A New Beginning – 55 Fiction #3

55 Fiction is a form of microfiction that renders a work of fiction within a word limit of 55 words. It is a contemporary form of expression which is greatly thriving among the neoteric writers. This is my attempt in rendering this genre a cheerful and jaunty touch.

“Once upon a time, Zack, the puppy, peeved by the atrocities of the world, decided to migrate to a far away land. He rambled on relentlessly until he arrived in a halcyon land of pellucid skies and magnanimous flora n fauna. He was appeased.
But…   it was China...   the land where they eat dogs..”

PS: I seek clemency and compassion if I have appeared as a racist or offended anyone. All statements have been made in a jocular spirit. 

Image Source: Deviant Art

The Rebirth - 55 Fiction #2

55 Fiction is a form of microfiction that renders a work of fiction within a word limit of 55 words. It is a contemporary form of expression which is greatly thriving among the neoteric writers. Here is the second one!  

“The frigid water was pacifying. The blade between her fingers gleamed. She strived to thrust it deep into her wrist, but barely scraped her skin. There was a sardonic defiance. The life within her stirred. The blade slipped into water and her hands veered to her venter. The indignant and resentful woman perished. 
A Mother Was Born’.”


Dainty little books with jazzy kaleidoscopic pages, which speak volumes, but at the same time mask so much more. Scrapbooks have been a momentous and imperative part of life for every teenager. Each one has a theme to it, an elegant pink with little hearts for the more effeminate ones or a more subtle red and black combo. It reflects very well the ethos and temperament of its ‘master’, a sports car admirer or a cricket zealot, a hopeless romantic or a Titanic connoisseur. Vivid colours and classy styles are overwhelming. The scrapbooks are graced with remarks from friends, cohorts, associates, cousins, secret paramours or whoever has earned the honour to be featured on those pages.
Just like others, I have been there too. Filling in scrapbooks and getting them filled was a ritual, especially towards the end of school. For some it was an assortment of memories, for some it was mere convention. Some used it as an excuse to unleash their hidden penchants while others to haul attention. To me they were invaluable assets which comprehended numerous precious little secrets. Secrets about friends and foes, secrets about furtive passions and credulous envy, secrets that could change everything in our young lives. Laden with cryptic codes, symbols and initials, the scrapbooks could be a baleful ordnance in the hands of an adversary. Moreover they were embellished with love & affection and adorned with our feelings for each other. Scrapbooks were right there next to ‘the dear diary’. They were concealed far away and beyond the bounds of parents, teachers or anyone out of the realm. It was our turf where no intruders could tread.
Years later, scrapbooks from school lie dusty and arenose in an ornate box in a closet. Parents constantly badger and nag us to abjure the ‘junk’ collection, in order to make more room. Deep down we are cognizant of the fact that these scrapbooks are sheer fragments of paper. But we never have the heart to budge them from their amiable spot. When old friends get together and unfasten the rusty chest of memories, these bits of paper, interlaced with strings of affection, emanate. Opening them brings up several anecdotes from the past. It is like reliving the antiquity. Flipping through those pages is like turning through the old chapters of the book of our lives… golden times when we were young and puerile. Smiles and tears, mocks and quarrels, everything is bundled up in those bits of paper. Eyes sparkle with a glint and faces gleam with smiles. The giggles are incessant. Abysmal joy captivates our heart.
The scrapbooks lead us down a memory lane which we rarely tread upon. Our diligent everyday lives fail to grant us an instant to cherish our golden memories. The old scrapbooks that we stumble upon in our drawers or closets are a school of vintage recollections from our past. They lead us on a journey, the path to which has been long forsaken.

Award .. Yippie..

I have been greatly honoured by this award from a fellow blogger Nils. She is an amazing young blogger and new yet wonderful friend.
I am so grateful to you for this award :) Words are not enough to thank you. I hope we keep visiting each other’s blog and may the feedbacks flow.
So as per the trend, I pass on this honour to some of my fellow bloggers:

I also want to welcome all the new people who have spent their valuable time to read my posts. To everyone, I wouldn’t have the zeal to write if it wasn’t for your appreciation. Thank U :)

Ifs.. & Buts..

