A cup of tea in the morning in your own company is far better than a whole day of hustle and bustle. How can a day be spent without thinking, Working like a robot can be better than an hour spent thinking, relaxing, meditating etc.
When great people remind younger people to utilise morning time, they are not just telling them what they know about the golden rule enscripted in any great book, they are actually telling them their time-tested formula of success they themselves have followed.
How much does it give you a feeling of relaxation to hold a pen and let it write whatever comes to your mind? The power of the pen is so underrated in this era. It is not a special privilege owned by writers and journalists only. It must be practiced by everyone who wants to know how to write. The fear of writing is something I would call a loss, a real loss which I have faced my whole of my life till now. How grateful I am to the lord of the worlds, who has given me a thinking mind, a mind that talks with itself. What a good place to dwell in is a calm, relaxed and talking mind. A mind that talks, a talk with respect and understanding like a good friend.
I would only complain for now about how my fingers ache while I write. I think it’s due to my non-practicing of writing long paragraphs for a long time now. But with practice and repeated efforts, everything can be achieved this is what my grey hairs have taught me. What beautiful sunshine, a golden ray, a ray of hope and calm, each day the Almighty gives us as a first gift of a bright day.
It’s a 4am writing urge… like some people have night cravings for their favourite food or sweets, I get early morning writing cravings, sometimes… sometimes let the creative juices flow from your brain to your hands… most people let their creative juices flow, from their brain to their tongue… an urge to talk… but few people, mostly the lone wolfs or people who are extremely shy or people who fear to be judged by others most of the times, are the people who blocks their creative juices to flow to their tongue and let the juices flow to the hand, to write… and also, who am gonna talk to at 4am…
In recent days, I have been blessed to travel to a few places, mostly near to nature, trees, greenries, birds, fresh smell of nature, songs of nature… when you are near such places, your clogged senses somehow get unclogged… you can smell things now that you haven’t smelled for years, you can somehow hear things you haven’t listened to for years… you can also see things that you you haven’t seen for years…
Just sitting or a short walk in the silence of nature is detoxifying… it’s better than any religious spirituality… it’s a better way to acknowledge your Almighty Creator…
When I was 3, my parents moved to a small town in India. A toddler back then, I was neither reluctant nor excited about a new place.
With all the hustle and bustle of shifting, we all slept quite earlier than usual, wherever we got space in the midst of the clutter of furniture and other household stuff dumped everywhere.
I woke up a bit early in the morning and went right to the garden as early as I could. From a tender age, nature was my swadel of comfort.
It was only natural for a toddler to find a company that can soothe her like a mother. I used to spend quite a lot of time in the lap of my garden. As they say, the more time you spend with someone, the more you long for them. After abandoning my bed in the morning, the first thing I used to do was to visit my garden as religiously as I could.
It was a vast piece of land with a huge bungalow at one side. And a huge gate at its entrance. After entering the gate, there was pavement running to the main door of the house with a large garden on each side. Parallel to the pavement ran shrubs of Champa on both sides.
The right side was slightly bigger than the left. The house had two entrances from the garden. Besides the main door entrance, another opened from inside of the courtyard. The best thing about having two openings was that escaping to the garden became very easy without getting caught by the elders sitting in the living room.
The left side of the garden had more plants and less free space. It had a few flowering plants like hibiscus, a shrub of red roses, Indian frangipani also known as gulaychi, and a few fruit trees like Jamun, pomegranate and a few guava.
While the right side had more space to play and run around, besides having a plethora of floras. It had a few flowering plants like Bougainvillea, Champa, yellow bells etc. And lots of fruit trees, like the Indian jujube, also known as bair, a woodapple or bael tree, a mango tree, a custard apple tree, a few guava trees and a bush of lemon plant.
There was still a small patch available for seasonal veggies my parents loved to grow, like okra, corn, bringals, tomatoes and some leafy veggies like coriander, dill, Fenugreek and other saag.
