My Musings

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 20 ; the twentieth 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 . Mr. Q was sitting  handcuffed in the  federation police car. He stared out the window of the car.It was raining heavily. His overcoat soggy and wet made him feel cold. A shiver ran up his spine. He was reminded of a similar scene, but different times and a different place. His sordid and nonchalant father had returned home drunk, lost money on betting and the frustration was being shown on his mother. What started with a blow or two ended into his father battering his mother to death. Many things happened in succession, he was too young to comprehend. His father was unaware that his better half had breathed her last, there were police and medical people. A kind hearted monk had taken him to the car waiting outside. It was raining heavily.He h...

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton Season 2 edition 18 ; the eighteenth 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 . “Do you know who he is Sir?” Said chambi the constable, sipping his tea. “Yeah, He is the famous Mr. Ravinder” Replied a thoughtful inspector Sharma. “You don’t mean the Founder of Ravinder & Ravinder Group of Industries ?” Senior constable Ravi kumar asked raising his eyebrows to inspector Sharma’s Nod “He is the richest man of the country, why would he want to rob the minnow jewellery shop?” Chambi continued sipping his tea. “It is all over the news channels and News papers, Richest Man of the country caught trying to Rob a petty jewellery shop . Want me to read the front page story from Times of India”? volunteered Sub-inspector Imtiyaz taking a seat besides Ravi Kumar at the Police canteen, holding a folded copy of Times of India News...

She woke up from her limbo in absolute jet black darkness. She felt severe pain in her head and had difficulty with expressions on her face. Too tired to move she just lay there. A chill went up her spine. Only then it dawned on her that she was lying naked on a cold floor, as if in an ice container. She started to crawl on all four limbs, exploring the place with her sense of touch. Every tissue in her body was frost, going immobile. She dragged her body with all her strength to find an opening and get out into warmth and heat. At times she fell back gasping for breath but the will to survive made her go forth.  She sensed something soft like an organ- a human ear; she wanted to sense the rest of the body but it was all by itself; as if cut off from someone’s head. She wandered a bit further and fear crept in. There was more than one pair of human ears lying around. She shuddered and moved chaotically rolling over and crashing with things she realized to be hair wigs, human heads...

This post was originally written for Gingerchai.com  and it is written in exactly 300 words Having lost his wife to atrocities of poverty five years back; he was the loneliest person on earth. He had such a zilch of presence that his demise would not have mattered to anyone. Anyone, except one or two occasional pedestrians passing by the traffic signal, opposite the big shopping mall; where he pestered them for alms. If not begging, he would while away his time seated on the pavement and watching the mannequin day and night. The lifeless wooden doll replied with equal intensity staring back. It would communicate silently with eyes, breaking away the contact only when one of the storekeepers changed its position or when it was being dressed or undressed. Every time, the dresses changed, it would seek the approval of the beggar and he would nod his compliments in return; his lips, a tad parted as if in exclamation and awe of the dress. In truth, he was happy to have some compa...

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 15 ; the fifteenth 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 . Jane and Jeremy, a middle class American couple came to India to realize their dream wedding. It was not going to be a big fat Indian wedding but it was their dream nevertheless. They had about a week’s time for the wedding and wanted to go around. They hired a tour guide cum driver Taposh Ranjan Das. To say the least, they were simply floored by his humbleness and honesty. For three days, he took them around to various places across north India including Taj Mahal. Jeremy wanted to know things about India that back home his friends didn’t know or had not been to, so he requested Taposh to show them some places which not many people know about or visit. Being the true Indian host and humble guide, Taposh agreed. They had been traveling on a lonely ...

es Note: This is a work of my imagination and any reference to any person (living or dead) or to a place is purely co-incidental. Dasappana Kunte (Dassapa’s pond) is a small village that came into existence 15 years ago and has been gaining popularity as a tourist point ever since. Like every tourist point, this village has a story behind it, a divine story. Fifteen years back this was no village but a small establishment of around 20 families. The only distinguishing feature was the 3-4 feet deep small pool formed by rain water logging and rest all was wild. Since no one bothered to venture on these grounds, the poor families found it a safe haven to settle down. Dasappa was a small, shrivelled fellow with deep set eyes. He carried a mystic aura and that made people revere him. He had quite a following and his USP: teach people to love !. No, Not the mankind or brotherly love, but tips and tricks to improve your romantic love life. Tips, that will help people keep their roma...

