Boy Oh Boy! I'm Going Bonkers Literally!

 Boy Oh Boy! I'm Going Bonkers, Literally!  I can’t really believe my eyes. Blogadda’s top blogger award to me. Gotta a pinch myself for this a million times… is it a dream or a real thing? Yes, my heart is pounding a mile a minute. My eyes are going...blink, blink. In fact, I feel like I am floating three feet above the ground. For the life of me, if this news is true, then surely this is going to be one big milestone in my writing career. But, this news has to be true: it’s there scripted in shimmering bold black letters Jini Maxin Fernanadez - The Blogadda Blog Award Winner Of The Year 2013 on the homepage of the Blogadda page. What more clarifications, certifications do I need?

Muah!! Muah!!! To the judges of the Blogadda Team for bestowing me with this awesome award. I never believed that I could win this prestigious award, given that there so many seasoned bloggers who've been scorching the blogadda space with their brilliant write-ups. Matching up to their talent was a tall order. But then I did it, it seems. In hindsight, I did sweat and slog, but I didn't believe that this relentless slogging would fetch me such an awesome award.

Now that I've won the award, I wish to thank the blogadda team for offering me infinite opportunities to hone my writing skills. If it was not for you, I would have lost touch with my innate skills of reading and writing long back. I believe writing is talent, a talent that can be procured and polished on a continuous basis by stretching our writing muscles every day. Not everyone is born a writer. So platforms like yours help sharpen our skills on consistent basis. Fritz Kreisler, the great violinist, was once asked by a fan that how come he played so well? Kreisler replied, “Its practice. If I don’t practice for a month, the audience can tell the difference. If I don’t practice for a week my wife can tell the difference. If I don’t practice for a day, I can tell the difference." So practice does make a difference in the creative field I believe, specifically in the writing realm. "Perspire for your insipration." What say?

Am a first-generation writer in my family, let alone an English writer. So, it’s indeed an achievement for me, given that it was all self-learning that helped me climb the writing ladder. Your WOW posts, and other contests simply fired the imagination in me and I tried harder and harder to make my mark on your website. The WOW, Tangy Tuesday and Spicy Saturday badges acted as the irresistible icing on the cake. The dogged desire to earn these priceless badges motivated me to burn the midnight lamp, weak after weak. And the best part is, I did win a few of these lovely WOW badges.

Talking about my blog jini-fernandez.blogspot in, I started off with writing book reviews. However, I could only manage a couple of reviews every month. This is when my acquaintance suggested me to blog about anything and everything under the sun and should not confine myself to writing book reviews. That set me sailing and today I ramble about everything on my blog. From fiction stories to real life events, from 100 words drabble to mindful ramblings, from wow posts to contest posts; I’ve experimented with number of things. But I still consider myself to be a newbie writer and there are miles to go before I sleep and miles to go before I sleep…

Hmmm...When it comes to collecting the award, I wish to receive it from none other than Rashmi Bansal or Anuja Chauhan - renowned Indian women authors. Yup!!! Women Power. They are an inspiration for me. And as far as the treat goes, it would be large number of good books, hands down. Of course, I am mad about books, and I believe every writer worth his/her salt is crazy about books. And I believe it's because of them i and you are here. They are my inspiration, the bedrock that boosts the creative spark in me. 

Yeah!!! I know i am going on and on....

So, I wish sum up by saying that i want to build a legacy through my blog. That is by compiling all my best blog posts into a book and thereby make my family proud. Hope, my blog posts journey with blogadda will help me achieve this dream sooner than later.

Cheers

Jini Maxin Fernandez

This would be My Winning Speech on being rewarded the BlogAdda Blog Award! 

Raising The Bar The Wrong Way

 

 

Lance had no one on this earth to call 'father'. His real father had left him when he was an infant, while his step father was more of a butcherer than a father. So his mother deserted him and made Lance the center of her small lil world. With a small job in hand she did whatever she could do to help him raise the bar in his ambitious endeavors: be it education or cycling. She knew cycling was his life. His achievements were a testament to that fact.

