The Canister With Silver Stains: A Short Story

On the platform of a busy intersection, he sat unstably on a haunch with his eyes moving everywhere. His hands patting a canister and lips whistling, often he would scratch his bare chest and suck in a breath with his mucus filled nose. His feet were black with stains, unwashed for centuries and his hair as rough as hay, muddy and dirty. On his chocolate face sparkled his white eyes and yellow teeth in a perfect contrast.

There seemed no lines of worries on his face, a bare carefree forehead and cheeks stretched in perfect smiles, no worries of the coming tomorrow, and undoubtedly no issues with the passing today. His hands kept tapping the rusty canister, as the passing people threw their leftovers into it.

When he wouldn't tap the canister, he would lick his thumb and rub it on his ankle, removing the accumulated dirt in small black strings. He remained engrossed in shining his dirty feet, licking his thumb and rubbing his feet. A few times he spat on his palm and wetted his fingers, and then rubbed his feet. It lasted for some ten minutes until his feet shone in brown patches. Then he spat on his palm again and rubbed them together, cleaning them more hygienically than any hand wash.

Next he took his index finger and circled it in the insides of his nostrils, and pulled out threads of mucus. In a repeated fashion he dug it deeper and deeper, and extracted all that wasn't of much use. He rubbed the excreta on the sides of the canister and playfully continued his chores. The mid-day sun dried it soon and it glistened in a silver lining on the black body of the canister. There were more similar linings and patterns spread all over the canister, perhaps they were all his contributions, or his friends.

When a group of commuters passed in front of him, he would startle them by suddenly singing a song in a high pitch. As they crossed by staring him in anger and disgust, and he would laugh out loud with his hands in the air and head falling backwards. Then he would resume digging his gold mines and painting the rusty canister.

But he would pause to stare unblinkingly at children of his age, as they passed by him in clean clothes and combed hair. He would stare with a dropped jaw, and dreamy eyes. He would smile at them all, again and again, one after another, even though none of them cared to smile back at him. Mothers would ask their kids to not look at him, but he wouldn't mind that insult. He kept himself busy with his index finger and singing to startle anyone whenever needed.

When he was done cleaning his nose, he sat back, with his palms resting on the ground behind him and stretched his legs open. He sat wondering and dreaming with his hazy eyes, in between he would suck out saliva from his throat and spit it in a projectile motion. He kept doing it towards his left and right, again and again until his glands ran out of saliva. Then he lay back on the floor, with a bare torso and stared at the pigeons sitting on the trusses of the roof. With nothing much to do than blankly stare, he kept whistling and humming.

In another moment he turned upside down and rested his chin on his palms with his elbows resting on the ground. There were leftover paper cups by his side and he crushed them into pebble shapes and one by one he aimed them at the giant mice running across the railway tracks. He missed almost all aims, and the ones that landed on them perfectly didn't bother the rodents anyhow, they were big and fat to be affected by little paper-cups.

He stretched his arm to pick another cup lying crushed and worn beside him. As he picked it up, a little girl, half his age, came running and shouting his name. He ignored her and kept busy in crushing the already squashed cup into more smaller folds. She angrily shouted his name again, and he paused by to look at her.

She was holding a plate full of rice in her tiny hands and off he jumped up like a just released spring. He took the plate off her hands and sat down on the platform near the dustbin, the same canister which he had playfully painted.

In no less than a minute they finished off the contents of the plate, eating in hand-fulls and mouth-fulls. Then one by one he offered his fingers to her and she licked them clean in desperate hunger. As he finally wiped his hands on his half-pants he pointed at the silver stains on the canister and showed his hands to her. She looked back at him in disgust and spat a load of yellow saliva on the platform.

Next, as far as my eyes could see, he was running like a deer escaping a tiger's chase, steering into people and luggage. In a heavy breath she halted beside another dustbin and panted, then with her index finger she rubbed her nose and pulled out a thread of mucus. She wiped it on the canister and turned around.

Then she spat on her palms and wiped them clean on her frock and walked back as if nothing ever happened.

That Childhood, This Youth

The best memories that we carry are not of the loved ones, whom we met when our harmones erupted. Neither are they of the recent happy times we spent with our families. No matter how good these recent memories were but they aren't capable of being imprinted on the palate of the skull for a lifetime. What's imprinted there for this age are the happy days of our childhood.

When I was a child, some six years old, I was excited and jubilant. I ran across corridors, slided down handrails on staircases with my legs hanging both sides. I kicked stagnant water-pools and ran across the flow of running streams with my shoes on. I climbed benches and jumped off them, and hunted for bird's nests in small trees. I troubled puppies and patted calfs. I smelled my stinking socks and fought with pillows. Despite repeated warnings I wiped my hands on curtains and turned them black with fungi. I spun the front wheel of a parked scooter and saw the shift of digits in the odometer. Then I spun it reverse and applied brakes with both hands.

When I turned around ten, I was untamable. I jumped from high floors and dodged around the house. I spent my days in orchards eating mangoes and papayas. In monsoons I bathed naked in the open showers. When it rained heavily I stood under a draining shower from the roof top, It hit me on the skull and splattered everywhere. I made paperboats and sailed them in "kucchi-nahers" (irrigation-streams). If not a paperboat then a banana flower, with stones in it, it sailed across the little rapids. I played "fotta", that is what we called football then and we did that "suck-it", "suck-it" loud and bold whenever we scored a goal. We never knew what that meant, but there was fun in beating the hands across the genitals. It was abusive but who cared.

When I was twelve, I remember I used to skate on the mall road. I used to dash across the smooth bitumen infront of the Alka-Hotel in Nainital. I used to run up the steep climbs, and dash down in flying steps. I used to tease monkeys and langurs, and pelt stray dogs. I used to randomly handshake with pedestrians and ask for shelter under any umbrella. I shoplifted foodstuff in a gang of three, we ate upto our fills and threw the rest. We shoplifted from our acquaintances, and also offered them from the same. We saved our pocket money for video-games and Chacha-Chaudhary comics. We played Mario and Tekken-3, and returned home with a pocketfull of coins. If some money was saved, we went to Mamu Kabadi's second hand book store and bought story-books and comics.

Things changed in high school, we had to act grown-ups, but I was still a child. I was still a fidgeting insect, who couldn't stay stable on a leaf-top. Innumerable crushes happened and failed, yet neither the determination nor the stamina failed. Studies was a hell of a load, and boards were one big stone to overturn. All idiot friends started mugging books and schedules cut short our meetings. Boards came and passed, and along with them took away the free spirits of our youth.

