The Chronicles of Miss Shola

The blog's epitaph: Miss Shola came and went as she pleased

Archive for November 2009

Analysing Phyan

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When we had already bid farewell to those scarce dark clouds pregnant with water; when we had already started hoping that the monsoons next year would be more generous; when we had already stopped complaining about the water shortage and increased prices of vegetables, fuel, transport et al; it came. First a drizzle, then a rather steady pour and then a full-blooded cyclone by the name of Phyan right in the middle of November! How apt then is the name Phyan – cherry that has fallen from the tree in Burmese.

What it brought with it: flurry of worried phone calls, car pool-ins, long waits for public transport, umbrellas from deep corners of the cupboard, rumors of a work day cut short, a work day finally cut short, and all that occupies the mind of a troubled Mumbaikar in the peak of monsoons.

But isn’t it fun to go through the chaos at this time of the year? When you least expected it, it comes peeping from the other door showing its finger in a told-you-so way to never take things for granted. Nothing goes by a schedule anymore, not even nature’s own cycles. So who are we to persevere towards an order in everything we do? Instead of minding our heads then, the best thing to do is catch the Phyan, eat it, enjoy it. Nothing tastes better than unpredictability.

Written by Miss Shola

November 11, 2009 at 5:39 pm

Posted in Ramblings

Aaji

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Beep beep. The taxi took a sharp turn from the narrow lane, and joined the sea of cars on the Western Express Highway. Just ten minutes more and she would be home. She looked down at her basket of fresh vegetables and smiled. She couldn’t wait to get into the kitchen and put together a lavish lunch for her only grandson. It was not everyday that she could take joy in seeing him relish the goodies she cooked with her very hands. Every year, he came to meet her on his birthday. Her blessings were important to him, he would say always.

The taxi stopped outside the three-storey rickety building she lived in. Absent-mindedly she paid the fare and walked briskly up the stairs; pushing her tired feet to eke out some more of that failing energy. All the while she imagined him praising her ‘thalipeeth’ and wiping out the ‘missal’ gravy from the dish with the pau. With every bite he took, she felt as if she was pouring her affection on him. Food was just a medium for expressing her love.

She reached the door and turned in the keys. That’s when she saw it. A note scribbled in the mature handwriting of a boy just turned eighteen:

“Aaji, I came but you were not there. Need to go somewhere else now. Will visit you some time again. Love, Rohan”

Written by Miss Shola

November 9, 2009 at 12:05 am

Posted in Shorts

Drop dead

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It weeps unrelentlessly but it’s all in vain,
Sometimes you think it has stopped, but it starts all over again.
You may bang it, kick it, and apply all your might,
But it just turns and doesn’t offer a fight.
When it’s like that for long, all you see is red,
And wish that it would just drop dead.

What is it?

A leaky tap.

Written by Miss Shola

November 8, 2009 at 6:02 pm

Posted in Poetry