via Wikimedia

I lay in my bedroom, the space I occupied in a rented portion of a house in posh Vasant Kunj in New Delhi. It was dark because I had switched off the lights. The AC was whirring at the window. It was Friday night and I had just returned after watching a movie, B.A. Pass. Life, which had seemed utterly hopeless until yesterday, looked full of possibilities.

Though the movie genre was advertised as film noir, to me it seemed film clair or film blanc. It threw floodlight on Delhi women. For a while, I browsed the FB profiles of lots of aunties and decided to stop chasing that office colleague, who showed a lot of bhav. Loved, loved, loved the movie! Sarika Aunty was fab—bold and beautiful. Why, in the beginning she absolutely resembled Savita Bhabhi. What a coincidence that the aunty who lived two houses away on the opposite side of the road was named Sarita. But I corrected myself that I shouldn't call her aunty, as I wasn't a student anymore. Should I call her bhabhiji? Sounded old-fashioned, so I decided to stick to Sarita ji.

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For some time now, Dinesh had considered himself the most eligible bachelor in the town. It was a realization that had dawned on him lately, as all of his friends had become householders. Not that he had intended to remain unmarried. It was just that he couldn't find a bride to his liking. He had wanted a wife as beautiful as Madhuri Dixit, who would also get along well, working with his mother in their joint household and not spout abuses all day long like his two sisters-in-law.

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The president of the Parrots’ Association appeared in the court of King Sher Singh to request an investigation into the death of a member, who was murdered along with his wife and two grown-up children.

Many animals secretly believed that the King’s younger brother Prince Jagir Singh was behind this heinous crime, as the deceased parrot had been lately parroting his misdeeds.

The oh-so-mighty and ever-so-just King summoned the chief police officer Mr. Fox to investigate the deaths.

Mr. Fox solved the case in just three hours. He brought five witnesses who said that the parrot’s family members were at loggerheads with each other, hence they bludgeoned each other to death with logs.

But the deceased parrot’s brother was not convinced. “First of all, this is absolutely ridiculous. Even if the family members killed each other, where did their body parts disappear?”

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In Somewhereland, everyone, from the king to the pauper on the road, secretly desires to keep a singing bird as a pet. The land is bestowed with incredible natural beauty. There is a river that never stops talking, flowers that dance with the breeze, trees that change colors every season, and above all, a variety of beasts and birds that fearlessly wallop, gallop, or hop around.

In spite of the fact that people have to work hard for a living, they are still deeply connected with the nature, intrinsically inclined to keep the beasts and the birds as pets.

If you talked to anyone, after exchanging initial pleasantries, they would inevitably inundate you with the accounts of antics and quirks of their pets just as the parents of young kids do.

A Singing Bird
(image source istockphoto.com)

The natives have all types of pets except for the singing birds—the most beautiful, lovely, and enchanting of all the creatures. The singing birds capture your heart at first sound and sight. The way they swoop, the way they perch and hop, the way they sing, they transcend you to a different level of consciousness. You forget all your pain and worries and feel as if you have become one with divinity. But, alas, when the bird flies away, you suffer acute heartache and melancholy, and pine for its company. You become desperate to own a singing bird.

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This happened several years ago. I was young, my friends were young. We were away from our homes, living in a hostel, and we thought all the good things in the world were waiting for us. One day, a close friend of mine and I were in the mood for an adventure. We made a plan. I don’t exactly remember the details, but it included a visit to a big city for some weird purpose.

From Left: The Monument, A Dog, Myself, and My Friend 

So great number of years have passed since then that I have completely forgotten which city it was, but I still remember the famous monument we had visited. Though I can not recall the monument's name, it is perfectly etched in my memory. I have tried to draw it for you on the left.

Walking around that monument, we met some interesting people. Now I don’t even remember their faces or names or what they talked about, but I am sure we found them interesting at that time. When we went to see the other main attraction in that city, something horrible happened. I still feel uneasy thinking about that event, but I really don’t remember even a tiny bit of detail.

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(Warning: This story contains kid content. Therefore it is advisable to read it under a kid’s supervision. It is written for Shruti Nainwal, who turned 6 today.)

Little Miss Sunshine didn’t care anymore that her birthday came after everyone else’s at the end of the year in mid December. She was happy that this way she got a whole year to plan for it.

Talking of birthdays, the kids all over the world should thank Miss Sunshine that they can now celebrate their birthdays without worrying about the underground creatures, called keekos, spoiling their parties.

Miss Sunshine is a 6-year-old diva with brown curly hair and the loveliest smile. She has a secret laboratory at her home where she keeps inventing many wonderful and magical things. She also knows many languages; besides Hindi, English, and Spanish, she understands the language of animals and birds.