As a young boy he went on to win the school championships, the neighborhood championships, and the local championships. His winning spree never got struck. He was on an absolute roll. When injuries struck, he made a way around them, but never failed to participate in tournaments. In fact, when he suffered an injury on the sole of his foot, his doc advised him to withdraw from one of the local tournaments, but Lance being Lance, he cut his shoe around the injury and participated. And his confidence paid off. He stood first.

As years passed by he went on to prove his mettle as a powerhouse biker: Won Tour de France, considered the Holy Grail in cycling, seven times in a row: 1999, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, and 2005. His life became a classic case of ‘never say never’ zeal. He become the national treasure of America. In the middle of all these high-voltage happenings, he was down with testicular cancer. His chances of survival were dim. However, he once again showed his do or die spirit by fighting the disease all hammer and tongs and was back on the cycling track; full throttle. As always, his mother was by his side to share his joys and sorrows.

And, yes, Of course, I hero worshiped him. He was the GOD OF HARDWORK. His book, ‘It’s not about bike,’ taught me to see pain, suffering and sacrifice in the new light. Most importantly, his quotes inspired me to fight odds without giving up. 'Give up or fight like hell,' his life-mantra become my life-long mantra too. No wonder, I recommended his books to number of my friends as well.

So much for his hardwork and do or die spirit.

Then the disgrace of doping exploded. Yes, it was rumored long ago that he was on drugs and he was covering it up intelligently. But the world, including me, were not ready to subscribe to these fabricated theories. The world wished to give him full credit for his sweat and blood, and they did so by showering him with some mind-boggling sponsorship's.

But then suddenly, out of the blue, my hero confessed his crimes. I didn’t know how to react to the doping news. The media screamed their lungs out: he's a cheat. I was pained, insulted and humiliated. My people made fun of me. “Your hero is down in the dumps,” they cried. Embittered, I had no answer to their biting remarks. My belief that “hard work can move mountains” fell apart.

All said and done, this time, he indeed raised the bar: no not in the cycling world; but in fooling the world and making a mockery of people’s feelings. And in case his mother supports him in his misery this time I'd say, she raised the bar the wrong way.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda. We give out creative writing topics each weekend for Indian bloggers.

So you think you know it all!

Arun did a double take on Priya.

"What was that huge blue mark on her right arm?

A tattoo mark or something else?"

He knew her to be a submissive daughter, a loving sister to her only bro, a voracious reader, a simple next-door-girl who confided in him her innermost secrets.

"Then, what explains that tattoo mark?
She never told me about this. Why?"

With a raised eyebrow, Priya looked at Arun and let out that so-you-think-you-know-it-all grin, lazed heavily with sarcasm.

A mischievous smile played on her lips

"Was it an indication she was no more interested in me?"    

Prompt: So you think you know it all from Jairam Mohan

The Dragon Tattoo

The door was left ajar. Inspector Rajan peered through it vigilantly and what he saw inside the living room was absolutely frightening. A rivulet of blood interspersed with pug marks greeted him. It ended right at the end of the bed where Shankar lay dead.  His neck was covered with deep wound marks. And, there were scratch marks all over his body. Suddenly his eyes fell on the arms. There, right above the elbow he saw an image of a familiar fiery dragon tattoo. Inspector Rajan paused for a moment, tilted his head, and then went forward to have a closer look at the tattoo. He knew he had seen that tattoo before! If only he could remember where.

He knitted his brow in angst; and his mind meandered off to a similar case he had been investigating for the past few months.

At once he turned to his investigators and questioned, “The dragon tattoo, was it not there on Shyam’s arm?” Didn’t Shyam die in similar mysterious circumstances? “We did find pug marks there as well; didn't we?” Inspector Rajan thought and spoke at the same time, also thinking of the unorthodox route the murderer(s) seem to be adopting.

