Sensitivity- Drabble

                                                          

It was a summer afternoon. 6 young cute chicks of a hen were very hungry since a day. The hen could not find food for them in those fully concreted dry urban streets. After struggling for two hours she found some grains, but the cock ate them. After one more hour, she found some small insects  and quickly signaled her chicks, who finished them in a brisk pace. The hen was still hungry but she was more happy for her kids. Ironically, our empathy and compassion are strangely and brutally detached from the pain of miserable mother of those tiny insects .

-()-

PS :  A drabble is a fiction of exactly 100 words in length.
PPS :  Expressed for 3ww with hinted words Brisk, Detached and Miserable

An Untold Story - Drabble

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 32; the thirty-second edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is 'An Untold Story'

It was 2 in the Midnight.

Charan was in acute depression.

It was been a week since his wife Anjali committed suicide...

His best friend Vincent came to console him and said

"How did this happen?"

" She came to know that i had an affair with my colleague"

 "Is it true?????"

 "Vincent, you know very well about me and the truth "

"Yes, of course, I do"

"But someone had lied to her "

"Who's that??"

"You know him, Vincent"

"Who???"

"It's you "....

........

The next day both were found stabbed to death.

Later, police investigation revealed that Anjali's death was a planned murder

--()--

PS: A drabble is a fiction of exactly 100 words in length.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. 

One small red ant

A small red ant was wandering on Shiva's busy hand...
It was either a worker or a soldier ant...
He sensed it, but was busy in browsing Facebook...
Suddenly and unexpectedly, the ant bit him with it's strong and sharp jaws...
He got extremely irritated and bitterly annoyed by the brutal painful string of the small predator....
He kept everything aside and caught hold of the bloody culprit ant...
He placed it on a sheet of white paper to implement his plan of  strategic action.
With the help of both of his thumbnails, and focus, he pierced into the ant's slender waist and separated it's body into two equal pieces ...
His anger came down to normal levels.
He updated about the ant's murder in Facebook with a sense of achievement. Few likes and responses followed too.
After his revenge, he sighed victoriously and relaxed with a wicked smile,  only to see one more red ant on his leg...
He was yet to face the ants battalion...

He was yet to realize the fact that  it had been more than an hour since he had not washed his hands after eating a honey cake.

Insult - Drabble

 Note:-A Drabble is an extremely short work of fiction exactly one hundred words in length.

Insult

               

One day a small pig was sitting alone in a pensive mood.

His mother came and said, "chalo, get ready beta, you have to go to mudschool"

He said in a low and sad voice, "Mom, I wont go to mud"

She asked him pleasingly "Why beta?"

With tears rolling in his eyes, he murmured "All the pigs in mudschool make fun of me all the time"

She hugged him and asked "What did they say?"

...........

.........

She had exploded with anger and fiercely shook her body when she heard those words from his son.

.........

....

..

They teased him, "Human, human ........... human!!! "

PS : Nothing offensive towards pigs and humans , but am not sure about the humans  :) :) :)

Childplay - Drabble

Note:-A Drabble is an extremely short work of fiction exactly one hundred words in length.

Childplay

It is summer vacation...

The favourite game of all the kids in the apartment is knocking the door or ringing the door bell and running away to escape...

Door no 404 is their regular and easy target ...

Every time, the house owner Manjula opens the door and smiles happily, looking at the scattering kids...

Among all the kids, Karthik is the only one who stays away from the game...
 
 
He watches the game by hiding behind a pillar...

Though his childishness hints him to join the kids, something is stopping him to run ...

He is not physically disabled, but she is.

Imposition

Karthik is studying in fourth standard English medium at St Paul's Convent High School..... 

 It was one more day for him in the school. Inserting a pencil in between, his little fingers were being twisted hardly by his class teacher, in an attempt to crush the pencil so that Karthik can feel the pain of being guilty for the blunder he has committed....

Second time, he was being made to be slapped on his cheeks by all his classmates for repeating the same shameful mistake. 

He never told his parents about these punishments. He was not sure of their response as his elder sister never did such mistakes. Besides, his low grades made him not to raise the issue with his parents.  He felt low and dejected. He had a tender anguish in him. He could not tolerate both the physical and verbal abuse by his teacher. The punishments were haunting him even at playground.

 Days  were rolling on. Karthik didn't learn from his mistakes. It was one more day for him. Third time, Karthik was being beaten brutally and was hospitalized for attempting the same blunder.  Then followed his parents, media and school management to respond in their convenient ways.

In all these three instances he had made the mistake of uttering few normal words in his mother tongue, Telugu, unintentionally. In that school , only two languages are allowed for communication. First one is English and the second one is English.  Vernacular languages/mother tongue is a strict no no.



PS : 
1. Based on a real incident in Andhra Pradesh.
2. The insistence of usage of English as the only  language of communication  in schools is resulting in gradual erasing of mother tongues/vernaculars

Fool

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 9; the ninth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

He was an untold story. He walked his talk. He had unquestioned answers and unfinished thoughts. He knows Nature very well and he had got good nature. He was slave to the clock of sunrise and sunset.  Every morning he walked 4 miles into the forests, drinking the lush morning amidst wild animals, to collect water, drop by drop, in a pot from a  small dripping.  He would come  back to a road and would give the water pot to the people tucked in cushions and gaping at the beauty of the nature in the AC  Hi-Tech bus with colourful embellishments.  He had been repeating the same  activity thrice a day, since years, irrespective of the seasons and the reasons. Neither the sun burns nor the hot winds in the scorching summer had stopped him. His bare feet had left an indelible impression on the harsh paths of the forest. His gushing sweat used to wet his toes. His bleached bones could not separate the breeze from the wind. The water in the forest was still dripping, drop by drop. His walks used to bring out the memories of some horrible disasters and  trauma happened in his life. He  never drank even a single drop of water from that pot. People in the bus were so busy that they never bothered to pay him neither money nor attention. Everyone were blinded by the illusory version of success. He had never asked himself why he was doing this service to those people. He ran his own race. No one, including him, had the clarity whether it was his compulsion or determination or obligation or adaptation or sublimation or submission or satisfaction .