Next was the year of science studies, considered even tougher. The group of many fragmanted and dispersed. Student got busy with their grade card improvement, and three tuitions a day. We often crossed each other while commuting. But, no matter how hard or fast life was, stupidity hadn't given off us. We were ballastic, humorous and idiots. We rang door bells at four in the morning and ran away, we punctured girls' bicycles outside tuitions and offered sympathy to walk with them. We spent nights planning how to study tomorrow and went off to roam around the next day. We burned volatile compounds in chemistry labs and hanged vernier callipers on our noses. We made paper tails and stuck "kick me" behind friends and gave them nice beatings. We celebrated birthdays with "ho-halla" and rode our bicycles on one tyre.

We rode across the streets with our horns buzzing. We rode with our heads trimmed in Ghazni styles, and often asked each other, if beer could really make us fat? If smoking did really kill? Or if "she" was indeed characterless? We raced on the busy "Kaladungi-road" and often dodged policemen. We studied to pass not score, and we promised heaven to girls just for a little walk.

If something was best, it was the free spirits we had. The untamable energy that we carried in us, and the radiating confidence within us. But ask me what happened to it. And I would say-

"THE WORLD TELLS ME THAT I HAVE NOW GROWN UP."

I am 24.
I am Graduated.
I am (or rather as everyone says, I SHOULD BE) in hunt of a career to settle down for lifetime.
I SHOULD LOOK for SECURITY.

But...

...there is a DREAM. A dream that I am carrying with me. A dream that says I am capable of an even better life (ONLY IF it works).

"ONLY IF it works," this is what I am repeatedly told.
*Of couse it will, I have that faith. I have that intuition. If it doesn't, I'll make it work.*

"What if it doesn't?"
*Why won't it?*

"Think about it."
*I think ABOUT it every moment of the day*

"Don't you see all your cousins have settled?"
*Unfortunately because they hadn't identified their calling of the self.*

"God knows what will happen to you."
*Exactly*

"You have an education loan to settle."
*God hasn't been so unkind till date, I hope he has some plans.*

There are innumerable questions now that haunt me, that pierce every thought of mine and reminds me of my non-happening existence. I wish I could alter the days and live my life carefree and wild once again. I wish I could bath under the draining sky on my rooftop, or ride a biclye from Mussoorie to Dehradun. I wish I could do this, and that. But the world tells me I have GROWN UP.

A little confession:

Within me there is this voice thay says, wrongs in life are not meant for me. I will sail through all hard times and waves, but there will come a time of true testing. I wish I survive that. I wish may god be with me to steer me across with his torch, for past that dark tunnel, I see, there is a WONDERLAND.

A little prayer:

"सद्बुद्धि देना सरस्वती के मैं भी कुछ कर दिखलाऊँ, उन हज़ारों उम्मीदों पे मैं भी खरा उतर पाऊँ। हिम्मत देना बजरंगी के मंजिल मैं भी छु आऊँ, बीच रस्ते साँसें छोड़ ना मैं चला जाऊँ।"

The Rose That Dropped

Synopsis:

First of its kind from my pen, this poem is a blend of three stories (happening simultaneously) from a youth's point of view.
1. It is about him admiring a girl from the opposite side of a crossroad, with whom he has had no word in person.
2. It is a little bird's struggle to fly that the boy observes while he is standing on the other side of the road.
3. Two shops next to him a man is being accused by his wife for cheating her.

The poem is phrased in 8-paragraphs, the first 6 containing the above three listed stories in a one-time repetition. The second last para (7th para) is a blend of all three stories, trying to reach an ending. The last para beautifully summarises it.

I hope, with this basic introduction, it shall become easy for you to comprehend the composition.
Happy reading!


Title:

I couldn't think of any suitable title for this composition, for I had not thought about what to write before writing, (it just kept happening). So I give you the authority to give it a suitable title, once you finish reading it. Post it in in the comment box at the end of this page. For the time being let's call it:


The Rose That Dropped



A busy crossroad and the cacophony of passing cars,
As always she was there, so close on earth yet infinitely far like on Mars.
Her wet hair dripping water drop by drop,
So vehemently my emotions swayed the love-crop.
She would seldom look up in bits and chunks,
Her fingers penning circles and feet thumping to English punks.
It was a moment of solitude when the eyes met,
Like a dry sooting throat suddenly turning wet.


On the same building behind her a little bird was trying to fly,
Dropping and falling at every leap, yet determined to rule the sky.
It chirped and cried but stood back again,
To try another leap, it unstoppably ran.
Above it an eagle hopefully hovered and perched,
But to her defence the mother bird devotedly lurched.
Falls after falls could not break her will to fly,
Every now and then to another failure the little bird would give a try.


Two shops next to me a lady accused her husband loud and bold,
By no good means, or pleas would she stop or hold.
Their little son all bored and confused,
In the middle of a crossroad all passer-bys they amused.
With her blabbering I deciphered it was all about an extramarital affair,
His shifted priorities, an 'illegal' son, and an undecided heir.
Like the scorching sun's heat she was raging and furious,
And to know her whereabouts she was curious.


She looked up and our eyes met once again,
Once in a while, for hours at a stretch, this is how our chemistry ran.
With smiles not hinting as smiles and blushes without a swell,
Our seemingly shallow aquifer, but indeed a deep down well.
Her big white eyes, a fair face with a mole on the upper lip,
That pointed nose and the curl of hair to which I would often slip.
Sooner than usual today, she just stood up and went inside,
An all of a sudden decision, an unpredictable emotion or perhaps some wrong doing from my side.


Half an hour passed, and the mother bird now engaged in renovating the nest,
The eagle seemed missing, and the little birdie giving her best possible test.
Little flights she could now make, but yet imperfection towed her wings,
To cloud her failures, in between the mother bird so melodiously sings.
She would come to the brim again and give it a little push,
A meter's flight hardly or just a little swoosh.
She climbs back and jumps again in a cycle of repetitions,
With never falling hopes and determined resolutions.


She started crying and bursted in loud hiccups,
An observing crowd gathered in swift pick-ups.
The commotion thickened and curious onlookers kept gathering,
He kept insisting and pleading, and the child's eyes between them battering.
He went down on his knees and joined his hands,
His head bowed and rough pleas emanated from his dry glands.
Onlooking men sympathised and women loathed his circumstances,
Shattered was he like a mundane tree with no leaves and nests but only branches.


