; no question.

She wrote letters to HIM every time, Creatively expressing in prose/rhyme, When life sprung up marvels or surprises, When she earned brickbats or won prizes.

Those letters she didn't know where to post.

No idea about the address of her dost!

As many homes were HIS abode, Which path to travel, the right road?

She was wondering about HIM that morn, Philosophically thinking why she was born.

A group of monkeys appeared out of nowhere.

They started screeching with crazy antics there.

From her home's comfort, she marvelled evolution.

Outside her room, she heard a loud commotion.

Then, she saw a baby monkey had got entangled, The electric wire had made its body mangled.

The monkeys looked jittery & had no clue.

They started beseeching for answers what to do.

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Some of them seemed to implore clear & loud-

"Can you help us save our child, dear crowd?"

She started crying seeing the emotional sight.

She felt so shocked & helpless at the sorry plight.

To set things right, she hadn't any magic wand.

She invoked HIM to join in & lend a helping-hand.

While the onlookers maintained a safe-distance, And the monkeys tried to bridge the gap that instance, Just then, one person threw a stone at the simians;

More people too stoned feeling it was self-defense.

The monkeys cried and their group exhibited violence.

They started attacking people, having lost their sense.

The police had to come in to disperse the mob & anger, The last monkey to be evicted was the dejected mother.

She was very heartbroken to witness this event- a curse.

She questioned why & how HE watched bad getting worse?

Then, the worst happens surely because HE wills?

How can HE allow such events that send down chills?

She wrote letters expressing what she wanted to say.

Why HE created when HE had to destroy this way?

She wants her unsent letters to be published & to reach HIM soon.

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When HE reads & changes HIS monkey business- that'll be a boon...

Note- HIM, HE & HIS - refer to GOD...

About Anita: Anita is an ex-SoftwareProfessional, currently leading the life of a student & a PhD-Researcher, Mother, Blogger, Story-Teller, Reviewer, Singer, Photographer and Traveller.

She blogs at http://www.anitaexplorer.co m Editor's Comment: An excellent take on the prompt of the month for April.

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The Fruit of Actions Maharani Mira looked up at the tree and saw the brightly shining apple. It was at an impossible height. None came when she called out for help before she tried to reach out to the apple herself. Only the tree grew taller and the apple got out of reach. She tried harder, jumping first and then throwing stones at the apple. But the apple was constantly out of her reach.

So much the tree had grown that it frightened the hell out of her.

Mira was so tired on her way back to her Mahal that she lost her way.

Walking on unfamiliar roads, she came across a hut. She

knocked on the door asking, “Is anyone there?” No reply came forth. As she walked away in disappointment, she heard the door open suddenly.

Startled, she walked back only to find that there was no hut where it had been before.

It had disappeared into thin air. Scared out of her wits, Mira fainted on the spot.

She woke up the next afternoon to find herself under the same apple tree.

Mira

sat there wondering about the recent events in her life – the apple tree that kept growing magically; her losing her way

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in the woods and the hut that had been visible for a time but became invisible soon after.

She couldn’t understand anything.

That’s when she heard the Akashvani: “Dear Mira, you

are such an innocent Maharani.

You haven’t understood what nature wants to make you aware of.”

“What does nature want to tell me?” enquired Mira.

'Then listen...” the Akashvani said. "You were playing with

the Maharaja when you suddenly fell down and died instantaneously.

The Maharaja prayed to the Gods to give back your life. But when you were granted life, you left for hunting immediately despite the Maharaja’s advice.

The magical tree represents you and the magical apple represents the fruit of your actions. You left home

without heeding to your husband’s advice and lost your way as a result. For the same reasons, you are unable to find your Mahal; it’s invisible to you same as the hut that became invisible.”

Folding her hands in anguish, Maharani Mira asked, “Is

there a solution to this? How can I get back to my Mahal and the Maharaja?”

"Yes,

by your patience, tolerance and honesty," said the Akashvani.

"Oh I see! Isn't there an easier way?" She enquired.

Laughing aloud, Akashvani ceased.

the

Mira found herself back in her Mahal, only it appeared different. No one seemed to recognize her. They all treated her like a stranger.

The Maharaja’s behavior was also strange. She waited

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patiently, with tolerance and honesty for a long time till the day she decided to leave the Mahal again. A heavenly apple fell on her lap as a reward for her actions.

Having the divine fruit, she gave birth to twins and was finally accepted by the Maharaja and his kingdom as the Maharani.

About Nigharika G: Nigharika G is from Mumbai and is an Economics graduate, self-employed, blogger and avid reader.

Editor's Comment: In those carefully chosen words the author has managed to share the magic of virtues like patience, honesty and tolerance.

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In Quest Conversation

for

In a huge wellmaintained lush green park where bushes were carved in shape of the animals and benches were placed in a row at equal distances all around the jogging track; where each one denoted by a unique number.