If I could keep my head when all about me
Lose theirs and blame it on me;
If I could trust myself when all men doubt me,
And hold on to my self-respect,
no matter how strong their doubt be;

But how can I, for I am a sheer mortal,
And I always seek trust in other’s eyes,
I succumb to my mind in the battle;
Even if my soul grieves and cries.

If I could wait and not be tired of waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

But how can I not be tired of waiting
When I am forlorn and seek your embrace,
How can I free myself of lies when the untruth scathing
Leads me to the front of the race,
How can I render love, for hatred and despise;
And I revere to look too good and talk too wise.

If I could dream and not make dreams my master;
If I could think and not make thoughts my aim;
If I could meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same.

But dreams are the path to success,
And success is what all covet for;
My thoughts which lack the reality harness,
None but only I can conquer.
But how can I overlook the idiosyncrasy   
When triumph makes me exultant and snobbish,
While failures bring distress & anguish.

If I could bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to makes a trap for fools,
Or watch the things I gave my life to broken,
And stoop and build them up with worn out tools;

But how can I bear those words which shatter my heart,
The heart, a fool, mercilessly trapped.
How can I watch silently when my world falls apart;
And keep on trying to put things back with
the last link snapped.

If I could make one heap of all my winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at my beginnings
And never breathe a word about my loss;

But how can I risk all that I have on one turn of pitch-and-toss
For my winnings are a benediction that The Almighty himself gave;
And if I do, and lose it all, then will I be adept to bear the loss,
How can I be so tenacious, how can I be so brave.

If I could force my heart and nerve and sinew
To serve my turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in me
Except the Will which says “Hold on“;

But how can I force my heart when my strength capitulates
And serve alone with my allies gone,
It is so suave to chose the easy trail and cede to the baits;
For I am a human and for my selfish means I am born.

If I could talk with the crowds and keep my virtue,
Or walk with the kings – nor lose the common touch;

But how can I hold on to my virtue,
When the crowd toils to hue me in their colour.
As I walk with the kings, my head held high in a false revue
My feet drift away from the ground and there is no place
For the common savor.

If neither foes nor loving friends could cause me hurt or rue;
If all men count on me, but none too much;

If neither my friends nor foes could cause me pain,
Then I would become invincible, but phlegmatic,
As pain and happiness come hand in hand, I won’t feel anything again.
When I stand by all men in their perturbed times,
How can I act so diplomatic..

If I could fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty second’s worth of distance run –

But how can I brood over the minutes
When my life is judged by the years I live;
And for all the worldly aspirations,
Which are beyond limits;
Sixty seconds is what you give.

Mine would be the Earth and everything in it,
And – which is more – I could be a Man, and not just a son.

But how can I conquer the Earth and everything in it;
When I fail to heed such simple advice.
I wish for trivial things and petty joys, I admit;
I do not wish to be a Man of Power or Glory,
My Love & Perseverance suffice;

For I, my Lord, am no prodigious Man,
But a humble and ignoble ‘Woman’.   

PS: Inspired by Rudyard Kipling’s famous poem ‘If’ written in 1896 and first published in 1910 in his collection of short stories and poems, Rewards and Fairies.

Till Death Do Us Part

As I reached my 25 posts mark, I have handed over the pen to one of my best friends, indeed my friend, consort and companion since childhood. She has always been there to celebrate and revel each of my accomplishments, however paramount or petty. So here she is again, doing me the honors.   