Curling her tufts with her index-finger she came out once again,
Perched to the rail and with her eyes on me she down-poured a torrent of dry-rain.
I was still buoyant and mesmerised, and she dropped down a red rose,
Smilingly she turned back and walked away but my heart froze.
Amidst the muffled chirrups, a pair of wings fluttered,
The little bird flew unceasingly and a victory praise its mother uttered.
In an overwhelming state the lady wiped her husband's tears,
His eyes spoke of forgiveness and her emotional smile neutralised his fears.


She looked at me with a stealing glance as I picked up her first gift,
High in the sky the bird flew, swaying and swift.
He hugged her wife back and the crowd dispersed,
He laughed loudly when in his ears something she whispered.



Thank you:

I hope you enjoyed reading it, so just take out a moment to put in a comment below. :)

Moonlight Shoes

It started with being a shoe, and waiting for someone to come and become my rightful owner. I was displayed on the stands of an all time lighted showcase, where buyers frequented all day long. Often, the store-boy would take me out of the stand and suggest me to his customers, whose stinking feet I would have to smell and keep smelling with no other choice. There were variety of them, some with week’s long unwashed moist socks, some with communicable allergy, and some with open wounds and pus flowing out. I was helpless, and had to fit into everyone’s feet entirely as the store boy wished to.

Had I been capable of selecting the feet that would wear me, I bet I would have discarded them all of the privilege that they enjoyed by wearing me and walking a few steps back and forth in front of the mirror and showing off how elegant I made them look.

During my tenure of eight days three hours on the stand, besides smelling rotten feet I have also heard and learnt a lot of things that these stinking humans with branded ironed clothes on the outside and stinking unwashed socks beneath them say. One of those things is, “Every man has his day!” I believe the same is true for shoes as well. And ever since I heard this thought, ironically from the most pathetic of all men who ever wore me, I muttered back instantly, “If you can have a day, then surely I shall also have one.”

The day came, on the seventh of July, on a hot summer day, when people drenched in sweat were coming in to check me out. It was a tough time repeatedly passing on from one person to another. I changed a total of six feet, (three people, unfortunately with two each) in three hours with none of them buying me. I was thankful that they didn’t buy me, as it would have been one hell of a task to cope up with their poisonous stink. Moreover, it also wasn’t that I couldn’t tempt them, but that they couldn’t afford me.

Finally, the minute arrived and halted at ‘Feet & Shoes Limited’, a young dynamic man in his thirties walked in with a pit-pat sound of hard heels. Alike all, he too wore ironed clothes, but his sophisticated short-step gait signaled something outside usual. He settled directly in front of me and through my lace holes I tried sniffing his feet as he loosened the shoe and took it off. I was startled to see that they were fresh, dry and odorless. The store boy started offering him shoes one after the other, and he rejected them in the same chronological order. I was happy to see him reject them, while bubbles of joy emerged within me. When his eyes finally fell on me, I looked back at him without a blink and it seemed as if he had already accepted me. The store boy picked me up and parted my belly and the man gently thrust his foot in it. And then the other, even gently. There was no smell of sweat, his stockings were fresh and smelled of camphor. Moreover, the way he handled me was like the way a mother handles her new born, gentle and caring.

I wanted him to buy me, but he walked out of the shop after an unfinished settlement over the price. My heart shrunk as he started moving out of the shop, for I was better convinced that no one as gentle and clean as him would ever lay foot in this shop. I wanted him to buy me, I twitched in anger and defeat while my fellow companions laughed and joked at me. I yelled at the peak of my voice, just to hear my own wails back. Nothing helped. And with his disappearance from the door I believed that the just witnessed good moment was all over and lost. It would be better to think that it never happened.

As I dropped all hopes of him, he reemerged, in somewhat bigger steps than before, and my heart leaped with joy. Every shoe beside me frowned and waited along with me to see what would happen next. He exchanged a few words with the store boy and finally taking out his wallet handed him crisp notes.

I was sold.

That was my day!

The store boy kept me in a box and handed me over to him, he took me and placed me on the rear seat of his car and drove away, to somewhere. Lying there in that box and sniffing to the dull cardboard smell I thought how different and refreshing this smell was as compared to the stink of the every second common man who used to put me on. However, not every shoe like me would get a smell-less fresh feet owner and thus for them this smell of the cardboard would be a refreshing smell, before it would be again worn by its creepy owner.

Life at home was different. He had a younger brother, who wore me during his plays and by the time we entered back home, I would be covered under a thick layer of mud and stains of all kinds. He was a ruthless brat and unlike his elder brother lacked the skills of taking proper care and keeping away stains. He would dirty me every Saturday during his match and his elder brother would wash me clean the next day. I loved the way his elder brother took care of me, for it was all one could offer me, and indeed even more that I would have ever demanded. Somehow, the better part in getting dirty by him was that his feet too didn’t stink.

Days passed and then months, while I clung tight to my ropes and stitches from falling apart, despite the fact that my limited age and my rightful owner’s younger brother’s unpitying use brought creases and wrinkles on my beautiful body, the same routine continued almost every Saturday and Sunday until one day I fell open just beneath the right thumb. My stitches were worn out and cut open, the younger brother kept me in the shoe rack and took out another pair; his plays continued, my life took a standstill.

Almost a week later, the elder brother took notice of me, he brushed the mud off me that had dried in patches and layers, he washed the grease stains and then took me to the cobbler. Nine cross stitches, and I was back to normal. I felt so indebted and gratified to him, for he really was my rightful owner. I wanted to be with him, till my last day, until I would wither off completely and open up from all around. I knew, I would never find a man better than him, an owner more impressive and gentle.

But they ‘humans’ say, as I have heard a number of times, (and what seemed so true just the next moment), that, “Life is full of surprises and unexpected things.”

As he was walking me back from the cobbler’s place, a cab running at more than a hundred kilometers an hour knocked him down while he was crossing the road. A loud screeching noise of the tires, a loud bang of collision, the noise of bones colliding with the windshield and bonnet, and then a halt filled with his wails and moans in the air of complete silence while people started rushing in from all places. The silence faded gradually as people began talking, the way the crowd always does. Everyone suggested something, but none came to help him, someone called the ambulance, just because it was a toll-free number and no one bothered where I was. The only person who would have bothered was lying half dead, twitching in pain and shouting in helplessness. His right shoe had come off his foot and was lying on the side of the road, while the left one still hung on to him.

The ambulance came and people rushed him in, and it drove off. People kept standing for a few minutes on the spot and discussed the cause of the accident. The next minute even they went off to their respective businesses, leaving me behind, unclaimed and unwanted.

