About Her

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Little Moments Of Bliss is a silhouette of a feeling that resides in my heart. A software engineer by degree, a writer at heart, and a teacher by profession, I'm all that I never thought I would be. Pretty pictures,a poem that blatantly refuses to rhyme, a text from a deranged friend, a sudden gesture of love, its these little things in life, that matter and sprinkle bliss. Grace the couch and share a cuppa!

February 29, 2012

Chaotic Gleam [55Fiction #6]

The inky sky is a beautiful hazy chaos today. These witty clouds have slyly conspired to send out old unspoken messages  to the universe, basking in their own apparent glory. They look happy and so am I.
For once, I wish the sun wouldn’t peep in, just this once, and then the clouds could rule.


PS - Not much of fiction went into writing this.

February 26, 2012

'Down The Road' - A Book Review

This review is a part of Book Review program at BlogAdda.com. Participate now to get free books.

Evoked Déjà vu !!

Title: Down The Road
Edited by: Ahmed Faiyaz and Rohini Kejriwal
Publisher: Grey Oak Westland
Published: 2011
Pages: 225
Price: Rs. 195
Genre: Campus Fiction- Short Stories

Down The Road is an eclectic compilation of twenty eight campus tales by sixteen authors. Some writers, some bloggers and some even writing for the first time. A small bunch are still living their campus lives in different parts of the country right now and that made their stories a little extra niche above the others. The whole flavor of the book binds you and impatiently wants you to move to the next one in store. It couldn't have been titled more aptly. I finished with college last year and this book evoked waves of déjà vu for me.

Caffeinated long assignments, punishments, a look here, a smile there, jumping at the sight of food like you're kept starved at home, fighting, crying, laughing your brains out, breaking up, little sweet gestures and then patching up, bunking just because you feel like it today, that first porn video you accidently saw in your friend's phone, that first stolen kiss, ragging and getting ragged, dressing everyday like you're running to meet your biggest enemy, shopping all kind of crap, crushing over the disturbingly handsome programming professor, nudging him into a laughter, xeroxing notes, doodling little hearts all over his oh-so-pretty notebook during the lecture, studying a day before the sessionals, cheating, failing terms and still not letting them affect the next days plans, missing classes every friday to catch the latest, and not to forget, the lamest release, celebrating everybody's birthday with equal enthusiasm, you and your bff bitching evil and nasty things.

Heaven it was. Our very own.

Ahmed Faiyaz is a writer with substance and he has proved this time and again in this book. Its divided into sections for the reader to grasp its purpose more clearly. Although Knockout had a confused end for me but I praise Ahmed for the rest. But Paritosh Uttam stole the limelight for me. Sororicide was touching and showed that people may choose to show you one part of them but that doesn't mean they have nothing more to them. A young school teacher is handed a bunch of bratty kids to handle. Her awkward hands dangling by her side conveyed much more than Paritosh might have meant to. Although the books mentions that Between Friends has been repeated from Urban Shots but I don't see a valid justification there. The first section Attendance is Compulsory is more of a fun roller coaster which also contains the lovable Smells Like Home. Ira Trivedi's Rishi And Me was built on teenage betrayal and it turned out really well. I was sad and sorry for her characters. But then again, her second The Music Room was even better. Read this book for her if nothing else.

The unmistakable character description by all these wonderful authors was a high for me. The stories ranged from excellent to good to bad to boring but all in all I don't think I can complain. Remember Me ? is a mere promotion of Another Chance by Ahmed Faiyaz but then again he can't blamed for that. If, by God's grace, I get my work published someday, I know it in my bones that I'd promote myself shamelessly at any and every provided opportunity. The second section deals with much mature issues like Placements, Politics and College festivals. The Cafe With no Name was a mature innocent tale. It couldn't have been better.The Worm That Turned by Malathi Jaikumar steals the show in Lights Out. Fiction on Campus was not as good as it promised it to be.

All said and done, its a light coffee read and you won't regret picking it up.