“Immediately,” he ordered his juniors, “collect info from all tattoo stores about clients who had got a similar dragon tattoo done.”

“Do it now,” shouted the inspector, letting out a helpless whimper from his lips, “or else we might witness yet another murder in a couple of days or might be hours”.

A short probe at the nearby police stations revealed two more murders in a similar fashion: the two victim’s ―Somu and Shirish― had similar dragoon tattoo designs on their arms and had scratch wounds all over the body. Without a doubt, a serial-killer was on a rampage. But what about those pug marks?

*****************************************************************

The grave keeper was facing a hard time keeping the 15-year-old boy and his bull-dog out of the grave since last couple of months. The duo spent days and nights there. Even during those chilly nights that might send a chill down the spine of even the bravest and the boldest, the ferocious dog and his companion never left the grave site. This struck the grave keeper as odd. One fine day his curiosity piqued; he asked the lil boy,

“What’s your name boy?”

“Michael.”  And he looked at him with blood-shot eyes.

That’s when the grave keeper noticed an incredible amount of anger and stress in the boy’s eyes. 

But he continued with his conversation.

“And Michael, whose graves are here?”  

“My entire family is here,” said Michael reluctantly with no emotions whatsoever. He ambled across the grave site with a scrapped knee. There were some dry blood marks on his cheeks and neck as well.

“Is there anyone at home to whom you can go to,” the grave keeper further inquired, feeling sorry for the boy. 

"No."

*****************************************************************

On a closer examination, the forensic experts suggested to Inspector Rajan that the pug marks found on the floor and the scratches on all the dead victims were that of a bull dog. 

“Can a dog be a serial-killer,” thought the Inspector.

Then on second thoughts, “It has to be, otherwise what explains those pug marks and scratches on the body of victims.”

Without losing any more time, the inspector ordered his team to round up all the bull-dogs of the city, both strays and home-bred.

A red-alert was sounded throughout the city.

“The murderer has to be caught red-handed,” ordered the inspector, gritting his teeth, adrenaline rushing through his veins.

A massive combing operation was undertaken that resulted in capture of hundreds of dogs, including Michael’s bull dog.

“There’s no escape route for the killer beast now.” 

“Now let’s see if another death happens in the city because of a bull dog,” inspector Rajan spoke to himself, quizzically.

*********************************************************

In the meanwhile the police had zeroed down on two more men who had similar dragon tattoos on their arms. Their houses were put under strict vigilance. CCTV cameras were placed inside and outside the rooms. They knew somehow that they are on the target list of the killer ―man or animal: only time will tell.

Further police investigations revealed that all the four dead men were not part of any gang and had no criminal records whatsoever. Then why were they being targeted by the killer dog? Just because of those dragon tattoos.

**********************************************************  

Mani was taking swigs of whiskey when he heard some noise from the living room.  He feared for his life. Police officials had informed him of his life being under threat and specially asked to stay away from stray bull dogs.  So he kept himself well-armed all the time.  The police at its end ensured that there are no chinks in their security system.

It was half-past 12 when he had heard the noise. He gathered all his arms and walked towards the direction of the noise. The police force was present in full force. There he was paws drawn and ready to make that deadly leap on Mani.  Before he could do anything, daggers and revolvers were drawn from every side.  The bull dog decisively ducked their first attack easily. Inspector Rajan, once again nimbly aimed his revolver and charged at the murderous dog with full force. Michael in dog’s clothing let out a loud, painful noise before he succumbed to his injuries.

**********************************************************

Inspector Rajan is busy solving a new murder mystery these days. However, this time he had failed to fill in the missing puzzle pieces.  Why did Michael kill all these men? Was spotting a dragon tattoo a good enough reason for all these murders? 

His mother being a renowned tattoo artist of the city had she anything to do with these murdered men? Hmm! Was she in a relationship with these men? How come Michael’s entire family found refuge in grave?