I realized that it was the end of my life, but it wasn’t.

I lay there, by the side of the road for the next many hours while people, hundreds and hundreds of them, passed beside and over me, but none paid any attention to me despite the fact that I was new and shining. For I was a single shoe, unmatched and useless. Such is life, and such are these humans, they want you as long as you can serve them some good.

The other part of me, luckily managed to reach back home, with hopes that I won’t be abandoned and perhaps they’ll go back to the accident spot and bring back the one that’s lying there, but that never happened. Instead that evening they didn’t keep me in the shoe rack, but threw me on the pile of plastic waste at the corner of the lawn near the garage. My new companions were a rusted can, two beer bottles, a stained cloth, dozens of plastic bottles and a few broken tiffin boxes and coke bottles, and some broken accessories, to them all it hardly mattered how young or beautiful I was, for I was useless without the other me. And perhaps they all would be laughing at my nearing sudden tragic end, perhaps one or two amongst them all would have felt pity.

Three cars, four bikes, a heavy loaded truck and a roadways bus, a total of nine vehicles and eighteen wheels passed over me, crushing me and deforming me. The despair ended with the fall of the night as the traffic reduced and I lay there in a crumbled form, on the same spot where my so caring owner had fallen down. As I lay for more than an hour, and no vehicle passed over me I started gaining back my lost consciousness. My muscles twitched back to normal and when I had almost turned normal, a stray dog came and started sniffing at me, the way I used to sniff at my master’s feet.

It sniffed for some thirty seconds, when he finally grabbed me in his jaw and ran away. I wondered if it was my rescue, or if it was just another form of trouble. He took me to the foot of the flyover, settled down there and started chewing me. I wanted to get free of him, as I had hopes of living more, I had hopes of reuniting with my other part and to live the remaining of my life again in the feet of my humble owner, but the dog was uncared and merciless, it kept on chewing me, piercing those long canines in and out like needle on a cloth. In between he licked me with his wet tongue, and sometimes he would keep me down for a few seconds while he relaxed his jaw muscles. Just, in another moment he would again start the painful discourse.

I was deformed and had open up from the front again, but he kept on chewing mercilessly. An hour later dawn broke, one of his feminine companions passed beside us with a trail of dogs sniffing her genitals and following her. He instantly dropped me on the ground, stretched his front legs, then the rear and joined her admirers.

I said to myself, “Dogs, will be dogs! May you never get what you desire, bastard.”

As she led the procession across a tunnel and went out of sight, something knocked me on the heal. It was a metallic fell, an iron thing. I looked back to see it was a rag picker.

He picked me up, pulled my laces to check my battered state and tossed me into his sack. From the dusty road I fell amongst plastic bottles, cardboard cartons and tin cans 

that he had gathered from all over across the city.

I wondered if it meant the end of all troubles or the beginning of some more!

Kiss of Love and the Indian Society

There are three kinds of people in our nation- The Rich, The Middle Class, and The Poor. By 'Rich' I mean the ones who are born with a silver spoon in their mouth. 'The Middle Class' on looks the rich and hope that their future generations will be born with a silver spoon too. However, 'The Poor' even lack a spoon to eat their meals. People divided in these categories reside together in the society, making India a land of diversity in true means.

When compared together, ironically the rich and the poor show similar attributes- they are the ones who aren't tied up and held back by the strings of culture and heritage. The middlemen are. You might probably spot a poor woman smoking by the gate of a metro station or even a pretty young lady puffing out rings of smoke on a highway through the window of a Benz. In both the cases you pass away with a grin of ignorance, and so does everyone else. But you might rarely spot a salwar-suit girl puffing out in the open street, for the simple fact that she is held back by ignominy and her cultural values.

Recently out nation witnessed an uproar of protest and questioning over the Kiss of Love eve scheduled in various places across the capital. Of course it would have stroked controversies, it was after all an event of the middle class, from the planners to the participants. And even more, it's always a middle class man who is free enough to protest against something.

They (the saviours of the society) say that our culture and society doesn't allow holding on to the partner's head and kissing openly, but ironically what's allowed openly here is to take up any corner across the street and hold your penis until it drains off the last drop. Sadly, we're part of a society that has its kids influenced deeply with the western culture, who themselves never let go an opportunity to rape someone. Or let me rephrase in case its not true this way, who would never protest for a girl being raped in threat of being beaten down by the rapist or even killed. But, they were free in flocks to protest against lips meeting lips. Just in case people are so free to volunteer there are a lot many things to protest against, from heaping garbage dumps in public places to issues of never ending rapes or women going out in the open for defecation. Surely, these too are not true attributes of our society and culture.

If only the Middle Class changes their observance, a lot many things can change in this nation, a lot many objectives can be reached together. We've been taught unity is strength, but we've always practiced criticism as our strength. For a matter of fact, no matter how hard the middle class protested, the ones born with a silver spoon won't stop greeting their friends with a kiss even on the busy market streets, the ones who lack a spoon to eat will continue mating on the footpaths and producing more children overnight. To the rest of us, it started with a middle class man and ended on a middle class man. All others are spectators, who'll clap, cheer, shout and later return to their own respective business.

**This article bagged 1st prize in Book Review India's essay competition, read here:
https://bookreviewindia.wordpress.com/2014/11/26/the-winning-article-kiss-of-love-and-the-indian-society-by-bisht-udai-narayan-singh/

One last time

It is true when people say that life has many shades. Indeed, it has. Once we were all small kids, so innocent and charming that everyone wanted to cuddle their arms around us. People entertained us for hours in a stretch to just spot a momentary smile radiate out from our face, and we took all the privilege of their love. Ironically, in return of immense love we even literally pissed over their costly silk saris or reputed army uniforms. And they only smiled. Then there was a school life, the first memories of making friends, of sharpening pencils and littering the neighbour's compound. Eating tiffins together and running across the field, chasing balls and seldom friends. The post-lunch lecture, at times of a power-cut was the most unbearable moment of the day as the entire body exhausted heat fumes and every bottle in the classroom soon drained out of its last drop. The moment when everyone smiled as the last ally too walked out of the class to join the punishment. Memories of growing up from lower school to middle school and finally getting promoted to higher school now seems as if it all happened so quickly.

There was little sense of responsibility then and life was lived with utter joy and immense zeal. The present mattered and future was of little importance, until one day we walked in through that college gate. Things changed all of a sudden, just overnight. The first day's orientation marked the culmination of freestyle living and the beginning of an era of responsibility and future planning. We were expected and trained to grow up. We were warned to control over getting addicted to a few habits termed 'bad,' what friends termed 'cool,' 'necessary,' 'stress-relievers' and so forth. It was an all new world, just identical to the feeling of getting introduced to puberty in the past.