My Rating: 3.5 on 5

You can buy it at Flipkart.com here.

February 16, 2012

Reluctance [55Fiction #5]

She raised her right leg reluctantly and balanced her petite self on the heel of her left foot.
Bam !! She fell again, and naively blamed the new ballerinas.

'Am I cursed with two left feet ?'

The dog shook his head. The frock he wore danced in approval.
And her mother coyly smiled through the door.


PS - As you may have noticed, the picture was the inspiration here.

February 13, 2012

Happy Valentine's Day

The scent of the sandal incense sticks left no corner of their house untouched by its warmth. It made them feel at home. It made home smell like home. Anushree's elder daughter was dressing up for school while reciting a poem for an inter-school competition, determined to win this time. She packed three loaves of bread and butter for lunch and kissed her good luck. Her husband, no matter how early he woke up, was always late for work. Half eating his breakfast, he rushed to catch the last bus just in time. She waved him a quick goodbye. She always postulated, if a person leaves home with a smile, he comes back with a wider one. Her mother never let her father leave home without a hug which matured into a formal one over the years, yet never was the ritual broken.

Her younger daughter was still in bed. She hugged her in her sleep and tried to cuddle off her morning weariness. Surprisingly enough, she hugged her back. She had named her daughter after her grandmother. She wished her a happy morning in a singsong voice. A couple of minutes later, her little girl got out of bed and switched on the TV. Watching Uncle Scrooge dive into his ocean of coins elated her. Anushree folded her quilt and shouted 'Do I have to tell you to brush your teeth everyday ?'. She scorned her way to the bathroom and lazily scrubbed her teeth. She cleaned herself up and a splash of water removed the last traces of sleep and pillow marks from her face.

Browsing through the channels now and eagerly waiting for her chocolate milk, she came across the new Vodafone ad that claimed to have special caller tunes and greetings for some day that started with a V and had an unexpectedly long spelling. She couldn't pronounce it and blamed the ad for being too small for her to grasp the pronunciation properly. She changed the channel and found the same mention there too. And  then, another one. She baby-stepped into the kitchen and asked Ma about this special day that was supposed to be occurring tomorrow. She wanted to make all the necessary arrangements before her friends, if the said day was so important.

Anushree was bewildered. She hadn't practiced an answer to this question of her influential 9 year old. She wanted to keep her girls away from this day, as far away as possible. She picked her up, made her sit on the kitchen slab and went back to chopping carrots for the mix-vegetables she was cooking for lunch. After a lot of probing and stubborn insistence, Anushree struggled to pick up the right words. 'You know I love your Father, right ?' She nodded in happy approval and smiled. Anushree could spot her missing milk-tooth. 'Well, it is a special day where I let him know that in words'. Her daughter mouthed Ohhh and slid back to the floor. Her frock frolicked with every step she took, apparently in amusement of this newly found special information about tomorrow.

'Where are my oil pastels Ma ?' She demanded with urgent patience. They were kept in the third drawer of her cupboard and Anushree found them for her.

The next morning, Anushree found a red-bordered page peeking out from under her daughter's pillow. It looked like a page from her maths notebook because of the tiny translucent grey squares all over it. She picked it up, it looked like a card with little flowers and leaves sprinkled unevenly all over it. She opened it and her face broke into a million smiles. Very carefully, she shoved it back in and waited for the precious moment when her daughter would give it to her.

The card read -

Happy Special Day, Ma.
I want to let you know in words that I love you very much.

It was the most beautiful Valentine's gift she had anticipated in years.

February 7, 2012


She could not operate machines. Not then. Not now. She always alleged Technology eats away the little joys that make me happy. Squinting into the wide screen with eye brows meeting in the middle and typing around the haphazard arrangement of alphabets gave her liquid pain across her cheeks and an acute sting in her skull.  She preferred pens, ink pens, for their sheer simplicity and beauty. She loved filling them with ink when they ran out of it.