This and many more questions have been haunting inspector Rajan’s mind for some time now. However, as of now, the Dragon tattoo case stands closed. 

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda. We give out creative writing topics each weekend for Indian bloggers.

Line of Control

’38 missed calls in 10 mins! He wondered what was going on Rina’s mind.’ Rohan shuddered at the very thought of calling her back. His father would flay him alive if he got a wind of it. Also, the cut marks on his back where still fresh on his mind; his father had beaten him black and blue with a long thin bamboo cane when he got to know that he was interested in Rina.

Now when she is married off, why was she calling him? Probably it had to do something with what she spoke yesterday.

No, he won’t pick up her phone calls anymore. This time he was not ready to conform to her canons of friendship, such as a friend in indeed is a friend in deed and all.  They may have been the best of the pals and may have being chummy with each other all the time, but a Lakshman Rekha, a line of control had to be drawn; the sanctity of marriage has to be maintained; cannot be sacrificed at the altar of love and friendship. She has to learn to accept his naysaying's now.                         

                                                         

                              

                                ***

Rina and Rohan were inseparable since their school days.  In fact, Rohan had taken Rina’s over dependence for granted. School was a cool time pass for her.  It seems she attended school to play with her friends; to fit her long lustrous braids with fresh mogra flowers that bloomed abundantly in the school garden, and more than anything, to polish off Rohan’s lunch box that primarily consisted of yummy aloo parathas and mango pickle that his mother cooked every other day. 

She was a dud, Good-For-Nothing in the class, but girls envied her greatly for her milky white skin and long black tresses ― a rarity in Kosha village. Rohan, on the other hand, was the most brilliant boy in the class and was always a ninty-percenter.  For reasons best known to him he had taken a liking for Rina from childhood but his father ensured that he maintained a distance from her.

                                                      

                                                         *** 

He didn't utter a word when she exchanged labels of home work books and presented it as her own to the class teacher. He didn't utter a word when she freely copied all his sums during the Math periods. He didn't utter a word when she spent all her time playing, while he burnt the midnight oil to clear the higher secondary exams.

Yes, they sat close to each other and she enjoyed the delicious freedom to copy as much as wanted as long as she wanted. Little wonder both cleared the boards with flying colors.

                                                                 

                                                            ***

After graduating from a prestigious engineering college in Vellore both Rohan and Rina joined a reputed software company in Bangalore. While Rohan was apprehensive and kept his fingers crossed on the first day of his job, Rina was careless and carefree. She had Rohan to depend on. Rohan never said no to Rina for anything. She felt snug and safe in his company. However, Rina could never understand Rohan’s generosity towards her.

When Rina’s boss asked her to get the company website refurbished in a couple of days, unlike her contemporaries, Rina didn’t show any signs of panic. She knew Rohan, like in school, would do it for her. True to his nature, Rohan sat back and helped Rina with all the programming and uploading. The long hours put in my Rohan and Rina yielded fruitful results. The new company website had become the talk of the office.  When subsidiary sites were launched, Rina and Rohan were equally involved, but Rina presided over them as project head. In no time, she was flooded with new client jobs, and she never shied away from them for obvious reasons.

Rina was promoted and Rohan was all smiles for her.

                                                           ***

After the office hours, Rina insisted Rohan to join her for dinner at her rented quarters but Rohan always said, “No Rina, next time. When she went for movies with her friends, she made it a point to invite him but his answer as always was, “ No Rina, there’s always a next time.”  But Rina knew in this lifetime there would be no next time in Rohan's life. His nonchalance towards her was getting on her nerves but she never expressed them. Rohan, on the other hand, knew he’d never cross the line of control set by his father. 

                                                           ***

The day of engagement came closer and closer, and for the first time in her life Rina really panicked;  Rohan had no offhand solutions in hand to offer her. Rina could never understand why Rohan couldn’t rescue her from this situation as was his habit. Her parents liked him; she liked him; so the engagement with this other boy could be easily called off.