They say good times are short lived. Burdened under the workload of submitting assignments after due date, preparing and appearing in numerous exams per semester and commuting to and fro from college ended the college life time before it even started. Yet, we clinch tight a few memories- going out at lunch and late night to have parantahs with coke, tucking the shirts under the belt, bunking classes together, buying new sim-cards from the stalls outside the college gate almost every month, and walking down the aisle kicking everything that came in the way. Time ended just like the path ended every morning from college gate to the classroom.

An year has past and we are all scattered in different directions like marbles after a toss. Groups that were once united are all apart and busy with their lives now. Some have got on the wagon that takes them to the journey called 'life after college,' while some are still on the stands, trying their luck to get inside every one that comes their way, already overstuffed from the last station.

As I sit on the stands, waiting for the next wagon with hopes of getting a seat, memories of college life embraces me. There were days when we were unconcerned of such a day, days when we slept under a blanket of a million stars and gazed back at them dreaming of such a shiny and lustrous future to come our way. There were friends, best friends, who ate, drunk and slept together until dawn cracked and today they're all scattered away. Too far to schedule a meet, to far to reunite and too busy to borrow a moment. New people have taken their place and things have changed, thus proving again that time waits for none.

As almost a quarter of this life span marks its completion, life starts playing its cards. From days of togetherness and close friendship to loneliness again. There are twists and turns all the way up and what lies on the other end can not be foreseen. It might be a busy routine job waiting to handcuff us for the next many years or perhaps in the next turn, we'll all meet again to sleep for one last time under the open sky, overstuffed on one single blanket, struggling to stay on it, gazing at the million stars and laughing our hearts out on old memories.

Things that happen only in India

India, a land of multiple languages and rituals, a home to numerous religions and festivals is where one in true means find unity in diversity; the same for which the nation is also better known as.

However there are innumerable things that one can perhaps only spot in India. The seventh largest nation homes 1.2 billion people and stands tall as the largest democracy on planet earth; which lately is better known for its now ruling Prime Minister- NaMo, a tea-stall vendor of the 80s.

Two things that have gained immense popularity worldwide since our new government are the Prime Minister and the Nation itself. Things, issues and old trends are on a roll towards change, as the new PM focusses on a developed and skilled India in the coming days.

Though in a nation like India, the old saying- "No change is permanent" stands true and has been proved multiple times in history. A lot of good things and approaches ceased to happen with the blink of an eye, however this time the nation doesn't seem to believe that any of these rooting changes will ever stop. Good for the doer then and good for the receiver!

But to whitewash the old stains and the black spots that our nation bears of the past, definitely we have to get down on our knees and wipe the floor clean ourselves. Not only this would serve the cause, we would in turn also have to change our habits and brush up our social etiquette chapter once again, loud and clear.

Coming to the point about things that can only be spotted in India, I would like to begin with a little observance on change. Change is a very interesting element, just like a bucket of paint- ready to cover the stains and old spots, but a little mishandling can again bring in all the spots those were wiped clean.

India, is more of a journey than a country where you see different shades of lifestyle and trends as you move from one end to another. But, there are a few common things that you can spot no matter where you are in the nation.

Love is the most widespread epidemic in the nation, whether you roam around in the temples observing the walls or you commute by a train or bus, you can always see names circled in hearts with an arrow pierced through. Sometimes, there is a message, like, "I love you Sheela," with love spelt as 'lobe' or 'luv'. Uncountable seats are scratched mercilessly, across the year and the back panel of seats acquire new names, phone numbers and love messages every minute, surpassing
the old ones. I often wonder, if the writer's dedicated lover ever gets to read these messages that their lover wrote scratching and breaking their fingernails. Some wise people bring along a permanent marker for the mission.

As you get down from the bus and turn along the lane, you can spot a faded message on the wall in Hindi saying- "Do not spit here." And the message itself fades with tens and tens of pan-stains jetted with a precise aim on the Hindi letters. As you'll pass by, someone will again use the wall to empty his buccal cavity.

Then as you'll pass by a thin lane, probably a gully- beware to cover your nose when you walk by an empty plot between two houses, coz that's a community dustbin. Don't be surprised to see men urinating on the walls adjacent to this plot.

Urination brings us to our next topic- public toilets. Enter a public toilet, whether in a railway station or a bus station. As you slam the door close and sit down you see a list of contact numbers scratched on the door with ugly and pathetic descriptions such as 'whore,' 'jugaad,' and things similar.

Talking about a journey by train, as it halts between stations people rush in and rush out in a haste. Everyone is in a haste to acquire the empty berths and are later seen negotiating amongst other co-travellers to sit in their seat. The person who sacrifices his seat in the first place is seen battering from seat to seat until his journey ends.

To the list there are numerous other things and acts, but however there is one indispensable thing. When we compare sleeper coaches with AC coaches, we find no haste. People come in a steady gait and take the seat that's allotted to them. There is no negotiation and no inconvenience to the other person. Similarly, enter a toilet in a mall or a PVR and you won't find inscriptions and lurking comments. Travel by metro and there are no love hearts with names and arrows. Also, there are no pan stains in the compound.

So what brings in all the difference? How does a nation with the same people travelling in these two different places act differently? The answer to the problem is literacy and infrastructure development. The sooner it will spike up, such acts will fall down.

With the advent of PM NaMo's government, the entire nation is optimistic about a radical change in the coming years. The sound of an approaching hurricane can be heard clearly, that is on its way to carry away the ills from our community. Sooner or later, in these five years, the entire nation believes that a roadmap to development and change will be laid out. It is thereafter our responsibility to step on it and walk the way through. No matter how good or bad the government is, at the end it is us who matter. A better India is our responsibility and our birth right.
To end with a poetic line, it is wise to say-
"Jhadoo bhi chalega aur rupya bhi uthega, Aao milke sath bade, akela Modi kya kya karega!"
Jai hind!

**This article was picked by TOI, read here:
http://m.timesofindia.com/nri/contributors/contributions/udai-narayan-singh-bisht/Things-that-happen-only-in-India/articleshow/45023058.cms

Dreams of a pleasant future

Dreams, they are so insignificant and delicate like a water bubble. If you constantly pump them with the right flow of breath the bubble grows bigger and bigger, more charming and shiny. But, howsoever if something touches it from outside, it bursts into millions of molecules that can never be repaired. As a child I had a dream to fly like a kite in  the infinite sky. I dreamed of travelling in the universe with wings outstretched and the head held high, passing through the clouds and galaxies in outer space. 

