The Sabbatical

              Akshay was picking his nose, unmindful of all the people around him. He was well-dressed. An expensive pair of jeans, a plain yellow T-Shirt, a batik bandana tied around his curly mop of hair and Reebok shoes proclaimed him to be a lad from a well-off background. But the constant picking of his nose and puffing at his cigarette, gave off the unpleasant impression of an ill-groomed and ill-mannered person.

The copyright of this story is with Mrs. Priya Ramesh Swaminathan.

Englis Babu

She saw him everyday, while going to work. Rather, heard him first then saw him. “Good morning! How do you do? Fine thank you…!” He spoke English fluently and then blabbered gibberish.

The copyright of this story is with Mrs. Priya Ramesh Swaminathan.

The Bet

            

              One could say that had he shown such determination and stead-fastness in his academics, he would’ve rivaled the Nobel Laureate, Dr. Amartya Sen.

The copyright of this story is with Mrs. Priya Ramesh Swaminathan.

And they ride together .....

              Their special bond was to be seen to be believed.  When he was sick, she’d sense it and look at him with soulful eyes, even shed a tear or two; when she was incapacitated, Manglu would tend to her day and night, beside himself with grief.

The copyright of this story is with Mrs. Priya Ramesh Swaminathan.        

Tussle Over Ram Kumar Chaubey's Lifeline

               The sunrise, the golden and glorious period of dawn, when all things that the orange rays touched, first thing in the morning, appeared golden and precious, bewitching and beautiful; the transparent dew drops on the grass; the colorful butterflies that flitted about tirelessly from flower to flower and of course, that nest, since the first day he had come upon it; during inspection when he had to go to the attic and look for an old file.  He had almost forgotten his task.  So enchanted was he, by his discovery.  Two tiny off-white eggs lay snugly, sparkling like pearls in an oyster; on the bed of dried straw and leaves.  Their ‘parents’ were flying nearby, rather, hovering around the eggs protectively.

               In the days to come, Ram Kumar would observe the fledglings emerge from the eggs which had been lovingly hatched by the female sparrow and being fed by the parents with tit-bits, gathered by foraging throughout their busy day!  He had become very attached to that family of sparrows.  In fact, they ceased to be sparrows for him.  They were like his extended family.  He would often feed them with jowar and wheat grains, offer water in a bowl daily and even talk with them, when no one was around.  He’d scold the fledglings when they ventured too far from their abode.  “Hop in now.  Or else I’ll tell your Mom and Dad when they return!” he’d say in a mock-scolding tone and they’d mutely obey.  They’d come to recognize that he was their well-wisher.  When they chirped, he’d feel happy and loved.  He felt as if they were trying to communicate with him.

       The copyright of this story is with Mrs. Priya Ramesh Swaminathan

You Compromise, I Won't!

         She had been walking non-stop since morning.  Since she had only ten rupees with her, she had used it sparingly.  Breakfast was just a cup of tea.  She had bought a small pack of Parle-G biscuits for munching as she walked.  Now and then, she’d ask the passersby for the time.  Not that it made any difference to her.  The time that is!  She had no goal and no destination.  She was just a wanderer.  Had been so, ever since her husband’s death, 5 years ago in an unfortunate street-side brawl! 

The copyright of this story is with Mrs. Priya Ramesh Swaminathan.

The Lonely Old Man

          Trrng –The doorbell rang shrilly, jerking elderly Manohar Abhyankar out of his customary afternoon siesta. Cursing the unknown caller under his breath, he shuffled to the door and opened it. A young man, probably in his thirties, wearing a striped T-shirt and faded jeans, was at the door. A large bundle of neatly folded Kolkata saris was on the floor beside him.

          “Oh, salesman! I don’t want to buy anything. Go away.” Before he could shut the door, the young man shoved him in and swiftly took the bundle with him. He quickly bolted the door and pointed a gleaming knife at him. Was it a Rampuri? The old man thought absent-mindedly. Strangely, he didn’t feel any sense of fear. He felt as though he was dreaming.

          “C’mon, hand over all your cash and valuables to me. Quick! And don’t try any tricks. See this?” He asked, brandishing his knife menacingly.

          Wow, this is exciting, thought Manohar....

The copyright of this story is with Mrs. Priya Ramesh Swaminathan.

The Litmus Test

            Seeing the red electronic display board affirm her truth, Pratiksha felt elated. She had successfully cleared the first round.

            Prateik was happy that she was so honest and appreciated it whole-heartedly and with undisguised pride.

The copyright of this story is with Mrs. Priya Ramesh Swaminathan. 

The Teacher's Diwali Gift

        “Mummy, I’ll not go to school from tomorrow”, proclaimed Vinod, Varsha’s eight-year old son.  He was in class three.  He had just come home from school.  One look at his tear-stained face, and Varsha knew there was something drastically wrong, for her usually cheerful and naughty son seldom cried.  The brat often had others in tears, when he drove them up the wall with his pranks.

        Varsha well-remembered the time when Vinod had hidden his father’s spectacles in an empty flower-pot in the back-yard.  Harshal, her short-sighted husband had blamed her for her negligence, then. He had said irately, “Can’t you ensure that my things are kept in their correct places.  Now I’ll have to search for those damn spectacles instead of attending to some important files.”

        Seeing his father’s face flushed with anger, little Vinod had wisely refrained from owning up.  Though a frantic and thorough search of the house had been conducted, the glasses hadn’t been found.  No one had even dreamed of looking into the empty flower-pot in the backyard.

        

The copyright of this story is with Mrs. Priya Ramesh Swaminathan.

The Baby-doll

                                                                              Excerpt

      “Old McDonald had a farm, eeaaeeaaio!  And on his farm he had some dogs, eeaaeeaaio...!”  A high-pitched, nasal- accented, sing- song voice filled the room, as soon as Sheela pressed the button on the stomach of the doll.  Sheela hastily pressed it again to switch off the monotonous song.  She looked lovingly at the doll.

        It was a pretty, rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed, blonde doll.  It was pleasantly plump, unlike the anorexic Barbie doll that she so abhorred.  This particular doll was dressed in a pink and white trouser suit, black shoes and a pink floppy hat.  As soon as the belly button was pressed, it broke out into 5 songs, sung in quick succession.  There was staccato music played in the background too.  As its pink lips opened and closed in synch with the song, its eyes also opened and closed to reveal beautiful blue eyeballs.

                                                                       End of excerpt

 Read the full story in my book titled 'You Compromise, I Won't!' available at www.amazon.com.

 The copyright of this story is with Mrs. Priya Ramesh Swaminathan.


I was awarded the Writers' Award Certificate, for this story; by www.penfactor.com.