                                           ***

“What’s stopping you from stopping this engagement,” Rina thundered at Rohan for the first time in her life. “Rina, sorry I can’t come to your aid this time,” said Rohan with a sad face, “I knew this was coming.”

“What was coming?” “That means you were aware that my parents were seeing boys for me?”

Rina become mad at Rohan. But Rohan took her outbursts with a pinch of salt. His nonchalance towards her was reaching new heights suddenly.

“How could you be so cool when the love of your life, your only childhood friend is getting married to someone else?” cried Rina consolably. “Do you have no feelings for me?”

“Love of my life and you? Rina forget it. You were a good friend and you’ll remain one all my life.”

“I had no feelings for you ever. I don’t know from where did you get this idea from.”

“Damn it, you can’t say that,” Rina blurted out emphatically. “Our friendship has crossed the boundaries of―.”

“Rina, I am sorry, if I have hurt your feelings...but from now on we won’t meet and yes, get used to my naysayings.”

“Okay, Rohan. Thank you so much for your friendship and all.”

                                                            ***

Rina’s marriage was one month old now, but she was yet to come to terms with it. She longs for Rohan’s care and unwavering support. Last night she called up and asked him to meet her up in some sidey hotel by the sea side. He did’t say yes or no to her this time as she was yet to be accustomed to his no's.  So, he kept mum.

                                                           ***

Missed calls had become a norm.  Today, she had crossed all the limits. 38 calls in 10 min.  It seems she called him up in the wee hours in between 3.00 and 3.10 pm. "What the hell she wants from me now? Why her parents are so secretive about me? Can’t they reveal my true identity to her? I know my place; she should know hers and not make a hell of my and her life. She would stop calling me, if she comes to knows who I really am?" Rohan ruminated.

                                                           ***

Rohan’s mother called up the next day to inform them about Rina’s unsuccessive suicide attempt. She had consumed rat poison. Keeping aside his ego, Rohan rushed to the hospital to be at her side. She was doing fine, said the doctors. Her stomach was flushed off all the poison. However, her drips were on. On seeing Rohan at her bedside, she extended her arms towards him. Weary-eyed and depressed she looked up to him and said, “Do you love me?” Her parents, his parents all who had rounded her hospital bed were astounded by what they heard. There was awkward pause. Rohan turned to his father, who nodded his head in approval this time. “Yes,” he said and took her in her arms like never before.

                                                            ***

On their wedding night, he revealed to her that he was the son of the gardener and maid servant of her house, and all through these years his fees were funded by her generous parents. Rohan couldn't believe his ears when Rina told him she was aware of this fact all along. Her parents had informed her everything about him. But despite his humble background, she had fallen for him. 

To celebrate their new love and union, Rohan unwrapped a tiffin containing her favorite aloo parathas and mango pickle.  Rina gorged on them joyously recalling her school days .

                                                          ***

From that day onwards, Rohan didn’t mind conforming to Rina's canons of friendship. He did all that she asked/ordered/requested of him. The mental barriers were gone. Basking in the glory of their newly formed friendship Rohan for the first time felt perfect peace in Rina’s company. 

                                                 

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda. We give out creative writing topics each weekend for Indian bloggers.

When The Watchman Needs To Be Watched Over

It was 5.45 am, but it was still dark outside. However, I couldn't think of shelving my kitchen schedule, or else I would be late for the office.

I started off with buying milk from the departmental store to hanging clothes on the clothing line, and all this while I could sense his eyes on me.

Was he staring at me, or was it a regular glance?

I reported about this incident to my hubby.

He gave me an “I-care-two-hoots look,” and said, “there’s something wrong with your eyes: he’s an innocent-looking man.”

Arrrggghhh!! "Haven’t you heard that looks are deceptive?"