The number of buses kept on increasing and so were his trips in a day, but the pot size had remained the same. He was weak and dried up but he had never let his life to loose the sense of purpose. He used to push himself to the limit. How could he raise a reasonable doubt when no one were interested? He was enveloped by the emptiness by the strain of his frenetic pace. Nothing kept him on his feet, except his will. His dragging walks reminded him of his life he wanted to forget.  He no more gave those morbid and glum  expressions. It was him and yet it was not him. He was forced to work to the last atom of his strength. He moved like a prey of vultures. He was like a falling leaf that was blown and was turning around through the air, wavering and tumbling to the ground. One day, at the crack of the dawn, he died. It hadn't made any difference to anyone. Neither the dripping of water in the forest nor the AC in the buses had stopped. The grains of plain truth and hideous cruelty were still at game with mute spectators.  He was not a Fool, he was a farmer, Indian farmer. He drank something else on his last day. His precarious existence and obtrusive absence were nestled in the forest. His son continued the queer and quaint service with the same unquestioned answers and unfinished thoughts. The Nature smiled and the forest mourned.

Anyway, who is the FOOL then?

Some are born fools, some achieve foolishness and some have foolishness thrust upon them, and most people don’t realize the above three points.

 --------------------()-------------------

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Destination

Anjanna was waiting for the bus  since 2 hours. He had got two bags with him. The bus would be late today. He was worried and nervous about his void future. He touched his children's heads gently and warmly.  While he was bargaining to buy two bananas for his children, the bus came and  nearly 100 people thronged onto the 52 seater bus through windows, much before it could reach the bus platform. He rushed towards the bus door only to find a suitable place to stand. He looked around for am empty seat. All the 3 seater and 2 seater were already filled with extra persons. He confirmed with his children whether they have money for seven seater auto to get back to their village. The bus started . His children bid him good bye, but not cheerfully. Of course, they were eager to have the bananas(after months). The bus moved at increasing pace and he waved to his children until the bus took the main route, diagonally. When the bus crossed the town's outskirts and about to reach the Krishna river bridge, he lost into thoughts  of the events happened in the last two days of his life.........

.............

.............

As like any other farmer in the developing India, it was tough time for him. The draught hit the land of Krishna river for the 4th consecutive year. He could not repay the loan taken to invest in bore wells that do not work because the water table and the power voltage was always  low. He was left with no other option than selling his two bulls. He loved them a lot. They were part of his family. He was reluctant to sell them and tried many ways to convince his landlord regarding the debt. His starving children, ailing wife and mounted debt made him to succumb to the pressure . His prayers and rituals to God didn't turn into miracles and, finally, he sold them at a nominal price. The parting was tough. He took the money from the buyer and left the place with a feeling of guilty and despair. He had never imagined and could not digest the fact that his bulls would be butchered at a slaughter house. He had never experienced such kind of emotional pain in his entire life. It was more than a sin for him.

After walking few steps he turned around. He came back to the bulls and touched their feet with reverence and submission. He left for ever  and never turned back.....

............

............

He is still standing in the bus. He came back to the senses when the bus conductor shouted at him for ticket and asked him wryly, "Where?". He said dryly, "Mumbai". He was prepared to stand for 18 more hours in the "Bus to Mumbai", the route to survival.  He had two choices, one the Mumbai Call and the other, the Suicide call. Of course, it's quite common trivial to mention that his bag contained a pesticide bottle too. Anyway, he was destined to join the infamous, unknown and much neglected social group, "The Palamoor Coolies", informally labelled as 'Palamoor Labour'.
...........
..........

Anjanna returned home from Mumbai for Sankranthi festival, not to celebrate, but to repay only small portion of the loan. The drought intensity and the threats from the local money-lender added to his misery, forcing him to take his life, leaving his wife and two children. Thanks to the pesticides manufacturer, it worked.

------------------()------------------

PS : 

1. Palamoor is the original name of Mahabubnagar district of AP which is notorious for mass migrations(10-15 lakh) and suicides of farmers (in-spite of Krishna river flowing through its heart). It is the largest migration in the world, from a district, in search of work and survival.

2. Palamoor has the record for having 53 buses, weekly, to Mumbai to accommodate the increasing migrations.

3. Nearly, 1/3 rd of the district's population is in migration and the irony is that two rivers Krishna and Tungabhadra along with 12 other rivulets are just mere spectators.

4. Most  Mahabubnagar politicians began life as labour contractors and were involved in labour export.

5. Villages of Mahabubnagar are just show pieces to exhibit in front of World Bank Officers to get  World Bank loans for Andhra Pradesh

6.  Solution?. No no no.....dont say that. We are not suppose to complain or urge for justice. The slogans 'One nation, one state, brotherhood, blah blah......' will fill our drying empty stomachs.

7. I am a native of Mahabubnagar district  :(