How Do I Title This

I couldn’t exactly point on what had disturbed my mood and temperament this morning. I didn’t want to engage in anything; even the sight of the stack of books in the cupboard opposite weighed heavily on my mind. Dickens suddenly seemed so very wordy and boring, and the thick and bound Reader’s Digest seemed so very full of trivialities and unfunny laughs.

Mother’s voice summoned me to the puja room for the occasion’s ritual; I went in, moodily and sluggishly, my mind wobbling fiercely.

There, seated facing my mother’s joined palms, was a wide bowl containing hot and crisp vadas that were crispier at the edges. Beside stood a large vessel of recently cooked rice topped with a spoon of cooked lentils. The vermicelli paayasam in the adjacent vessel, with its seasoned dry grapes and cashews, tingled my tongue and brought to my mind the sweet sense of the dish from earlier memories. A nearby copper plate had fresh green betel leaves bearing areca nuts, a coconut broken into two halves; also jasmine buds and bright yellow chrysanthemum petals were heaped together on one side. A couple of incense sticks, from the burning ends, sent ribbons of smoke spiralling upwards. Straight ahead were photos of Gods and Goddesses, all suitably garlanded and sporting on their forehead round sandal paste marks and tiny vermillion dots.

I was gradually being transformed, gradually being refreshed; very much at the same rate at which the ribbons of incense self-contentedly wafted through the divine yellow aura that filled the room and circled my being in many hazy rings of aroma.

Just as I had not known the source of my gloomy mood, I couldn’t find now where all the darkness had disappeared to.

Small is Beautiful

Flash Fiction #04:

In the private and comfortably lonely world of writers, especially the newly kicking ones, the extent of irresistibility of the insistently pressing urge to put to use words of at least four or more syllables while in the process of careful construction of meaningful sentences at least a couple of lines in length could well be compared to that alluringly tempting extra serving of pani poori at a roadside kiosk that proves to present the same degree of irresistibility to the carefree world of insatiable men and women and children having a natural inclination towards authentic and traditional taste.

How the World Could End… (In 98 Words)

Flash Fiction #03:

Brahmma – the God of Creation – at some point in his long day (equaling 4.32 billion solar years) crafted the most beautiful girl ever. He was surprised. Amazed. And fell in love.

Considering the immorality of his marriage with the girl in his godly state, he took birth as a human in our world. Married her thirty years down the lane. And died after celebrating his centenary.

Due to his irresponsible absence up above, there was no birth in the world for 100 years. Even he couldn’t beget a child in his otherwise happy life. The world soon withered.

The Curse of the Fair Queen


The little child was evidently amazed at the sight of the Queen standing across the vast dark blue hall. Her little eyes twinkled every time they registered the radiance and the wholesome beauty of the Queen.

How fair she looks! Even her freckles add to her prettiness.

A thick dark crowd moved across the hall, veiling the Queen. Ah! How she brilliantly lights up the bordering edges of the crowd.

‘Don’t you admire the Queen, child’ Mommy warned. ‘She is cursed.’

The child understood these words at the following night’s gathering. A part of the Queen’s body was missing.