I had dreamed of my youth to be as joyful as a video-game, with lives in stock to risk the one I had at hand. I had dreamed of making mistakes and replaying it again and again. I had dreamed of passing from one level to another with an untouchable high score and an unbeatable performance. Life to me was a bucket filled with colors and a plate full of all kinds of sweets that would be tempted and admired by all. Life to me wasn't mathematic-equations or engineering derivatives, in fact it was mountains with tree chains and a lush green carpet of grass. A place where meditation, tranquility and spirituality would come to me and I with open arms would welcome it. 

Life to me would have been a blank canvas on which I could paint myself a mighty king with an army of soldiers standing behind me and a beautiful queen standing on the other side of a river on the bank filled with daffodils. The youth that I had fancied was more like a tree with leaves in different shades of green and colorful flowers blossomed all over, that would attract birds and bees. Days there would pass with the body dancing to the tunes of their chirping and buzzing, and not to the horns and honks of the passing traffic. 

A field filled with yellow sunflowers facing east and mountain tops overlooking a valley of flowers and trees of all kinds was what I had felt with each passing day in my childhood. It was more like white pigeons flying in a flock and swans travelling transversely across the blue sky in an arrow formation with least movement of their wings.

Dreams of a pleasant future were like handlebar mustaches growing abundantly on the cheeks and not like the ones trimmed every third day. It was always about spreading like a creeper, upwards with strong roots and an irresistible grip. It was like a butterfly fluttering innocently, yet attracting every eye that fell upon it. Dreams of a beautiful future was not salt that had to be added with limits, but sugar- the more you poured the sweeter it got. It wasn't a bathroom shower, but an outdoor torrent that drenched everything and after which followed a clean green universe with little herbs and grasses popping out of the belly of mother earth. Dreams then were not related with limits and restrictions, but with abundance and freedom, like shoes that touch every corner of the world and not socks that always remain inside.

Whenever in the past my mind ran across the thought of soul and body I always admired it with the relation of a nib of a pen and the ink within. The nib like the body has a purpose to touch, write and pierce as much as it can, and the ink inside the refill helps the nib perform its duty a million times in its span. Also, it leaves its immortal mark on the host in the form of a verse, story or sometimes a stain.

Dreams often occurred to me like a long empty road waiting to be traveled across by tires that had a firm grip. The engine hardly mattered as it only had the purpose to aid the tires in their rolling mission. Challenges, obstructions and difficulties were like punctures, meant only to give rest to the tires and make them even determined to travel forth.

But, as time rolled things changed and their meanings altered accordingly. I realized life isn't sunshine, rainbows and mountain tops, but instead a race and a marathon. No matter how determined and hard you start, only the end line matters. It turned out to be the survival of the fittest. Irrespective of whether you loved participating in the race or how good you felt crossing the finish line, only winning mattered. Life in true sense meant pushing back someone and taking their place.

No one cares to remember you even if you were the matchstick that extinguished burning an incense stick. Only the fragrance and the incense stick is remembered. Life thus turned out to be selfish with motives and missions, with greed and ambitions that fulfilled one's own self and profited others the least. In the race to be ahead, you are thus expected to be not only clever but also cunning, not only determined but also prepared to push back anything and anyone that comes in your way. 

If this is what being ambitious is than I had never wanted to be one. My dreams of a glorious future were of togetherness and mutual benefits. They were like a kite that soars high and takes the thread along with it. they were like the tires that took on the journey to travel on all smooth and bumpy roads, suffering and smiling while the windshield only smiled throughout the journey, looking at the beautiful scenes.

If only I can find a way to unite dreams with living, and not pushing to live; I believe a better world, of the one I and you had dreamed together in the past would be attained. And what else do we need to live if not love? Because someday wealth and positions will vanish like smoke, but love shall always linger in the form of fragrance. 

Each day I pass with hopes on tomorrow, Yet tomorrow never comes and days pass in a row

Each day I pass with hopes on tomorrow,

Yet tomorrow never comes and days pass in a row.

Someday I forget to sleep; someday I forget to wake-up,

Someday I am high and someday just too tangled up.

So for each present day I procrastinate things,

With hopes on tomorrow and my invisible wings.

I don’t have a job, yet I feel no less than a king,

Conceiving, admiring and believing there’s no better a thing.

Sometimes I pity, sometimes I regret and sometimes feel ashamed,

And yet in another moment I think one day I’ll be acknowledged, adored and famed.

The worries fly away in a jiffy and I close down my plans-for-the-day,

In wonderful dreams I sleep while the saying goes- ‘while sunshine make hay.’

Often when I finish a book or a movie I feel so inspired,

I clean my room, organize my schedule and find myself hired.

All it takes is a day for the sun of hopes to set down,

And the routine follows: Up-Eat-and-Down.

Two more days and the room again becomes a mess,

Eyes back on the ceiling and ears on jazz.

Not every day is smooth and there are hard times too,

Often when people ask- ‘What do you do?’

My parents stand beside them and wonder why I look tensed,

Up with a smile I tell, ‘Umm.. preparing for defense.’

‘Good luck!’ they say and move ahead,

My mother hugs me and I feel blessed.

There I vow to inherit change and do things that I haven’t done yet,

I clean my room, sort-out my books and see the sun set.

I pick a book and try hard not to lose sight,

But I yawn, scratch and miss the day light.

I take a break and think if it’ll be right...

…to close the book only for the night!

A chair by the wall and the table too far, My bed in the center and the switch so far

A chair by the wall and the table too far

My bed in the center and the switch so far.

How hard I convince, my body doesn’t respond,

To make a slipping way through the clustered mound.

I lay awake in a passerby’s hope to turn off the lights,

Though lazy I might seem, but my hopes have never-ending heights.

The bulb distracts my sleep, and yet I won’t bubble,

The light strikes with its might and in a pillow I cuddle.

My eyes feel the piercing effect, and I shut them as hard as I can,

And just hope for someone to pass, a lady or a man.

I turn sides in restlessness with hopes for a nap,

Oh! I so much miss a dark room and my mother’s lap.

An hour passes by and I am struggling to sleep,

It’s two in the morning and yet hopes of a passerby are deep.

I hear my friends giggle in the next room,

And just hope someone comes to turn off my illuminated doom.

I pull over a blanket to cover my face,

But, the striking light does not grace.

I curl in and curl out; I turn over and turn about,

In restlessness and despair I make a pleading shout.

