Thelma and I

                                

                                

                                                        image by Greyerbaby at Pixabay

Thelma had an eye for perfection. She did the most imperfect thing perfectly. Like 

dangling out her clean shaven athletic legs out of the window at the certain angle as they 

would not hurt her and her torso perched on a pillow for maximum comfort. The canvas 

shoes were gleaming in the freshly incubated sun-rays.


I asked her to relieve me while I relax and munch on a cucumber sandwich.

I got down from the driver's seat and clicked a photo of her carefree legs dangling 

outside the window, on my Nikon.


She reluctantly plonked herself in the driver's seat while I shifted in the passenger seat 

besides her.

Next summer we both would graduate. Excitement as well as trepidation weighed equally 

on a see-saw plank. Trepidation , as we would have to work for different firms in 

different cities. One never knew where our paths would take us. So she voted on a road 

trip to Goa. 

We left behind the bustling Mumbai City.  The narrow belt of the Konkan strip with 

verdant farms as far as the eye could reach, slowed down our journey. We feasted our 

eyes on the picturesque splendors of Nature. The bucolic beauty wowed us to take a road 

trip again after we were settled in life.

"Could I get a Paracetamol? " I inquired at the tiny Medical-Cum-General store.

"It is closing time for tea and I will do no business", a stern looking man with Gandhi 

specs manned the counter.

" I won't be able to drive with this headache. Pleaseee", I pleaded with an urgency in my 

voice. The sound of temple bells reverberated at a distance. 

He agreed to dispense the medicine.

Thelma picked up the crate of aerated drinks, dropped the currency notes on the counter 

and ran towards our vehicle.

"Thissss is cheating", the old man hollered. I had no option but to press my legs into 

action.

I started the ignition and the old bones defying his age started to run behind the clouds 

of dust , swearing at us. We picked up speed and never saw his face again. 

                                   
                                             * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


The temple bells struck a sonorous note. The small shop was replaced  by a swanky 

Day-and-Night Chemist shop. My body was slightly sore with wear and tear. My temples 

were throbbing. A young lad manned the counter. I asked for a Paracetamol. 

My bespectacled eyes hunted for a crate of aerated drinks. 

I started the ignition. My eyes turned moist. I looked at the skies. "I have kept my 

promise, Thelma. You ......" .  My eyes turned moist. 

I still have the picture of her legs dangling, in my brief-case.

              The solo road trip after two decades is incomplete.

                                               



The two mandatory prompts are the use of the image by Greyerbaby at Pixabay and the 

use of the emotion  schadenfreude. 

Definition of schadenfreude 

: enjoyment obtained from the troubles of others

try try

Amy's name was not announced.

Her ego took a fall. The floor tasted like bitter-gourd. 

The bitterness of defeat left a bad taste in her mouth. 

She would be Master-Chef next year.

                                         

warmth and heat

       

Anita set the automatic coffee maker and changed the flowers in the vase. Her palms 

hugged the body of the mug sending warmth through her body. Her mouth enjoyed the 

taste and aroma of her morning drink.

The wrinkled hands poured tea from the kettle and stirred with the old spoon. She had to 

finish the ironing chore.

Anita stared at her mom and the old eyes met her gaze. The unspoken communication 

said a lot.

Two coffee mugs lay on the table basking in the sunshine with laughter wafting, the next 

morning.

                              It’s time to leave the past behind.

                                   Written for : Friday Fictioneers. Thanks Rochelle W.


                               



click HERE to read all the FF stories.

Property

                                                                 PHOTO PROMPT © Ceayr

“Sir, this beautiful property is owned ….

“….by a landlady who suffers from OCD. Blue being her most loved color she wears her 

heart on her sleeve and prefers to keep pesky intruders at bay.”

“But Sir, how do….”

“She is in the blooming range of 25-35 years and prefers to charge the rent as per the 

tenant’s tastes and intellectual standard. She is a stickler for punctuality and hates to be 

kept waiting.”

The estate agent’s pupils bulge with a farrago of admiration and curiosity.

“Tricks of the trade”. The detective winks climbing the stairs while the agent scampers.

                            Written for : Friday Fictioneers . Thanks Rochelle

                                    

Word Count  : 100

Young

                       

          Prompt : In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about growing older. 

“You will give wannabe models a run for their money. 500+ likes on Facebook. You are 

ruling Twitter, Instagram and Snapchat “.