The best life skill I learned there was climbing trees of all sorts effortlessly. When a child gets comfortable in a tree, a tree becomes a house for her. I used to study under the cool shed of trees, rolling out my straw mat on the bare earth, mesmerized by the humming of birds and chirpings of insects.
Where there are trees there will be rain, flora and fauna. Me and my siblings used to make small toys from soil, soaking our hands in wet mud all day long. We used to plant small saplings and take care of our respective babies till they stand strong. We used to chase dragonflies and butterflies all day long, while catching crickets and fireflies till late at night.
On holidays, dad would teach us painting, gardening, badminton and cycling in and around the garden. While mom would spend late afternoons taking care of her veggie plants. Like any home chefs of modern-day ASMR YouTube videos, mom would pick her own herbs and veggies from the garden.
On rainy days, the garden would flood and we would “jump up and down in muddy puddles” like Peppa does.
Some days when grass grew wild, dad would call our old and eccentric gardener. I loved scraping gardening wisdom out of his skull for hours.
And then came the day like a sad ending, love story. We had to move on to another place, leaving behind my garden, my best friend of 8 lovely years. I was never able to erase those memories out of my mind till now, even after 3 decades. I learned so many life skills there. One of them is keenly observing things and that enhances my creative writing now.
This year I only got a chance to revisit my old friend, my garden, after 3 decades. I was so full of excitement about showing my sons my old friend, but to my grave disappointment, new settlers of the house razed off all the trees, leaving behind bare land.
Not everyone has the same love and excitement for the things you have loved the most. Maybe my sons too will never truly understand the feelings, the emotions and the love their mother had for her childhood friend, her garden.
I sometimes think about the current generation who have never climbed a tree, clinged to a tree, smelled a tree and lived so close to the wonder of nature. I could never truly thank the Almighty for the closeness He blessed me with His nature.
Friends meeting after a long time and were discussing how life was passing funny for them…
Ash: …hey! You know what… my toddler son makes this sound and that I too like to hum it all the time… (started rolling eyes and making weird sounds) “a gullu gullu… gullu gullu gullu… gullu gullu gullu gullu…”
This is so addictive…
Sam: Are you insane…
Ash: I think you haven’t done your parenting right and hence you are still sane… (bursting into laughter)…
Deepak huffed as he slammed the front door of his house angrily, “Argh! Can’t get a moment’s peace in this house…”. It was very hot and humid and his mood didn’t help him to feel any better.
Deepak worked as a script writer for a web series production company. The producers were looking to create a horror drama and as such Deepak had proposed to submit a script next week for review. The issue was – he had just started writing the first lines when the drama began in his house…
His wife Shalini was in her screaming fit, as usual, something to complain of -this time it was about their son’s school fees getting delayed every month… and the nagging that followed – how low he is earning, how he should change jobs, how his previous job was better. If there was a reason Shalini could scream for, she would, and here she was in her full blown rage. Deepak listened for a while, his head in his hands, then suddenly retorted vehemently, “What is all this drama every time? I am the one who pays all the bills. It is my writing that keeps us going… and what about you going on shopping all the time wasting money on nonsense? Then you don’t remember the money shortage?”. And saying this walked out grabbing his stuff from the table.
Taking out his car, he started driving towards his favourite café to grab his lucky seat. He calls it the lucky seat because whichever script he has written there has got selected for the production.
He was driving mindlessly, still stuck in fights and screams, when suddenly another car veered towards his car and crashed with a boom…
Deepak lifted his head from the steering wheel muttering, “Must have passed out…”. He jumped down from his car to see the damage done. Luckily it was only a dent, however he shouted at the driver of another car and came near him to tell him not to do that again with anyone else.
“Can’t you see. Don’t you know how to drive? what if my car got damaged badly, would you have paid the cost of repair? Are you drunk? Why are you not seeing in my eyes, you coward?”
