Stories Made Simple

Here she comes again, Nalini, the great idiot! Looking at me with that horrible frown, disdain and resentment writ large on her face, as always. I can hear her thoughts about me, like a broken record, trying hard to dent my confidence. “Such dark skin? Can’t it have been lighter?” “Eyes are too deep set for my liking.” “Overly wide smile looks horrible revealing terribly aligned teeth!” “Look at the nose! Crooked as ever. Ugh!” “Such thick arms that always need to be covered! Impossible to carry off sleeveless tops and blouses!” I don’t understand why she hates me so much. I’m so beautiful. My dark skin is smooth like mahogany. Feel it, and you’ll know!  My eyes are like black orbs floating on a pool of ivory white. I know so many men who’ve lost themselves in it.  My elegant nose stands out, the slight crookedness adding a mysterious aura to my face. My full mouth almost touches my ears when I smile in happiness. More often than not, my eyes twinkle with joy when my lips break out int

“I give you the lyrical grace and beauty of Bharatanatyam,” Lord Nataraja said to Sage Bharatha.  “Teach humankind how to worship me through this divine dance. Venerate my divine anklets. Their vibrations are rooted in my damru . Let the sounds emanating from the anklets lead the dancers to Me. Let those who dedicate their life to dance find a safe haven in my temple.” My Ajji  She was a passionate dancer. My mother said when Ajji danced, nature joined her. The gurgling stream, the chirping birds, the rustling leaves, the sounds of animals, and the beating of her own heart provided the music.  She needed to hear the jattis, swarams , lyrics, and beats of songs just once for them to become deeply etched in her brain. Her body moved in rhythm with the soundless music in her head.  Many pairs of eyes leered at her through the bushes as she practised daily for hours on end in the little clearing at the edge of the village. But she was immune to them all. She wanted to dedicate her life to

  The 18-wheeler cruised, the rubbers turning smoothly on the highway, her petite body belying the strength of her determination.  It was three years since she saw the bloodied, molested body of her 13-year-old. She lost her husband to cancer. She lost her daughter to rape. She had nothing to live except for her day of judgment.  Her eyes were focused on the careening motorbike ahead. His head turned, the bike failing to accelerate, to see death approaching him on a juggernaut.  She had been following him since the day the young case inspector told her how his rich father had paid off everyone. He had told her there was nothing he could do, and walked away, ashamed of the tears of defeat.  She approached the inspector a week later for help. He wanted to turn her down. But, with her persistence and his own anger at the skewed system, he agreed. He gave her a copy of the case file.  She started learning about him, especially his routines. Most of the time he spent at the various bars in

  “C’mon, Archana, the purple salwar suit is lovely. We can decide on that, no?” Arathi chided her identical twin sister.  “You know I don’t like purple, Arathi! The gold sequined dress is better. We can both get the same thing and wear it together. That way, everyone will know we’re twins.” “As if our face is not enough for that!” Countered Aarthi, laughing at her sister’s idea who joined in the laughter. “What about that awesome bandhini design we saw in the other shop? You can take the purple one and I’ll take the red. That’ll be great, no?” “No! No! Bandhani is so out of fashion!” “How about a nice pair of jeans and a matching T-shirt?” “I don’t like jeans. You can take it for yourself.” The two sisters were in Chickpet, Bengaluru’s bustling market, looking for the perfect Diwali dress. The best part was they had their own money to spend. Last week, the owner of one of the bungalows where Amma worked as a cook called the girls over and gave them two envelopes.  “There’s 2000 rupees

His eyes glistened with unshed tears of joyous gratitude. The simple but beautiful flower-bedecked chariot stood in the small courtyard, his father was holding the reins of two graceful brown horses yoked to the chariot. The old man’s eyes were filled with anticipation, hoping to see the surprised look on his son’s face.  His mother was already shedding tears of happiness when she saw him walk out of their humble home toward her.  His kavacha-kundala shines in the sunlight and his pastel green dhoti brings out the colour of his eyes. He is a sight for sore eyes, my handsome son! I’m so glad we were there to receive him when he floated his way to us in the river on this very day, 16 years ago.  Radheya ran to his parents, fell at their feet, and embraced them joyfully.  “You needn’t have done this. Your love and blessings are ample for me.”  “We are creating memories for ourselves, my son,” his father replied. Smiling, Radheya took the reins from his father and in one graceful move, spr