“Thanks, darling”.

“How do you manage to punch in all these things in 24 hours?”

“Time-management, Honey”.

“You seem to have drunk on the nectar of youth.  Are you ageing in the reverse? You 

seem to be Master of all trades. Fashion, literature, cookery, women’s empowerment.”

“Sweetheart, you start to age not by advancing years but when you stop growing. 

Jettison stagnancy. Encourage yourself and others. Love yourself, be your own friend”.

 “Yes Daadi”.

                                        Happy Mother’s Day.

                       Written for Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction.

                  

Word count : 99

Daadi means paternal grandmother in Indian language.

                         

barbed fence

                                                                 PHOTO PROMPT © Jean L. Hays

She stood on the other side of the thin barbed fence, with one of her twins and skeletal 

belongings, meekly partitioning the land with hatred and religious divide. The authorities 

had stamped her papers and thrust it on her face to face a life in another land.

She stood to gaze at the last time, which she had called home. The soil, clouds and 

vegetation on either side of the partition were the same. The border drawn on the land 

was bleeding her heart.

Did her husband and son make it to this side? She knew not. Will time heal? 

    FRIDAY FICTIONEERS. Thanks you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields


                

                                                                                  
             


     

Catch me if you can

              #TellTaleThursday

 A situational prompt - You are at a fair and you get a note – “Catch me if you can!” 





                                     Photo by Matt Bowden on Unsplash

My Kolhapuri chappals scurried with apprehensions. The crescendo of heartbeats 

resonated in my ears. Will I find what I am looking for? My palms were sweating and the 

crumpled note, “Catch me if you can? “, acted as an absorbent tissue.  Who stuffed the 

note in my palm? I do not remember. Maybe it was when I was alighting from the roller 

coaster. The village fair din added to my confusion. I asked the villagers for the direction 

of the banyan tree. This was the clue in the note.

I stood under the shade of the giant tree. I looked around. “Dig here”, a paper pinned on 

the bark of the tree sent my nerves racing.  A small mound of earth caught my attention. 

I genuflected and pushed aside the soil with my bare hands. I held it in between my 

thumb and index finger and brought it to the level of my eyes. I stared at it. A talisman. I 

looked around. The cacophony of the fair vanished. Silence reigned.

The buzz on my cell phone pierced into my sleeping ears. I snoozed it. Damn. I am late 

for duty. My fingers ran into my hair. I splashed water on my face pulling the curtain 

down on the hangover of a dream. Looking up into the mirror, I saw the talisman around 

my neck.

                      #TellTaleThursday with Anshu & Priya

word count : 225

Fear

                                                            Photo prompt by CEAyr

The two-wheeler stood in the verandah  with the peepal tree giving it company. A black 

cat stared. I refused to mount on it. He explained to me that the public transportation in 

the villages are skeletal. I understood but refused to bow to his diktat.

“Akka, the lady is in pain”. The farmer came in panting.

I grabbed my white coat and paraphernalia and made a dash.

The road was undulating, muddy and difficult to navigate.

I reached my destination.

The delivery was quick and uncomplicated.

“Congratulations, a healthy boy is born”, said I, smiling.

I had overcome my Vehophobia.

                       


          Written for : Friday Fictioneers

Note : Akka means elder sister. A respectful way of addressing ladies.

Word count  : 100

second innings

"Amma, should I pickle the mangoes? You love mango 

pickle".

"Don't take the trouble, Neha. I have stopped having 

pickle".

"She is so enthusiastic", sighs the old lady. "After-all she has 

a new life", concluded the senior citizen.

"Munna, drink your milk. You will grow up to be a strong 

boy", said the doting grandmother.



Neha and Munna will leave for Pune after two days and the house will be again empty as 

her heart. How different it was three years ago. Her heart and the house was filled with 

happiness and laughter. She would prepare evening snacks and tea and the dining table 

resonated with the happenings of the day. She was so active and full of energy. Until 

that fateful day dawned, which snatched away  her will to live. Neha was weeping 

inconsolably with Munna in her arms. Relatives and friends had gathered to pay 

condolences. After the final rites they were left grieving. Neha joined office while she 

took care of Munna.  Her little grandchild was her solace and succor and her life 

revolved around him.

Neha found love again. She did not approve of the relationship but she kept mum. How 

can Neha forget her first love? Can the new man in her life, love and care for Munna 

with the same fervour as his biological father? Couldn't Neha remain single for the sake 

of her only son? These questions plagued her mind and she felt miserable. 