So, according to him I was exaggerating the situation, so be it, thank you very much.

But despite his indifferent remark, I knew my hubby will have an eye on him from now onward.

And within a week's time he informed me that he had seen the watchman staring at other women as well.

I was happy, given that I wasn't wrong in my inference.

A few days later, I peeped out my kitchen window, from my first floor apartment to know what he was up to this time.

Yes, one thing he didn't know that he was was being watched.

And in accordance with his nature, he was happily staring away at this 12-year-old female shamelessly, playing badminton in the garden area of the apartments. 

Was she aware of his stares or wasn't she? Anyway, that was not my matter of concern here.

Clad in grey shorts and black-shirt she was dressed fully as per her age and standards.

Then what made this watchman stare at her so strangely.  So, I didn't just think aloud, I even spoke aloud in my native language.

At once, the watchman looked up and caught sight of me. So he corrected his vision at once: decided to concentrate on the game and not on the girl. 

He got a hint, I suppose: that he’s under my scanner and his stares won’t be tolerated anymore

I don’t really understand why some men stare at women so strangely sometimes.

Just a week back, I read a news column about a 62-year-old watchman who had raped a nine-year-old girl in my neighborhood. And, the worst part is that the girl stayed in the same apartment which he was appointed to guard over. And wasn't a watchman given capital punishment a few years ago for raping a minor?   

Yes, these days even the watchmen needs to be watched over.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda. We give out creative writing topics each weekend for Indian bloggers.

The Story Of A Designer Diya

• This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 43; the forty-third 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 "LIGHT"

Won Silver Batom On Blog-a-Ton

(Today, fifteen-years ago, Roshini had first lighted this antique designer diya at her dilapidated shanty. Today, fifteen-years after, Roshini is still excited about this old designer diya; and she’d once again light it up with all the energy and enthusiasm; but no, not at her shabby shanty.)       

       

                                        -----------------------------------

The designer diya was old, dull, dim and dinted. It lay there in the corner of the kitchen store room unwanted, uncared for amidst other regular diyas, half-burnt candles, unused rangoli colors, plastic thorans: all tightly tied-up and stored in a thick polythene bag.

Deepawali cleaning was going on in full swing; and for best reasons known to Reshma, my maid servant, the kitchen store room became the first target of her attention.

“Can I have that designer diya,” asked Reshma deferentially.

“Why not?” said I. Because unlike other maid servants who behaved like communist workers who constantly insisted on constant rise in salaries, let alone demand for over-used pressure cookers, old kid’s cycle, old slippers, clothes, bonus and all, Reshma was way different in her behaviour. She never demanded or insisted on anything from anyone.  A typical gau walli: sari tucked above the waist, vermillion that stretched from her forehead and covered half of  her head, infinite ear piercings and a big bindi. All these mundane traditional stuff combined together to complete her kamvali look.     

“I am going to get a brand new designer diya this year, so if you want to have this one, go ahead, take it.”

“Na memsahib, this is not for me, but for my five-year-old-daughter Roshini – the light of my life”.

Overjoyed by my optimist answer, Reshma without wasting any more time untied the polythene bag and took the designer diya to her daughter who was patiently waiting outside to lay her hands on the treasure.

“Oh, that’s your daughter!” said I.

“Yes memsahib.”

But how come she knew about the existence of this designer diya, which lay in the nondescript corner of the kitchen store room?  Anyway.

Next day, I returned from my part-time job earlier than usual. And there she was playing with her dolls in the living room. A cursory glance revealed a thin figure with ribs sticking out from either side. A shabby white skirt with generous spread of haldi and tea stains and a tomato red battered blouse that inadequately covered her top portion.

“Hi Roshini, I called out to her.”

Frightened, Roshini was too stunned to respond.  Grabbing her dolls with both hands and tears threatening to tumble down from either side she rushed to the kitchen to be at her mother’s side. On the way the little one slipped and fell down with a loud thud. I could hear her loud cries from the kitchen. Reshma consoled her and after some time came rushing into my room along with Roshini.

