Monday, 31 July 2017

art on body

                                                          Twittering Tale #43 



                                                             Photo by favoritesunfl at

blue marks left on my body

are medals of your anger

indelible lashes on my soul

I veil them under the guise of blue tattoo art.

both gel well.

                             written for : Twittering Tales # 43. Thanks Kat Myrman.


(140 characters)

life is a a stage


RonovanWrites #Weekly #Haiku #Poetry Prompt #Challenge #160 Party&Enjoy

prompt words: party , enjoy

                                       Image result for a play in progress

                                   world's virtual stage

                                 enjoy every role to hilt

                                   party till daybreak

                        Written for : Weekly Haiku Poetry Prompt Challenge# 160

fragile destiny

                    Weekly Writing Prompt #100

                             Image result for a lady shaping pots

she is a child of Mother Earth

kneading the clay

with her  hands bare

 a song and story on her silent lips.

she heaps the wet mud

into shapes of her thoughts

alas her destiny is fragile.

those found her bent at her work

a treat to the eyes she is.

the heat in the kiln

fired from embers of her belly.

art that emerges out

keeps the wolves at bay.

She feeds the souls of her loved ones

she is also Mother Earth.

                                       Written for : Weekly Writing Prompt # 100

(Google Pic)

                                           I have chosen to write the free verse form of poetry.


YeahWrite #329 Weekly Writing Challenge : Personal Essays & Mostly True Stories

On my way to school, I watched with great fascination and envied the contents of the 

transparent round glass jars displayed on the counters of the general store. The oblong 

orange candies sitting snugly as if hugging each other salivated my mouth. The rose 

flavoured peppermints with a hole in the middle invaded my olfactory senses. The multi-

coloured square jelly beans made my innards dance. The scene slowed down my pace at 

the sight of the tiny general store.

  Image result for colourful Indian candies        Image result for colourful Indian candies   Image result for transparent jars of indian candies

(Google pics)

Household items, multicolour balls, ribbons etc never 

grabbed my eyeballs. I had a vague feeling that Prasad Uncle, the proprietor deliberately 

displayed them in extra transparent jars to tease and mock me. Though Prasad Uncle was 

an affable person with a wide smile on his face, I did not much warm up to him. The fault 

did not lie with him or his sweets in the jars but the sweets ranked low on quality in my 

parent’s opinion.

It was not that I was not pampered as a child. They brought chocolates and ice-creams 

which I didn’t fancy much. Maybe I had got them on a platter and forbidden sweets taste 

the sweetest. Going to school and back home was an ordeal for me. When I saw some of 

my friends exiting the store with candies in their palms or in their mouth, I would feel a 

pang of jealousy. I ardently wished my parents would yield to my simple demand.

I tried to plead my mom to buy those colourful sweets but in vain. I then decided that 

when I grow up I will never deny any sweet pleasures to my off-spring.

A 25 paise coin lying on the table attracted my attention. Mom must have 

forgotten to safe-keep it into the steel box in which money for miscellaneous expenses 

was kept. The sight of the gleaming coin dilated my pupils and I saw jars of candies. I 

surreptitiously hid the coin in my palm and looked for the presence of my elders. The 

metal coin lay hidden in my pencil box.

I whispered my plan to my younger sibling who was appalled at my boldness. I assured 

that we would never be caught provided he kept it a secret.

The next day we both held hands and walked together to Prasad Uncle’s General store. 

My heart was going a jig while my sibling begged me to abandon my plan and return 

home. I being the elder sister sternly told him that we would be accomplishing our 

mission. It is your mission he reminded me.

We entered the store and Prasad Uncle was a bit surprised to see us in. We had never 

made any purchases and what worried him further was that we were unchaperoned. I put 

the coin on his counter with a sonorous bang.

Coming out of the store with ours mouths full of candies was a joyous moment for me. 

Our tiny palms held many more candies and we held our fist tightly to prevent them from 

falling to the ground. I held a treasure in my palm. We ate many candies on the way 

back. The cheap candies singed my tongue due to overeating but that didn’t stop me 

from sucking. After having indulged and satiated, the remaining candies were thrown in a 

ditch. We made our way to home with not so happy faces. After eating the forbidden 

sweets the germ of guilt started to gnaw my conscience. I had acted rashly and realized 

the reason behind my parents forbidding us to eat the cheap candies. I promised to 

myself that I would never do anything on the sly.

But we both did not have the gumption to own up the mistake to my mom.

In the 9th grade we had an English lesson, ‘Sweets’ by Robert Lynd’s  and the whole 

childhood episode replayed in front on my eyes much to my amusement.

Years later, when I was in my teens I narrated the incident to my mom. The relationship 

by now was ruled less with an iron hand and we were more closer as friends. She laughed 

and boxed my ears. I too laughed with her. 

I have learnt a very valuable lesson in life and I echo it to my teen: The forbidden fruits 

which may include sweets do not taste sweet when indulged on the sly. It leaves a bitter 

aftertaste in the mouth. Happiness shared is happiness doubled.

                                      Readers, do you love sweets?


The Indian currency is called Rupee.

100 paise = 1 Rupee 

Sunday, 30 July 2017

Bonded Slavery

                                   Photo Challenge #175


                                                        MKA Photography

The hammer struck the teak table thrice. The auctioneer looked around. The deal was 

done and over. Everyone rushed to congratulate Ajanta over wine and cheese post the 


Walking through the architectural wonder, the colonnade looked down in appreciation of 

the artiste whose brush strokes spanned continents. The citizen of the world she was a 

generous donor to women’s causes.