Soulmates … people across this world irrespective of their color, gender, nationality and race instinctively seek for their soulmate as if we are inherently imprinted to do so. In war, in peace , in countries large and small, in sweltering heat and freezing cold, in tempests and tranquil , consciously or subconsciously we look for that individual who will offer us a sense of belonging, the gift of unconditional love and unwavering trust. We look far and wide, sans borders and religions and when at long last they are discovered we are willing to defy the whole world for them.
But who is a soulmate? Why do we assume that it has to be a spouse? Sometimes when we are diligently searching for this one person to render us whole, we so often overlook that someone, who was our shadow in light, a guardian angel in times dark, a port in the storm, sanctuary in the rain, and a warm hand on the shoulder. We are so engaged in staring ahead that we never bother to glance back and appreciate the constant presence defending our back.
Why are our visions ensnared in chains and our capacity to love so constricted? A soulmate isn’t indispensably a husband or a wife, a lover or a partner. He/she can be a friend, a parent, a child, a God or even a pet. Why not? After all, “there are more things in heaven and earth than one has dreamt of….”
Perhaps that’s why I believe to be genuinely blessed in not only having you in my life but also to be able to humbly accept that our souls are attuned to each other. You and I, I and you have been linked before even we were able to spell friendship. Maybe that’s why it has been so untarnished by the ravages of time. Our bond has been so pure yet so devilish, so innocent yet so impish, so simple and yet so deeply intricate. I have heard this sacred vow countless times and you were the first person that had made me comprehend its cosmic connotation. A few simple words casually stringed together but have unfathomable significance.
“To have and to hold from this day forward
For better, for worse; for richer for poorer
In sickness and in health; to love and to cherish
Till death do us part”
What is our friendship if not a solemn pledge to sustain each other in good times and bad? It is inconsequential whether we are rich or poor. We are each other’s balm in sickness and together we shall rejoice in our health. Isn’t it an oath to love and respect each other when our opinions diverge and treasure our converged thoughts? Isn’t it the patience to entertain our individual idiosyncrasies, soothe the insecurities and shouting encouragement even at the gates of impossibilities? If this isn’t what soul mates share then I do not breathe, the earth is not round and we are not friends.

We laugh; we cry,
Together we saw time walk by and by.
A few smiles …a few tears,
We touched eternity in these years 
Shinning sunrises & shimmering sunsets
lots of whispers, giggles and daring bets.
Cheating in exams & strolls in the playground,
naughty comments and crushes all around.
Dancing shamlessly in the rain,
pledging to be there in joy and in pain
From a child to a girl to a woman,
together we were on every road, each turn.
I'll be there and i know you will be too,
thats why we are soulmates true..

 p.s: ... In ancient cherooke tradition they do not say I love you because love is too dynamic and at times too vengeful and selfish... they say what I am saying now...
"you walk on my soul"


Some things come to an end for new things to begin. A day, a week, a year, a millennium… everything comes to an end, to give way to a new one. Time, itself, is indefinite. It is us, mortals who have fettered time in the strings of days, months and years. It is well discerned that the universe is governed by the inevitable rule that anything that begins must come to an end, including human life. Yet we are invariably insatiable. We hanker for a long life. We are covetous. We wish to hold on to time. On several occasions, when a special moment fleets by, we avidly wish to cling on to it, to freeze time and live in that moment forever. But indeed ‘forever’ is illusory and nonexistent. There is another side to the coin, a different perspective. This moment elapses so that new and greater remarkable moments can become a part of the book of our life.
As the end of last year approached, I caught more than few glimpses of rants and sulks about how swiftly this year wrapped itself up and bid us adieu. I agree, more than often, time seems to pass by transcendentally swiftly. We are constantly laden with more things to do in a compendiary realm of time. Maybe that is the reason why time always seems bereft and meager. I do not allege that I am beyond all the ranting and sulking. Time and again, I, burdened and strained with work, have also been a victim to the dearth of time and covertly wished for longer days. But my intellect had always whipped me back to reality. Everyone around me has been going on and on about how briskly this year slipped away. While the truth, according to the laws of physics, is that every year passes at the exact same pace. I have had the same feeling on several occasions. But then the calendar was invented by humans, wasn’t it? So what is the big deal…
Now I don’t want to sound archaic and humdrum, but in fact, the days of a calendar  are almost insignificant and quite paltry to me. Of course work and other terrestrial conventional events are governed by the calendar. But my mind and soul aren’t. To me, every New Year  is just an excuse to make resolutions and have celebrations. An impetus to wish and hug my loved ones. A motivation to wrap up my loose strings. An incentive for a new beginning.  
But analyzing each day, I realize there is no idiosyncrasy, a brand new year or the old one. The temperament and vivacity with which we draw breath is vital. Each day in our lives is a feat in itself. Each day can be lived like it is the first day of a new year. Resolutions & Celebrations can be a part of any archetypal day. Every new dawn is a new beginning. I don’t need to wait until I can replace the calendar on the desk, for a new beginning.
‘Time’ can’t enslave my thoughts. They are ephemeral and emancipated like a butterfly.

“I am the master of my fate,
      I am the captain of my soul.”

                                                                        ~William Ernest Henley