Neha understood the old lady's anxieties. She sat besides her and took the wrinkled 

hands into hers and lovingly said,"Amma, I can read your mind. My first love will always 

dwell in my heart. I just made a little space in my heart for the new person. Life is a 

long road."  


Tears trickled down her eyes. How selfish she was! Wouldn't she expect her son to re-

marry in case of Neha's demise? Why was she having double standards? As a former 

teacher she had always stood up for gender equality. Now was time to implement it in 

the true sense. She wiped her tears and got up.


"When you will come to Mumbai again, Munna?" , asked the 

grandma as Munna touched her feet.

"Very soon , Amma", replied Neha. "After his final exams, 

we will be shifting to Mumbai for good".

When God closes one door , he opens another door. There 

was no place for grief, thought the old lady.



I'm Writing Bravely for the Write Tribe Festival of Word - March 2019


                                 

Nurture.

Her face betrayed no emotion of the turmoil inside her heart. With trembling hands, she 

bent down to pay last respects to his mortal remains.


"Amma, you should be proficient with social media", begged he.

"Why do I need it ?", was my straight question.

"One never knows when social media can be put to good use",  he reasoned.


Today I took to twitter. My face book page was full of 'likes' and comments. Did he have 

an inkling of the things to come? God works in a very strange way.


He promised me that he would attend his sister's wedding. He came, wrapped in tri-

colour flag.


The interviewer prodded me for sound bytes. 

There are no winners in a war. Either side loses precious lives. Peace has to be given a 

chance. Ask a child whose has lost a parent to the insane war. Measure the heart-beats of 

a newly wed bride when she sees off her husband joining duty on the border. When 

soldiers are taken as POW and their fate unknown, there is no respite or closure  for the 

family members. A mother nurses and nurtures her children to healthy and glory. Not all 

mothers have the privilege of dying in the midst of their children.

Give peace a chance to survive and thrive.


                     


(Google Image)

                         


                   I'm Writing Bravely for the Write Tribe Festival of Words - March 2019

Social media

Cinderella breaks the glass ceiling to be crowned CEO.

Prince lubricates the domestic front machinery serving love, happiness and home cooked food for her.

Twitter brands it as cruelty and unfair(y).

Facebook berates Prince.

Divorce.

Cinderella eats alone from takeaways.

 
                                     



Prompt : Tell us in exactly 40 words what happens after the fairy tale ends.

Peas in a pod

                                                

The tea was scalding hot. And so was the blood in their veins. The tea was laced with 

ginger and burnt their tongue.

The mean machines rested under the trees after refueling their tanks. Their tyres were 

tired. The road was less taken and serpentine. This was intentional to avoid being 

noticed.

They had donned black, the colour of their vehicles. Only one wore white.

"How is the josh, buddy X?"

The words penetrated his eardrums but he close to remain mum. His mind seemed to be 

occupied with something else other than their target. The members exchanged 

questioning glances.

"Are your feet unsteady or your mind wavering?" , mocks Panther A.

"Remember, you are compensated handsomely.", taunts a bearded panther.

Panther X turns away his face in disgust and moves away from the group.

Panther A raises his index finger above his shoulders indicating the group members to 

stay behind while he follows X at a safe distance.. They both settle down under the 

shade of the Chinar trees.

"Panther X..."

"Don't address me with this code-word", the words escaping his throat at a frenzied pace.

"Panther X", raising his voice. "Have your forgotten our vows?".

"I have a name and an identity", tears running down X's bony cheeks.

Panther A, the assumed leader concludes Panther X's behavior to be jejune. 

" We have dedicated our lives to a higher cause", admonishes X.

"There is no noble cause. You are all brain-washed".

"Your words reek of a rebellion", anger spewing from Panther A's gullet.

Sensing the heat and their unfriendly demeanor, the group members start to inch closer 

to the warring duo.

Panther X could not believe that he has inhaled the same air of their serene village as his 

friends who are now reduced to mere code-words. The Sun that shone upon them, 

strengthening their bones, the river that they all frolicked together, celebrated festivals 

and grieved in funerals, could have such bipolar ideas and ideologues. 

"Our journey is ahead. There is no looking behind", Panther B wiping the tea stains off his 

lips.