“What happened, memsahib?”  “Did this little shaitan disturb you?”

“No, nothing like that, first tell me, has she hurt herself?”

“No, she is fine memsahib.”

“Tell her she can continue playing in the living room with her dolls and ask her to stop being so frightened of me.”

Reshma stayed in slum quarters along with her daughter, which was a minute’s walk from my apartment.

That night was Diwali night. I could easily make out from my verandah, a tiny figure lighting the large designer diya. She had managed to transform its look completely with generous spread of gold and silver shimmer. In fact, it was sparkling under its own light. Cute little rangolis with two more mud diyas positioned on either side complemented its look. Of course, I was quite impressed with Roshini’s creative streak.  

“Happy Diwali,” I wished her.

Caught off guard, she once again rushed inside to be at her mother’s side.

“Come on in, memsahib,” said Reshma, “she is not used to you and so the nervousness.

“Wish memsahib Happy  Deepawali.”

“Appy Deepawali, masahib,” said Roshini in her cute little baby voice.

That 'masahib' instantly struck a chord with me. Despite myself, I felt in backwaters of my unconsciousness that she was the daughter I never had.

Once Deepawali got over, the designer diya was back in the house. This time it had made a conducive place for itself on the tulsi platform. The tulsi was planted on a high concrete platform. Every night Roshini along with her mother would religiously light it up and pray fervently for favors. As days passed by, little sketches of devi, devtas, flowers, petals, leaves among many drawings started appearing on the platform.

However, unknowingly one fine day while watering the tulsi plant, few of her creations got completely washed off. Sorrow washed over Roshini. She felt that I did it deliberately. Mortified, the next day she was not around to light up the diya, but at my doorstep with an apologetic face.

“I am sorry masahib,” she said, teary-eyed.

“O ho!” Don’t be sorry, tiny one. Your creations are beautiful. It’s just that I carelessly poured more water than required, so, it was an accident. Don’t take it to your heart sweetie pie. In fact I should say sorry to you. Come here.”

And I gave her tight hug.

Glad that her creations were being liked and admired, Roshini was excited to accelerate the pace of creations. She went on to recreate some of the lost stuff, and more importantly, added a lot more layers to show off her creative bend. Every morning I could see new sketches popping up. Then the next day she would breathe life into them by filling it up with her choicest colors. Even the gardener put in a plea for the little artist saying that her drawings were not just child’s play for it greatly added to the beauty of the garden. 

However, one morning I woke up to see no new sketches; even Reshma was not around. This was rather unusual.  Reshma used to come at the crack of dawn. Today, there was no sight of her. I went out to the verandah to find few of Reshma’s neighbors crowding the entrance of her shanty. I shouted out to her. Little Roshini came running out and announced, “ma is unwell." 

I called in the doc. 

“She has got dengue,” said the doc “but it’s too late to do anything now.” Reshma was immediately admitted to the hospital but medicines failed to revive her.             

When Reshma’s body was lifted for the last rites, Roshini caught hold of me and started crying inconsolably.  She wanted me to stop those men from carrying her ma away. Though I tried to explain that her ma is no more and had gone to heaven meet God, I knew, it was too much for a five-year-child to comprehend.. The only thing that her tiny mind could make out was that her mother was tied to a wooden plank with thick ropes and some men carried her away on their shoulders. I  simply had no words to console her. So I took her in my arms and embraced her, like never before.

And we cried for days together. As days passed on to years, I the masahib become her ma forever and she the light of my life, forever and forever.

                                                    ---------------------------------

“You can't pay anyone back for the goodness they've showered on you, so you try to find someone you can pay forward." Masahib’s generous and noble nature, inspired Roshini to play the role an anchor for many orphaned and street kids today…leading them to light in their hour of darkness. 

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