And I am Bench number P12; in short I am B-P-12. I am placed beside a bush shaped out into an elephant; I too feel majestic and strong along the bush. Even I hold a special place in the park, as I am little bigger than the other benches.

My morning starts by witnessing fitness lovers who start their day with

morning walk, jogging and exercises; few are in their own world with headphones on. And then there are batch

of little aged people who walk at their own pace to stay fit. I really love to listen when they discuss about how things were in past and how everything is changing rapidly.

I often see that two complete strangers get seated to take some rest, just pass on half a smile, that justifies they are here for sitting and not for any conversation and I get

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bored. I like people whose landmark is my place, and they would say “Let’s start

morning walk tomorrow from B-P-12 bench”. I feel the importance as I am marking start of their fitness journey.

And there is another set of people, which are similar to me as they just sit and gaze at the sky, or surroundings in a deep thought, maybe they find peace of mind by sitting alone on bench rather than walking or jogging in park.

Afternoons are calm, and from evening, park is filled with children and elders again. I like people around me, which make me happy and lively in the world.

Sometimes I think, I have witnessed a peaceful soul, endless chat, tears of person, and been a support to very old people to stand, a test for toddlers to climb upon me, sometimes a security for

people’s belongings for few hours and sometimes for days. Many come and go, but at end I am alone. “I give

accompany to many but, who accompanies me?"

“All are busy bees; no one

would just stop and talk to me for a while."

“When would I be in a conversation and not mere an alibi of a conversation?”

When I was doing self-talk for refreshment, a voice saying “Hello Bench B-P-12, how are you?” left me stunned.

I was left amazed to hear my name, when a voice called out saying “Hello Bench B-P12, how are you?” I eagerly replied, “I am fine, but are you really talking to me?” I was happy to meet a stranger and more in joy that a stranger was talking to me.

Then the little boy aged around 7 said, “Yes, I am

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talking to you." I was so

happy to hear someone talking to me, “What’s your name child?” I asked.

He answered, “I am Zen,

recently shifted to nearby apartments."

“Oh! That’s great, so now you will be regular visitor of the park and my companion too.”

I replied cheerfully.

Zen answered, “No, I don’t

think so, I get bored here."

I was perplexed to hear that how can a child say no to park and asked him, “Why is

it so? Don’t you like playing here?”

Zen sadly replied, “I don’t

know anyone here, all my friends are left behind.”

Zen was bit hesitant to talk to the other kids in the park but, I could see a quest of conversation in his eyes. I knew how important a companion is and decided to motivate him to make a start.

“Oh! C’mon you can make friends”, I assured.

Zen eagerly asked, “Is it that

easy? How I can start a conversation with them?”

I tried to make him a bit relaxed and answered his anxious question, “Why don’t

you do the same way you started a conversation with me.”

“But, what if they don’t allow me to play with them?” Zen asked.

I told Zen, “Don't hesitate to

initiate a conversation and be confident, and in the fear of rejection you will stop making friends. You can always make friends by saying a ‘Hi or Hello with a big smile’.”

Zen who was keenly listening asked, “That’s it?”

I also added, “Yes, I know

making a first move for conversation is difficult, but once done all will go smoothly.”

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By taking my encouraging words Zen rose to start a few steps and turned back to say “Thank you B-P-12."

And I said happily, "you are

lucky Zen, you can have friends, they are precious part of life, and now I am too to have you.”

Suddenly a ball came bouncing towards him, and was asked to pass on. I immediately prompted Zen to say Hello and start a conversation.

Then Zen smiling started “Hello I am Zen, Can I play with you all” and all the kids around smiled and nodded in yes.

I have my share of happiness seeing Zen playing regularly in park and of course Zen is happy to have friends around.

“Inspiration can be taken

from anyone or I shall say

anything; important is to start, naturally it will have smooth finish”

About Meenal Sonal: Auraofthoughts is a dream of two sisters Meenal n Sonal who want to spread the aura of positivity through their writing. They use very simple, pure and unique ways to explain various concepts of day to day activities which easily connect to the hearts of everyone explaining the power of positive thoughts and ideas. You can also visit their blog here: auraofthoughts.blogspot.in Authors can be reached at: auraofthoughts@gmail.come xt Editor's Comment: Sometimes it is important to hear and at times to say, it all.

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A Memory Mother

of

My

Our perspective defines our personality, character and outlook on life. But what shapes our perspective?

My parents indulged me and by the age of 8 the description, spoiled rotten, had become my name tag. It was then that my mother, Amma to me, decided to velcro off the tag.

Amma found her solutions in religion, all religions. She was fond of repeating the Sanskrit aphorism from the ancient Hindu text, the Rig Veda, “Ekam sat vipraha bahudha vadanti”: "Truth is one; the wise call it by many names." The alcove in one of the rooms that served as an

altar was a veritable museum of religions. It housed 9x11 framed lithographs of the deities and saints of all the religions practiced in India.