The renowned Auction House, Christie’s Indian agent Anita‘s nagging doubt was coming, 

“Ajanta, the loose ends of thread of the lady’s fettered hands gather in odd shapes to 

form a pattern?".

“Nothing escapes your keen eyes, Anita” acknowledging her finding.

“While the world focused its attention on the light, the clothes of the model, the spartan 

enclosure, my mind shifted its focus. May I have the pleasure of knowing it?”

She spoke with a pause of gravitas. “It is my signature. That’s all I can tell you”, the tone 

in her voice suggesting that she be left alone. Discerning her caprice the agent politely 

took leave.

Left alone with her thoughts gathering a storm in her mind she recalled her days of yore.

She had nervously stepped into Nari Niketan with a veil covering most of her face having 

estranged from her family. The brick and mortar walls not only provided her refuge and 

solace from her fears but they shaped her sagging confidence. She was eternally indebted 

to the Institution. Now it was payback time for her. The proceeds of the sale of the 

painting “Bonded Slavery” would go to refurbish the crumbling edifice of the building.

She corralled her thoughts and dabbed loose  powder on her face while tidying every 

strand on her head.

Ajanta's monochrome art may reflect her real life but her real life had to be kept under a 

generous coat of colourful paint, sequestered from public and fourth estate.

                        Written for :MindLove Misery's Menagerie Photo Challenge #175

Nari Niketan - Women's Hostel 


© A Mixed Bag 2009
[Synthetic Alien Head from the National Space Centre,  Leicester, UK]

write a story with the photo as a prompt in 200 words or less

Caressing his double barrel gun with unblemished pride of his hunting abilities and 

lineage he waxed eloquent about his numerous hunting expeditions even of some 

endangered species.

He was adept in the art of taxidermy, displaying his kill as mount trophies on the walls. 

The mounts stared down from the height echoing an eerie feeling.

A tiger face mount was enclosed in a glass cubicle and displayed on the mahogany table. 

enquired him about this unusual choice of place.

He had gone hunting deep into the woods where a tribe inhabited the jungle. The tribal 

chieftain was killed inadvertently while aiming his gun onto the tiger. The mounted tiger 

face was kept on his table to remind him of his failure of his perfect bull’s eye.

My inquisitiveness grew about the fate of the chieftain. The tribal was left to bleed as 

they were infamous for vendetta.

A week later the Police summoned me to his palatial mansion.

The tiger mount was replaced by his wan face in the glass cubicle shorn of his prized 

mustache and hair.

His remaining body was found deep in the jungles.

I said a silent prayer to the departed soul of my chieftain grandpa.

      written for : Sunday Photo Fiction - July 30th 2017


Jungle means forest.

Read all the wonderful stories HERE.

Friday, 28 July 2017



This weeks cue is SLIP!
6 sentences, any genre, use the cue!
Annie's slip of tongue made her husband furious when she called him by her ex-boyfriend's name.
The fuming husband slipped away out of the house and fell on the slippery garden path, the pain further aggravating his slip-disc problem.
Annie  called for the ambulance and wore a frock on the lacy slip she was wearing.
The clerk at the hospital counter gave Annie a slip of paper and asked her to complete the admission formalities.
The doctor was worried about the slip in in his blood-pressure.
Annie slipped her baby between warm sheets and the toddler fell asleep.
                                     Written for  : Six Sentence Stories
Click HERE to read all wonderful stories.


              Three Line Tales, Week 78

three line tales week 78: someone walks down the stairs at the Guggenheim Museum in NYC

                        photo by Mahdis Mousavi via Unsplash. Thank you Mahdis M.

 Ishaan was the fun-loving , naughty , fidgety boy who refused to take interest in the 

study of numbers , troubling his teachers and parents alike and was put under the 

tutelage of the revolutionary Aamir Khan who was considered an outlier in the field of 

education and a few institutions made a beeline outside his door to have him on their 

payroll while many feared his unprecedented teaching methods. 

The young pupil and his Master warmed themselves running up and down the stairs and 

later adding and subtracting numbers through the medium of steps rather than the 

conventional blackboard, had the educational heads gaping in wonder.

AK not only taught the young boy to juggle numbers like a magician but had driven away 

the demon of fear of the most hated school-subject.

             Written for : Three Line Tales -Week-78. Thank you Sonya.

Wednesday, 26 July 2017

The Sunday call

                                                             PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

“Why isn’t she picking up the old phone?” stomping his foot.

“She knows I love to speak to her on Sundays”, impatient.

“Has she gone on errands?”

“Has she suffered a fall?”

His fingers working furiously on the number keypad for the umpteenth time, “Please pick 


“Why does she do this to me?” crying, almost.

“H e l l o Nikhil”.

“What took you so long?” relieved.

“Creaky bones, my grandchild”.

“I will gift you a cell-phone, Gran”.

“Nikhil, let the whole RH know that I have someone who calls on me”, wrinkled eyes 


“Gran, I love you”.

                                 Written for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks you Rochelle Wisoff.


word count : 100

RH = Retirement Home also known as Old-Age-Home.

Click HERE to real all FF stories.