She took out her aged diary, dotted with tiny speckles of her daughter's mischief, picked up her pen and started doodling little hearts in red ink at the torn corners of the page. It brought back memories. Memories of happier times. Memories of innocent smiles. Memories of him, and them. One abstract thought, and she tore the page off. That painting hung in her living room for a very long time now but ironically it was a metaphor today. The sky had stopped pouring. The dew drops wanted to fall off the frail stem, demanded closure, but something kept them desperately dangling.

A tear fell, hot as acid, and scarred the flimsy white.

Nostalgia won. Again.

She wrote. And then, some more.

She could not find it in her heart to forgive him for dying on her. She felt cheated. He promised to grow old with her and watch bad TV throughout the day's length. Why did he have to break it ? Time moved too fast for her to keep up with its pace. They said it'll be painful for a few months and then her life would adapt itself to this subtle change. Why hadn't her pain subsided ? Four long, wistful years had rolled by. Hadn't she suffered enough ? These questions itched her fate and she couldn't scratch it. Once again, there were no answers. She didn't know what to feel anymore. It was a tiring task. Right and wrong agreed with each other. Her face broke into infrequent tremors of grief, pain and wishful longing.

She too needed closure and somehow it hid itself well.

A sudden squeak of wood against the floorboards and a barely audible thud. Her husband was home. She could hear him hang his trench coat behind the door. She had been a faithful, loving wife to her husband all these years yet somehow she cursed herself for betrayal, a part of her cried for a different destiny, mourned the irreparable loss, everyday.

She got up and hid the brown diary back into its place.  

February 3, 2012

Life is a Dance [55Fiction #4]

They said 'Dance isn't your cup of tea'.
I retorted 'Life is a dance and I will live it gracefully'.

The eager reporter left and she waltzed around the room with her last performance, glimpses of her first ran inside her head.
The woman in the mirror was proud of her and nothing else mattered.


-- Dedicated to Tao Porchon-Lynch. A dancing star at 94.

February 1, 2012


His sleep had probably become the only time peace and calm visited him. His wife gently ran her thin, pale hand through his hair. Those translucent veins evidently tried to run through the gaps between her fingers. He let out a sigh and opened his eyes. This was a beautiful customary routine. She would wake him up with the same teasing ruffle of his hair and even if he was awake, he waited for her gesture, it assured him of her love in a complacent way. She spoke a million words in that little soothing moment.

Another day full of hopeful prayers. Another day of an incessant struggle.

He bathed, got dressed, a crisp blue shirt paired with semi-black trousers that miserably failed to hide the bloat he was carrying around himself. His hair were parted on the same side his mother used to do them, carefully disguising the grey strands and the bald spot on the top. He dabbed a few drops of coconut oil to keep them in place. His shoes shone in an egotistical middling manner like they didn't have a care in this world. His wife nudged him with a quick breakfast and he rode on his quest.

The guard at the door greeted him with a refreshing smile, but then, smiling and bowing down to the people rushing through these glass doors defined his job description. An uncalled whoosh of air wheezed into his shirt from the ceiling airway, making the hair on his chest rise. He could barely cease the inappropriate act of rubbing his chest publicly in a hurried fashion, eyeing every corner of the well-lit hall for cameras ensnaring his manners like a vulture. He placed himself on the velvety sofa, admiring its comfort in a secluded indifferent corner of his brain.

"Registration Number 1509 ?'

'Yes, yes, that'd be me, M Sreesaran'

'You may go inside.'

A breathed in paunch, synchronized documents, neat laces, toes struggling to stay in place, and he felt as ready as he'll ever be. His interviewer looked as a sybarite at first, but the proceedings were smooth. After 3 uneasy hours of anticipation, wanting to grab every hint of hope that flew in the air, he was informed that this job wasn't made for him.

He took the same bus back home. At the dinner table, his daughter grunted 'Are we having yellow dal again ? Why is this never up for debate daddy ?'

There lay merely one string on his monochrome bow, unemployment, and life played it in different yet, recurrent monotonous tunes every single day.