But it fades off in the noise around,

Like a squeak ends in the roar of a hound.

With half shut eyes I hope of my redemption,

For an angel to come and perform the sacred action.

And then I hear approaching footsteps from the farthest end,

Waiting for the moment to come my heart lay quenched.

As he passed by my door, for his help I yelled,

Which perhaps in his haste he missed.

I quickly turned my side to catch a glimpse of him,

Perhaps another word could make the lights dim.

But all I saw was emptiness,

And the footsteps had faded away with momentarily happiness.

I lay half-slept, half awake staring at- the chair by the wall and the table too far,

My bed in the center and the switch so far.

Mr. Prime Minister, are you there?

To the hands of

His highness Mr. Prime Minister,

Prime Minister’s Office,

South Block, Rasina Hill,

New Delhi,

India- 110011

From the Pen of

A concerned Indian,

Writing what's protested

From your society

India

Sub: Letter of concern

It has been somewhere near a month since BJP is serving the nation, and I heard the passenger fares of Indian Railways have hiked up by 14.2% and there are rumors that tobacco (the most consumed product by we the frustrated Indians) will also face an uplift in the price, on a lay man's scale by INR 3.5 per stick. Oops! that's even more frustrating and disappointing for the common man. Our nation, though it had come up with a whooshing support for your 'Bharatiya Janata Party' is believed to have got bitterly disappointed by the your initial efforts. The Congress party that we along with you have cursed for inflation will soon be spotted subscribing to channels like India Today, Q-tiyapa, Aaj tak, India Today Group, So Sorry, and Election-2014 on Youtube where they won't hesitate even a bit to ridicule, criticize and condemn you along with the channel crew. 

Sir, I on my part firmly believe that your approval for these decisions must have been backed up with a humanitarian approach and a mindset of concern for us, the common man. But, unfortunately that's what my million other countrymen might not understand. India that you're showing is in the light, but the India that they've seen for the past 65 years and more is in the dark. It is unrealistic, unreliable and fearful for us to keep our hopes stringed with you until the so said 'Good Days' finally do arrive. Believe me sir, I am not an atheist in your game plan, but that's what a million other might be. This nation is of followers, we intimate what we see people doing out there, and in the present moment we are all intimating questions of betrayal, confusion and unrealistic judgments; which someone somewhere is making us poke  you with.  Believe me even though when you're sitting on that royal chair, planning a better and glorious future for us, there's a ghost somewhere who too is ruling us from your vicinity. The question comes-HOW?

Let me elaborate on this, as I said above, we are a nation of followers, in more simpler terms we are the descendants of the monkey family, and the most common thing about monkeys is that intimation is their birth right. Show a monkey a razor and it'll pick one too; pull it over your cheek and it'll do the very same. This simple fact is well understood by people around you and I guess you too know that very well. In a nation of religious beliefs and varied cultures all you need to bind people behind your logic is a story. For instance, umm... let’s take your story. Connecting the dots backwards you narrated your story being a Chaiwalah and you related it with ours, and I say there's no offence in relating stories- that's what is needed to be done to make others understand; and your doing was definitely for a better cause, for a better purpose, for 1.237 billion better purposes. But, the in the same way someone else is also selling stories, stories that can harm you, stories that can turn the masses against you, stories that might trigger agitation and loss of hope from your system; and their stories begin from your authoritative orders.

Coming back to the point where we had begun the discussion, inflation. Mr. Prime Minister, now that the Railway rates have already hiked I urge you to give a Metro like development to the blue trains of this nation. Can our trains not become cleaner and hygienic with trustworthy safety and security to the motherly women and sisterly girls? It is a pity that our trains that touch every part of this nation lack water and cleanliness, and trains that run in your capital are always gleaming and glistering. When the people using both the trains are same, so what brings the difference?

As they say- the first step is the hardest one, empathizing with your responsibilities I understand that starting a fresh term in a government is always difficult. There are pitfalls of the previous government that you have to cover up. There are big smiles to bring on the entire nations’ face that might in the beginning come with a gaze of surprise or even betrayal at times. But, at the end of the day the distance covered speaks for you. What I’ve heard from your officials as a reason for this price hike is the present under-loss state of the railways. Anyways, focusing only on the brighter side, optimistically, I Mr. Prime Minister hereby ask for your kind support and cooperation in the remaking of this nation. For such a remaking that would startle the entire world, and I believe you will in lieu of the 14.2% from the common man.  

Jai Hind!

Even the rich prick their nose

India is a country of infinite vastness, with various cultures, multiple languages, innumerable trends and different segments of lifestyle: ultra rich, medium rich, rich, upper middle-class, middle-class, lower middle-class, poor, very poor and extremely poor. Amongst these, though everyone is a human but yet there is a hierarchy of their actions. People have divided this nation into cities, bigger cities, villages and small-villages, all of which inhabit humans from one of the above class. Even the smallest village and the poorest man holds a reserve of infinite use to the rich and iconic citizens of this nation.

In my previous article I talked about the rural India being called as “backward”, the one where farmers toil their fields with sweat and blood, where women shrink their youthful bosoms reaping harvests under the scorching sun and where children waste their childhood grazing cattle. All of this that they’ve wasted contributes to the upper segment of the society. The farmer’s blood and sweat gives us pulses and wheat, the women’s bosoms dry up while making the farmer’s efforts count; and the Horlicks and Bournvita could have never been put to use if those little education-deprived kids would have not sacrificed their schools for grazing  Rampyaari and Shyampyaari, the cattle.

            Our nation even today is not observed as one, but two: the ever-glittering city India, and the dark-after-six village India. The former is where people count themselves as humans, and the latter don’t get to count themselves as anything, because the former have already considered them as upcoming humans. In the talks of the former, the latter are also better known as ‘uncivilized’, ‘superstitious’, ‘mannerless’ and of course ‘backward’. It is a bitter truth that every house in the city has a servant or a maid, who falls from a village or small town; but still the complaints of the city folks for them never dies. They hate it when the servant pricks his nose or scratches his armpits, but seldom they teach him the basic etiquettes and often only scold.

            For the ones who are capable of sniffing and mewing in English, it is only a fortune that we’re born and brought up in a city. If we just consider it a bit closely, we’ll realize that it wasn’t us who decided where you and I were to be born and what identities we were to carry in this lifespan. We are perhaps given this life, wherever we are today, just to serve others and keep them happy, rather than to criticize and complaint. It is a fortune that we are living in a city, and it thus becomes our moral duty to serve the ones who fall short of services and benefits than us.