Then he thought “Is he really drunk or dumb, why he is behaving like not listening or as if I am not even here. Maybe he is playing smart to avoid the scene.”
Then he thought he was getting late for his writing. “I have to rush now.”
“Mind you, you jerk. Don’t do this again to anyone”.
He sat back in his car, looking for his mobile. “What! I brought Shalini’s mobile. Ugh! I don’t have time to go back home and bring back the damn phone now.” He felt restless – earlier due to hot talk with his wife and again due to being hit by the car and now due to the mobile he left at home .
He reached the Drool Café at the corner of the buzzing Bose Street. This is the city he was born in and lived all his life and now look how old and grey his hair seemed, he contemplated as he looked at the mirror in the door of the café. He opened the door and crossed fingers that his lucky seat was not yet occupied by anyone else or he could kill someone with all the bad things that had been happening since morning to him. But to his surprise and utter delight the corner lucky seat with a fig plant beside it was still vacant.
He came near his lucky seat and was trying to adjust himself on a chair and his laptop on the table. He looked towards a nearby table and saw two boys of his son’s age chatting with one another. “It’s a match!” one among them said.
Then Deepak thought, “How lucky are these youngsters playing games online without realising how they are wasting their parents’ hard earned money.”
As he started writing on his laptop he paired his laptop with his wife’s mobile so that he could receive calls directly from his laptop.
He then started brainstorming about his script and thought how his day was so dramatic today, so he started writing about his day as a story to see how it read. After several hours of writing his script he finished typing the last sentence of his script. It was getting light outside. Strangely, the cafe owner didn’t bother him today to close the shop – maybe they have changed timings he thought. The phone started ringing suddenly, too loud in the empty cafe. An incoming call from his best friend, at this time? He panickily saved his draft thinking why Sohail was calling to his wife’s mobile?
” Hello Sohail” said Deepak
“Hello Shalini…” Sohail said, almost sounding teary.
“Deepak got in an accident and we lost him…”, Sohail was talking without waiting for anyone to reply from the other side.
“What? What the hell are you talking about, Sohail, have you lost your mind? I am here talking to you. Can’t you hear…??” Deepak replied.
Sohail was still talking continuously…
“Deepak got hit by a car… They took him to Global hospital in Gandhi road a few minutes ago… Come to the hospital as early as possible.”
And Sohail dropped the call without letting anyone speak from the other side.
Deepak put both of his hands on his head and looked at his laptop where he was writing the climax of his script..
“…and the protagonist was informed by his best friend that he had died in a road accident…”
Earlier all the time his story got space in reel life but this time his story wrote his destiny… As if he got himself trapped in the haunted trap created by the story he wrote.
There are tons and tons of memories that only 90’s kids will understand. Are you, like me, an adult who still find herself diving into vast ocean of memories of her childhood? If yes, then let me hold your hands as I am going to take a dive to explore one such pearl of memories which only you and me can cherish.
Radio… Do you remember that small noisy box, that when get its ear twisted slight right or slight left started speaking a totally new language… Those were the days when radio was not just the source of sole entertainment but also major source of news and communication… But for me it was a sensation of nostalgia… How in those days, especially in remote outskirts of India, full day electicity was still a luxury people crave for… When sunset and mosquitoes emerged in full moon night and then powercut for whole night… Sitting under the glory of full moon, in the midst of fog of mosquito repellent’s smoke, dad would pull out a medium giant box with antenna like an antler of a wild moose… Deciding which station to land on, twisting it’s ear in middle of a slight left and a slight right, neither too left nor too right … As if a sailer holding a stiring of a giant ship, a slip of hand and ship will land on a strangest of land…
A slight ups and downs of frequency modulation, FM is what they call it, would have changed the country and language of broadcast… It could be a Korean singer singing a Korean song, or a Japanese newsreader reading news in Japanese language… It could be a radio drama in Hindi language or an English movie… A maxican chef cooking tacos and salsa in maxican language or a BBC repeating same news how a whale was stuck offshore, for a week… So many of such memories… Do you think those were just a gadget? Naah!!! Those were life, a modern-day kid will never understand… How fast technology has eaten up one another… Walkman then tape recorder, then VCR then VCD then very recent one, pendrive… All vanished… They say, the more the better, I say naah!…
What counts for me are memories we can cherish years and years after the time has passed…
… As she slammed the door in fury and whispered some words. “I know he is there, people like him do exist. Not everyone are alike. Some are different and can be trusted.” And after uttering those words she came out of living room to her beautiful green garden.
