Appy Stories

 Niha buttoned her satin shirt. The third and the fourth buttons gaped and I did a peek-a-boo. Immediately, she punched the window with a safety pin. Now, now, now... I was getting suffocated, breathless. That little window was my airy respite but for her safety, it had to be tightly shut. Adjusting a scarf on her forehead and my grumpy exteriors, Niha set out to toil under the sun. Before she could sweat it out, I was already drenched under pads, slips, a shirt, and a scarf, to bury my existence.  "Ufff, Bombi, get me out of this, or I will tear it up all!" My lazy twin had woken up from his deep slumbers. Being on the left, he was perpetually perplexed, neglected, and sometimes abandoned. Niha's boyfriend was righthanded after all! Hay Allah!!! What did I say? My musings would bring a pang of religious guilt to Niha. Talking about pleasure and recreation, was haram to the sect she belonged to. Irrespective of the sect, her marital status of being a widow and two childre...

  Plot No. 35, Karol Bagh, New Delhi-The Khurannas.  The Great Indian Punjabi Family, a cemetry of secrets. Not all were dark but not all were worth divulging. Hence, they were yardbirds of their own secrets.      The ripe patriach of the family Balwant Khurrana smiled graciously pinching his bushy, grey moustache at his overtly fertile wife of 35yrs, for they knew the secret to producing seven healthy, robust progenies. Four sons and three daughters, females without hairy chins and occasional sprints on upper lips,  rarely differing from the males.        Jasoo Khurrana, the queen bee had secrets of fluffy baturas and creamy lassis pressed in the aromas of her kitchen. Over the time, she had found confidantes in her daughter inlaws to carry the best chole bhature secret for which the entire Karol Bagh flocked to their house.    The secret ingredient in her pindi chole was the tarred tea bag of spices which gave the right colou...

 Millions of lights twinkled in her fluid lap. Not one overturned or upheaval. Flames flickered but the wicks were steady, for they knew the waters were their buddies. The wind blew northwards, delicately nudging each diya to sail ahead. From the steps to the waters, she made their descent smooth. "This is what she must be doing to the departed souls?" wondered Chandru Babu.  The scene of last night's Ganga aarti was fresh in his mind as today morning he clambered down the ash-laden stairs of Manikarnika Ghat. The incense scent of jasmine and mogra was replaced by odours of half-burnt flesh. The light of diya was now ruled by the fires lit at the wooden pyres. Maybe yesterday who prayed for moksha was today a part of it. Ganga Maiya, as they called her was working towards the souls' nirvana.  The chants of 'Har Har Gange', were now substituted by the Maha Mrutunjay mantra. Chandru Babu looked away from the gaping emptiness with which the rituals were performed...

 The pavement was retiring for the day. It was quater to one. He tried to gather his tethered jute sack to fight back the biting cold.  Those were the days, Mumbai used to be the chic Bombay; crowded with elite crowns. Migrations few with migrants who could be counted on fingertips. There was ample space for one to live, lie and procreate for a herd, on the pavement. Symbiosis  prevailed over dark parasitism. Blood suckers were few with blood donars dominating the life scene. Darkness was only symbolic of the setting sun and not of absence of hope. The blanket of starry sky, glossy moon, lamposts and few but prominent lights from overworked nightlamps, offered direction and company to a beggar like him. It felt safe on the pavement, with no fear of a drunk amir driving over you while you enjoyed a snore. Rules ruled Bombay.  Drawing the jute sack, that doubled up as his safe deposit in the day, the downtrodden tried to sleep. The mosquitoes were giving him a tough ti...

 Almond milk, soya chops, lettuce tomato wraps and many such vegan delicacies adorned the dining table, to lure a veganism inflicted honourary. Waiters bustled with more plant based diets while other meat loving guests twitched their noses in dismay.  "It's a fashion, you see." A man suited in leather boots and hat, smirked to another.  "Yeah! To expect these high end products for your welcome, is now a statement of luxury." Another pitched in.  "But why we suffer? Let the guest have his soy legs and we our chicken. Why make the custom mandatory?" There were many who would join this bandwagon.  Maayan took swigs of lemonade as he evaesdropped this conversation. The conference room smelt of leather to him. Zillion cattle cries washed his ears. He was reminded of the story of a little boy, cattle grazing in Tanzania.  ---///---- "No, no, no, Belinda. Don't wander off too far, my darling." Moooo.... The cow obedient to her master curtailed t...