            The rural India, also best known for its remedies and cures out of herbs and superstitions is mostly availed by the city folks, than the villagers themselves. At the time of need, the insignificantly small, illiterate, mannerless men are also worshipped as god and tasks like walking on burning charcoals, sometimes eating them too, eating ashes, dancing naked, and a lot more are also performed by the richer ones, just in hopes of getting better. What one calls superstition is what one himself falls for at the need of the hour.

It is high time that we now start believing that there aren’t two Indias, but one. One single nation with swaying mustard fields and glittering skyscrapers, with both barren mud streets and polished six-lanes connecting us back together. It is time to believe in brotherhood and humanity, to accept that we’re one. For if one has the advantages of the advancement of science and technology, the other has an infinitely strong inheritance from the past. It is time to act as one, to offer an equal status to everyone as being a human anyone can feel the urge to itch and sometimes not necessarily in the dark, even the rich prick their nose.

**This article was picked by TOI, read here: http://m.timesofindia.com/nri/contributors/contributions/udai-narayan-singh-bisht/Even-the-rich-prick-their-nose/articleshow/35665017.cms

Autobiography of a ten rupee note

Human life has many shade, so does an incarnated inhuman life. From joy to melancholy, from happiness to tragedy, from love to despair and even betrayal- all shades, white, blue and grey are witnessed in this significantly small but large life by every living and non-living matter. Some believe life is a journey full of experiences, some take it as a path of leisure and some as a means to pass it through to enter another phase of the life cycle, familiarly known as reincarnation.

My story is an account of freedom, of inbound and outbound locomotion; of a healthy trip transversely and longitudinally in a passive manner, of a tragic gait and a spell bounded viewpoint of the society, nation and globe with eyes those are unmarked. Eyes on my torso that the world cannot see, a heart with thumps that cannot be felt, feelings that not be judged, wrinkles that pass on to me with age that are rarely noticed, but apart all odds and evens I see, feel, judge and make judgments that remain buried with me within the two folds of my body. I am a ten rupee note- the one that is found in every wallet, closet, treasure and chest pocket of a human.

Unlike humans, I am not a standing sculpture of stunning height, rippling muscles and distinct looks, but a common currency note that has the same dimensions, shade and aspects. When I descend from the Currency Press in a pack of 100 siblings, I measure 5.4” x 2.45” with a unique serial number consisting eight numbers and an alphabet, in my case it is 01B 989076. This alone is my identification.

My journey: The joys

After I took birth from the Currency Note Press, Nasik, which is the oldest of the four presses from where my acquaintances originate and spread out in the entire nation. My commercial journey started form The State Bank of Nasik from where I was burrowed by a farmer who fancied buying a buffalo. With him I stayed for two days until he forwarded me along with other notes of higher denominations to a merchant. Life in the farmer’s hut was quiet mundane. He had two sons and a wife, all fragile and malnourished. There I lay in the depths of a tin canister wrapped up in saffron fabric under a pile of grains. My presence was too cautious for him, I was probably more dear to him than his children. He kept me hidden for two days until finally he handed over to this big fat merchant.

On his way back the merchant pulled me out of the bundle and traded me for a red pan. He along with the pan got a few coins back that he carelessly slipped into his trousers. On the wet counter, I lay amongst the pan leaves, tobacco and spuparis. Customers came and made their purchases frequently and he kept piling more notes on top of me. Finally, after half an hour he placed me in a small tin box. Another two days I spent there observing how mundane life was and eavesdropping on all his financial talks with his colleagues and traders. So far, I had only seen life to be dull and utterly money driven. I though was lighter in weight than any other belonging, but yet my presence was indispensable to everyone. This single thought gave me immense pleasure and haughtiness to proceed ahead.

The pains:

By now I had an assumption that I am a king amongst all materialistic things and assets. This belief would have more strengthened only if on that bright sunny day a big car would have not stopped at his shop for a taste of pan. With the pan the seller handed me to the man seated on the rear seat in white linens and a whole new journey began for me. From concern to neglect, from safe-keeping to careless-handling, I witnessed tortures in all form. The India of which I had an assumption that people care and adore money was shattered like a glass into a thousand pieces. I had entered the lives of the rich. On the first go he separated me from the stack of notes with higher denomination and kept me loose in his pocket. I was happy, thinking he would transact me for something soon, but ironically he completely forgot about me and threw me on a pile of dirty clothes with the jeans. For one entire month I stayed there, in complete ignorance and gloominess. I had lost hope of life and the world of commerce where I had repute. Accidentally, (I believe) he tossed me one day to the laundry and in I went into the washer. I twirled and twisted in the whirlpool of soapy foam choking and deforming of my looks with every passing second. With so tattered looks I lost all hope of ever being accepted again, but the spark in the eyes of the Dhobi on finding me passed some hope to me. He kept me in the open to dry with a stone on my chest to avoid my escape with the west winds. In less then ten minutes I dried under the scorching sun and he happily kept me in the folds of his diary.

From all the owners I had faced, he was the most influential, perhaps because he had the determination to trade me even in that withered condition. It was a pity even to my state that how, in just a span of less then quarter of an year I had become so weak and fragile, like the sons of the poor farmer who first owned me. I was rejected in two of the shops the dhobi tried trading me, but in the third attempt he covered me between two crisp notes and off I slipped into the cash box of the shopkeeper unobstructed. But, as he eyed my poor state and his slip of accepting me, he wailed in agony.

In no time I had become one that was nowhere wanted from the one that was once considered a treasure and was so safely placed in the depths of a tin canister hidden under the fresh harvest of the season. Imagine my fate being placed with the grains, handful of which was to be placed before the divines as thanksgiving.

The last breaths:

With each passing day my form deteriorated and chances of my acceptance at all counters kept growing thin. More gloom was added with the onset of monsoon and I shattered to pieces in a short period of time. On a day with heavy rain, I slipped off from the rear pocket of a teen. The mucky waves carried me with their current penetrating my remains with sticks, wrappers, cartons and plastic straws. For hours I flowed from north to south, trying my best to resist the flow and sail aside to the banks of the street-side-river, but to no avail. I finally rested on a clear ground where the waters led me. There I lay in an almost distorted form waiting for someone to come and pick me up, but only more water came and eventually I got buried in the warm mud.

There is no cremation here, no afterlife, no obituaries, no tomb of burial and no epitaphs; just pitch darkness and an unnoticed end. India of my origin will perhaps never notice my end, they’ll remain busy with their chores and here I am left to degrade in the soil.