"This is a dangerous journey and there is no destination", reasons Panther X.

"This is a religious war and it is our solemn duty to free our brothers and sisters", 

thunders Panther C.

           The function of freedom is to free someone else – Toni Morrison

"No religion preaches violence and hatred. Emancipate yourself first from wrong notions ",

Panther X sermons.

The muddy unkempt road undulates and disappears. No one knows where it leads. Is

there a return or a one-way ticket? The questions are many and there are no answers in 

sight. 

The road behind is a bit familiar and treaded. It leads them to their village. Can they 

reverse their gear and head towards Paradise? Would the evil perpetrators spare them? 

There is uncertainty at both ends.

When peeled, they were all similar peas in one pod. Only one pea turned out to be 

on the other side.

                    



I have combined the word prompt is  'Serenity' , the picture prompt is via Pexel and the 

quote prompt ," The function of freedom is to free someone else" – Toni Morrison 

together. 


                                  


                   I'm Writing Bravely for the Write Tribe Festival of Words -March 2019

Miracle

                            

His work as the henchman of the Don was to foment trouble in other’s life and fill his 

boss’s coffers. He realized the gravity of the situation when he got a dose of his own 

bitter medicine. An upside down image stared back at him from the mirror. His life was in 

disarray.  He could not reverse the needles of the clock.

He wished to start life anew. He couldn’t fathom how he would break away. The 

tentacles of the underworld would spread to ensnare him. Death would be the only 

penalty. He prayed to Lord Shiva for a miracle. 

Today's prompt is the word  Miracle and the photo prompt via Pexel.


                 I'm Writing Bravely for the Write Tribe Festival of Words -March 2019


                                

Forgiven

The crescendo of the cacophony had reached its zenith. My naked soles were desperately 

trying to find a way back but the sea of human wave pushed me deeper into the noise.I 

cursed my folly to attend the ritual that the city is so famous for I had decided to skip 

this religious place from the itinerary. But it seems that Destiny tweaked my my well 

planned schedule to hold me captive in this suffocating  place.


The spool of memory re-winded back to the many decades as my raconteur dadi ( paternal 

grandmother) whipped up images of 'Maharati' on the banks of River Ganga. The citadel of 

holiness and the cleansing of the soul was not just by the dip in the waters but by emptying 

of the garbage of human mind  that made the city holier. Every human in her /his 

lifetime should visit Kashi , said Dadi.


I gulped a volley of air into my nostrils and gently breathed out. The repetition helped 

me and the tightness in my chest eased out. I opened eyes my eyes to the luminescence 

of the 'arti' conducted. The invoking of Mother Ganga spread through my senses as a

capillary network and the resultant effect was calming. Involuntarily my hands folded in 

obeisance and reverence to the holy River . A mendicant smeared his forehead with ash 

sermon-ed ," release  your hate, anger , jealousy into the womb of the Mother. She 

accepts all oblations and purifies the body and soul". My body shivered. 


The years of dominance had lashed mental scars. The volley of vituperate outbursts had 

reduced my soul to nought. I lost faith in goodness and thus took refuge in being an 

atheist. Timely intervention extricated me from jaws of suicide. "Count your blessings ", 

implored Amma. I had obstinately refused.


The accumulation of the emotions had turned me hard like the sediment. The water of 

happiness had no space to flow. Why was I punishing myself? Should I jettison to make 

way for peace and joy?. My bare feet descended down the steps of the Ghat. With each 

step down, my spirit rose and soared. The weightlessness was filling with joy. My bare 

feet touched the coolness. The  liquidity of the Ganges had managed to penetrate the 

solid sediment.


The holy water was sipped by my Amma in her dying moments from the bronze urn.. 

She quenched her thirst and peacefully reached the abode of her Creator. Her face 

exuded peace and calm.


Though jostling for space I had enough room. I lit a diya and gingerly floated it into the 

current of the swirling waters. My little lamp joined the umpteen floating flames and 

merged . I had forgiven him. The grudges , anger and anguish lay reposed on the 

riverbed. My heart was kindled with the warmth of the diyas.


                          
              

I would die a satisfied soul and will live a life of fulfillment.

I turned my back and faced the the ocean of faith. Each face told her own silent story of 

emancipation. I ascended the steps. The ocean made way for me. I looked up. Dadi was 

showering her blessings on me.



'I'm Writing Bravely for the Write Tribe Festival of Words March- 2019