When she sits on the patio swing in her backyard, little birdies hop near her and tell her fascinating stories from far and wide.

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A tribute to the upholder of communal harmony and decency in the Indian society, respected Shri Shri Kapil Sibal Ji.

Yikes! I am sick and tired of the continuous tirade against Shri Kapil Sibal Ji. Please stop calling him idiot, stupid, moron, senile, loony, etc. Why are all of you hell bent on flushing away our culture and civilization, tehzeeb and tameez, down the chronically clogged drains?

(Picture courtesy The Telegraph)

Sibal Ji is an elderly person. We should respect and obey him as an elder, however idiot, stupid, moron, senile, loony, ignorant, fool, sycophant, or regressive he might be.

On the other hand, internet activities of Indians below the age of 60 years need to be supervised and monitored. Sibal Ji was right in asking the representatives of Microsoft, Google and Facebook to prescreen content originating in India, which might insult or offend other Indians. These companies are now acting like irresponsible arbiters. It makes me mad to think why these companies have made empires for themselves in our country when they cannot comply with our traditions.

What freedom of speech are these companies and the internet abusers talking about? It is totally an un-Indian concept. In our culture, it is despicable to open our mouths in front of our elders. The head of the family makes decisions for everyone, not just for the underage children, but for everyone including the wife, adult children, married sons, daughters-in-law, and grand children.

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Srilakshmi stood stupefied, watching the blazing fire at a nearby fireworks factory. She was a 12-year-old, dark and skinny girl, with unwashed sun-bleached short hair, and dressed in an oversized, soiled salwar-suit, desperately waiting to be 14 so that she could also work and earn alongside her mother.

When her strong leg got tired, she squatted on the dirt-littered ground and kept watching the spectacle, without knowing that her mother was one of those trapped in that doomed factory.

The blaze was accompanied by thick white fumes, loud bursting noises, and crackers shooting up in various directions. Although it was the rainy month of August, the sky was clear that day. Such explosions and accidents were common in Sivakasi, a bustling town that manufactured 90% of all firecrackers for Diwali and other celebrations.

Srilakshmi had also suffered severe burns in a fire accident many years ago, which left her right leg disfigured. She had stopped going to school because other children teased her for her limp.

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(Picture courtesy samvada.org)

In the year 2011, a sizeable percentage of Indian population woke up from a deep slumber not because an army of termites had eaten away the couch they were sleeping on, but from the drum beats of Anna Hazare’s managers.

The managers specifically targeted the sociable Facebookers, Baba Ramdev’s simple followers, and Sri Sri’s suave breathers. All of them except a tiny minority instantly fell in love with Anna. In other words, Anna ki lagan was bujhaye na bane for many, and lagaye na lage for a few. He was an adorable affable old man, always saying nice things, and ready to sit on hunger strike for good causes.

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“Please do not implement your F-Day idea.”

(Picture Courtesy 21 Fools)

This is an urgent request to two of the readers of The Grist Mill. I am reporting from New Delhi, January 8, 2017. I want to tell them how we have been suffering from the consequences of their exploits. I will not name these two troublemakers because their more sensible and mature present-day selves have requested anonymity.

Since January 1st, we have been witnessing nothing but mayhem—incidents of domestic violence, snatchings, stabbings, lootings, daylight robberies, dark-night murders. Our past experiences tell us that this will go on for many more days.

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Update: This article is selected for Tejaswee Rao Blogging Awards
Now you can read this in Hindi too: दीपावली: राजकुमारी सीता का स्वागतोत्सव

Princess Sita
 (The only picture of Sita holding a bow. Modified from a picture on this page)

Diwali, the festival of lights, is intrinsically related to the Hindu epic, Ramayana. According to a newer version* of the epic, called Sita Charita Manas, on this day, Princess Sita returned to Mithila after killing the demon queen Mandodari, and was welcomed by her subjects with lit diyas or tiny earthen lamps amid great festivity.

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Peace

Exclusive First Person Report
By Samuel Manning
August 6, 2060 8:38 p.m. EDT

By now all of you must have been bombarded to death with the news of the end of the war in Afghanistan. I hope there is some life left in you to hear my version of the story. It hurts when people refer to me as “the hostage who brought an end to the war.” Let me make it very clear that even if someone else had been in my place, the events would have taken the same course.

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Read this in Hindi:बेटा, लाईफ जैकेट पहनो: एक नन्हे बालक की कहानी

The Little Boy

Once upon a time there was a sweet boy with chubby cheeks, curly hair, and dimples to die for. He had an equally charming sister. Their mother was from a faraway land, where women had more freedom. After marrying into a reigning swimmers’ family of the Grand Lake, she was straitjacketed, but she never complained because she had married for love. For security reasons, both the kids, even after growing up, were allowed to swim only in their personal kiddy pool.

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