Path

We had deviated ourselves from our vision of social equality and welfare society because we were in an illusion of self-proclaimed saturation and we called it as our Independence. Thanks to globalisation and consumerism, we have lost everything now, including language, culture and our own identity. It is not about Truth and Reality, but Deception.

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Written for 3WW : prompts --> Deviate, Saturate, Identify

Appearance - 55 Fiction

Note:- 55 Fiction infers to fictional writings bounded to a maximum of fifty-five words.

 Appearance

They are at Taj Mahal...

She is ravishingly beautiful...

Her comely eyes are expressive, delightful and captivating... 

Her charming looks are gorgeous and entrancing  ... 

Her winsome smile is enchanting, enthralling and enticing ... 

Her excellent attire is gracious, fascinating and adorable...

He clicked her.

The photo is not as attractive as her.

She is in burqa.

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PS : Lemmi spill the beans(Intentions, not interpretations).  I have  clubbed 3 different versions into one  generic one.
The she here indicates 3 perspectives of the story.
1. A Girl
2. Taj Mahal
3. Mumtaz

Now, the shades and shadows of camera(photo), SHE and  HE are,

1. She : Any girl who is being restricted by the paternal society(He)  through the help of vested and twisted interpretations of Religions(Photo).

2. Taj Mahal : The Taj Mahal deserves beauty. In my view it is a beautiful burqa in which the more beautiful Mumtaj is being masked by ShahJahan(He) by the help of camera called 'Architecture'. World knows more about  Taj Mahal than the reason for the Taj, ie Mumtaj.

3. Mumtaj : She was being masked by her own beauty . Very few people know about the beautiful person in her. Here the HE is everyone of us and the camera is our prejudice and mindset.

I Thank Rachana for enabling me to reveal my intentions and leaving me with  writer's satiation. 

Combat - 55 Fiction

Note:- 55 Fiction infers to fictional writings bounded to a maximum of fifty-five words.

 Combat

We want to break the chains of Untouchability, Corruption, Caste-ism, Injustice, Exploitation, Domination, Capitalism, Monopoly, Inequality, Poverty....

We write and read inspiring articles and innumerable blogs...

We discuss problems, criticize solutions and frame our opinions...

Thats it...

Someone had walked his talk to break everything by just breaking the Salt Law, 80 years ago, at Dandi.

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Notes :
1. "....to kill for freedom will legitimise killing after freedom"
2. Gandhiji said: “Next to air and water, salt is perhaps the greatest necessity of life.”
3. To know more, read Dandi March
4. April 6, 2010 commemorates the 80th anniversary of Dandi March by Gandhi.

Lost Supper - 77 Fiction

Note:- 77 Fiction infers to fictional writings bounded to a maximum of 77 words.

 Lost Supper

It was already 11 in the night ...
Chintu, Bujji and Chinni were eagerly awaiting for their father...
Their burning hunger was at peak as they didn't had lunch that day also... 
Their father came at 11.30 with 2 plastic bags...
Everyone were in smiles and grabbed those bags which contained pizzas, chicken burgers, butterscotch cake and mutton biryani...
They had a delicious feast and digested everything including the fact that those food items were picked up from a restaurant dustbin......

PS : If we can skip lunch in a luxury restaurant one week in a month, we can help a poor family with food for a month.

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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.

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