Her vast and green garden shared boundaries with dark and bewilder forest. Old porch swing was making squeaking and creaking sound as she started swinging back and forth on it. She kicked the ground and started thinking about him, how he is different from rest of the world, how he completes her. Suddenly she saw a shadow of some well groomed man moving towards forest. She jumped out of old swing and ran after that shadow in quest of her dream prince whom she considered ‘different’ from the crowd.
As she was approaching the shadow strange nervousness engulfed her. She was very close to that man. As close as she can now smell his presence and feel his warmth. But still she can’t see his face from behind.
She put her hand on his shoulder from behind and smiled in her heart with the relief that ultimately she found him. The one for whom she fought the whole world, “He is not just a dream. He is a real man. I know he is there. One day I will prove whole world wrong. He is not like anyone else. He is different. The trustable. “
She slowly approached the shadow. A strange nervousness engulfed her. She was very close to the man from behind, so close that she could smell his presence and feel his warmth. But still she could not see his face.
She put her hand on his shoulder from behind and felt happy in her heart with the relief that ultimately she found him. The one for whom she fought the whole world for. She thought, “He is not just a dream. He is a real man. I know he is there. One day I will prove the whole world wrong. He is not like anyone else. He is different. I can trust him. “
As he turned around and faced her, his face was clearly visible in the bright light streaming from the canopy. The happiness on her face turned to bitter disappointment. Her whole world collapsed around her. She was doomed. She was wrong after all. One look and she could tell, tell in her heart – He was no different. She turned back running as fast as she could away from that man, that shadow. She caught her dress on the shrubberies and fell hard on ground…
Moral: Most people are untrustworthy in their unique sense. No one ever created can be trusted in its complete identity. Some are less trustworthy some are a little more but no one comprehensively. Everyone has their weaknesses.
As she reached the platform in hurry, train started to move slowly while whistling. She started to run with train but train ran faster. She didn’t notice that platform was almost over while she was trying to catch the train. She fell and hurt herself badly while train went out of her sight… She said ” I wish I knew when to stop… “
Moral: sometimes giving up is better than chasing to avoid the hurt…
I have been thinking of writing some short stories, actually very short stories from a while now… I don’t have patience to write a full novel… Actually don’t have such creativity as well…
However, I think very short stories are very powerful way of conveying a message in very few words without getting your readers feel bored and lost…
My inspiration of writing very short stories come from my day to day life, my super power of getting lost in my daydreamings, my unfulfilled desires and yes, my bad dreams, my nightmares…
From last few months now, I have started reading short stories from different powerful authors I admire… I have seen some pattern in their short stories… They get lost in their narration, by getting lost I mean they sort of indulge in their narration, they start enjoying the process of telling their stories, they no more lure the reader to read their story but they themselves start getting the pleasure in their story telling…
Second observation I made is good stories especially short ones need no ending… By this I mean short stories are meant to present a sense of ongoingness… As if author is inviting readers to add their imagination from where the author stopped…
What kills a creativeness of a writing process is trying to sound different by both concept and words… However, I would suggest to new story tellers, like myself, is don’t try to be different… Start with day to day stuffs… It will addon to a powerful story, a short story, a very short story…
If reading a good short story is fun, writing that one must be a satisfaction…
Off the beaten path... 
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