This story is written exactly in 300 words Sylvia was a French agent whose identity was compromised. She was to be taken to the gallows in few days. She called upon the favor of a fellow French man settled in this country but still had a soft corner for his homeland. They devised a plan. She had three months before execution and few other prisoners were to be executed in this period. So, when the next prisoner is executed, the Frenchman would make arrangements for her to hide in the coffin of this prisoner. Later that night, after the coffin is buried, he will help her out of the grave and a horse cab will take her to the countryside. She will be free again. A few days passed. Then things worked as planned. Two weeks later, an execution took place on Monday morning. When the high bell rang, she made it to the coffin room and hid into the secret compartment within the coffin. The coffin was taken to burial grounds and buried after the rituals. Excited that she will be free again, ...

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 14 ; the fourteenth 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 .       Tring Tring. Me: “Hello, I am Samantha Gaekwad. Welcome to Pelican Business Solutions …….” No! I am not a call centre employee. I am a receptionist at Pelican Business Solutions. How I happened to land a job here is a controversial story in itself. All I would say is that the wretched recession played kingmaker for all my batch mates and I for sure was not in its good books else, how will you explain me landing this job despite scoring first class and being among top ten scorers. But I also have to acknowledge my parents contribution to making my life such a successful failure. No, I am not talking about the values they have instilled in me or about my upbringing. I am talking about their genes. Both are good looking people and the ...

It was over coffee that we decided to write a flash fiction story (<300 words) with the line 'A housefly was hovering at the bakery'   in it. However, the line need not verbatim as suggested. It will suffice if it conveys the meaning and this is the best I could come up with A lone housefly was hovering at the bakery. This was his first posting and far away from his homeland. Born and brought up at the sewers that were full of deteriorating waste and degrading feces, he found this neat and clean bakery to his gentlemanly distaste. But nevertheless, it was his first posting and he had a point to prove. He was a guard now. A scout and a sleeper who will find out and inform about newer sources of food to survive, for the growing population to be supported, to help his kind to flourish and establish the world rule. He would be famous, history would record his most important contribution in establishing a world dominion of the flies and he will be their hero. All possible...

He entered the village limping; his entire weight supported by a wooden staff that appeared to be in a shape bettered by his own. The sun was retiring for the day and so were the peasants. Young kids returning from school and the children dirtied from the farm work were running around carefree. The police constable along with some young men was trying to force the children back to their home lest the kidnapper make an appearance and abduct the children. The kidnapper had terrorized the village for a few months now, holding children for ransom until defrayment.  No one had ever seen him and that made the matters worse. The police constable was under a lot of pressure to catch the kidnapper and he wanted to prove his worth. The constable had this hunch. Anyday now the kidnapper will make his move and the constable will catch him. The prize for the catch was more than the pride at stake. The reward money to bring in the Kidnapper was handsome plus a photo published in the local news...

Flash fiction is  fiction  of extreme brevity. There is no widely accepted definition of the length of the category. Some self-described markets for flash fiction impose caps as low as 300, while others consider stories as long as 1000 words to be flash fiction. [Source: Wikipedia]. The Below story is written in 200 words George loaded the revolver with the three bullets he had and fired two shots in air Bang! Bang!. Now it was just one bullet that kept his life from death. He was not sure if he was fighting his will to live or braving his audacity to die. He had been a loser all his life and now he wanted peace. He put the revolver to his temple and thought about everything that has gone wrong with him .He felt it right to let the bullet pierce his head and put an end to this sheer madness. He stared at himself in the mirror and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He sighed, looked into the mirror and tried again.Nothing changed. He was furious with rage; he ...

“Appa, Appa!”, he could faintly recognize a distant ramble. The sound neither raising nor rescending.But it went on and on. He tried concentrating hard. “Do I recognize this voice?”. “I am not sure but I have heard it before”. He neither had the strength nor the will to open his eyes, turn his head and look at the little girl now seated comfortably on the chair beside his bed, continually trying to wake her dad. She had been adamant about this for almost an hour now. She wanted her dad to open his eyes, look into hers and grin broadly as he did everyday before seeing her off at the school. However hard her mother tried to stop her, the girl wont budge. Tears were rolling down her mother’s eyes. She was confused initially and now worried that something was wrong for she had not seen her mother cry for long. Her elder brother sat on the floor, his eyes gazing between his toes; never lifting his head to talk to her, to stop amma from crying or to awaken appa, who had been sleeping for tw...