Pictures of Ganesh, Shiva and Lakshmi stood next to those of Guru Nanak holding up a hand in blessing, Jesus with a red heart in the center of his chest, Zoroaster looking skywards, and the Sarva Dharma logo: Om, the Wheel, the Zoroastrian Fire Symbol, the Cross and the Crescent and the Star.

One Sunday Amma took me the gurudwara, the Sikh temple, pointed to the room

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lined with shoe racks close to the entrance, and told me that if I joined the two volunteers there, she’d have my favorite dish, dal pakwan, ready when I returned home.

Every visitor has to remove his shoes before entering the gurudwara. Arranging the shoes and handing them out at the end of the service is considered a seva, selfless service that inculcates humility.

That’s not how I saw it in the beginning. I did it to please Amma - and earn a tasty dish.

But then the shoes took over.

Their shapes, style and type began to fascinate me.

As one Sunday grew into another, I began to relate shoes to the people who wore them. The battered pair of sandals was handed to me by a pair of gnarled hands.

The hands belonged to an aging carpenter who took

small contract jobs. I recognized the school teacher from his polished but heavily grooved shoes. The man who owned two hotels handed in a pair polished to near-mirror gloss. In short, the shoes that I stacked reflected almost the whole rainbow of society.

The shoes then went on to tell me the stories about the lives their owners lived.

By the time I was 12, the stories opened windows to drama, suffering, happiness.

The view from the windows, by displaying how the spectrum of emotions affected everyday life, had a sobering effect on me. The selfishness, arrogance and callousness that characterize a spoiled child fluttered like drapes in these windows.

By the time I stopped performing the shoe seva, I had two unanswered

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questions: how do religious traditions come up with disciplines that modern psychology could learn and profit from; how did Amma know that tending shoes would change my perspective?

Whenever my friends say that I’m a person who cares, I thank them with humility and ask myself the two questions.

About Murli Melwani: Murli Melwani's short stories have been published in magazines in various countries, including U.S.A, Hong Kong and India. His stories have been nominated for a number awards, including the Pushcart Prize.

A few have been included in anthologies, including Stories from Asia: Major Writers from India, Pakistan and Bangladesh (Longman Imprint Books, U.K).He is the author of a collection of short stories, a play in Three Acts, and 2 books of literary criticism. He is part of the team that runs http://indianshortstoryinen glish.com/ an archival database that encourages readers to post reviews of collections of short stories.

Editor's Comment: A heart touching rendition in memory of the author's mother and some memorable lessons she has taught.

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About Namrata If someone were to ask her to describe herself the one befitting word would be “ A Dream Catcher” followed by a child woman, a dreamer, a dancer, a bibliophile, an author, a poetess, a writer, a painter, a singer, a go-getter, a doer, and an achiever. Having a decade’s experience to boast of in the corporate world, Namrata today is striving to strike a balance between her dreams and reality.

age of 17. Since then she has been a contributing author to many anthologies and has penned her first book Metro Diaries which is a collection of love stories. Apart from being a reviewer for leading publishing houses, she is also the editor for various books along with Writer’s Ezine.

(An online mag) Her world is made up of loads of wonderful books, a handful of beautiful souls and tons of memories she gathers every moment. She dreams of making a difference to the world, one word at a time!

Mastering the nuances of finance does not deter her from giving voice to her inner most feelings at her Blogs. Having been bitten by the writing bug very early in age she had her first poem published in a coffee table book "Letters from the Soul" anthology of poems at the Writer’s Ezine – writing one word at a time www.writersezine.com | admin@writersezine.com| Facebook: /writersezine | Twitter: @writersezine

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About Arti Honrao Born and brought up in Mumbai, Arti Honrao is author of fiction books 'My Life-story' and 'Is This Love & Autumn - The Last Leaf' and Novel 'Resemblance - The Journey of a Doppelganger'.

She began studying medicine but realized soon that her real calling was writing.

Today after some ten years of blogging at Straight from the heart where her entire work is neatly categorized in Poems, Short Stories, Short Story Series, Fiction Letters, Sentimental Posts, Silent Night and more, capturing some breath taking moments with her camera, and sharing different quotes on her My Two Cents Page and having published a few heart

touching stories she is glad she listened to her heart.

Fluent in English, Hindi and Marathi, writing came very early to Arti as she was dabbling in it since the age of twelve. She writes different genres of poems like Haiku, Tanka, and Cinquain etc. but mostly enjoys writing Acrostics which she continues to write.

Most of her writings depict human feelings and emotions, which she tries to bring out onto the page and into the minds of the reader.

She believes that essence of writing lies in not only entertaining the reader, but speaking to them through words. Her style of writing makes it easier for the readers to visualize the story unfolding around them. She is of the opinion that being good at writing a story is not about the story being unpredictable, it is about the

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way you narrate the predictable story and still keep the reader interested.

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Celebrating the wonderful journey of one year