The Daughters of India And You!

Two years after a horrific crime, a documentary was made. The following dialogues are fictitious in nature and is written in response to Daily Post's prompt - A House Divided

The Daughter: I never criticise a film or novel, or any work of fiction, you know. Because, I feel a lot of hard work goes into producing a work of fiction, and one who is not qualified enough should never attempt a criticism. But, these days I see, everybody has turned into a critic!

And you are on a banning spree of late. How many voices do you want to curb?

The Father: Banning? Hold on! What are we talking about here! ‘India’s Daughter’ is it?  Continue reading “The Daughters of India And You!”

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Krishna, My Friend

Fiction

An old calendar used to hang behind her parent’s bedroom door, in Bengal. It was very common in those days in many households. Apartment culture had not creeped into their lifestyle yet. The big household used to shelter many old useless nicknacks, which the house lady tried hard but failed to detach herself from. One such common thing was the dated wall calendar, to which a young girl of six or seven was found talking to.

“Aunt Rina has brought this for us, you know, she has made the cake all by herself. And it’s so soft and yummy looking. She wants Mom to taste it and tell her how good a chef she is ! But Mom has gone for bath. Let’s have a bite meanwhile, what say ?”

To this, the picture in the calendar smiled and perhaps gave his consent. The girl took a spoonful of  the two slices of soft vanilla cake from the dish.

“Yum !”, she exclaimed and then offered a spoonful to the picture in the calendar. Changing her elbow angle she gulped the second helping too, herself, happily.

Then asked, “Did you like this Krishna ! You know, Dorothy brings cake for lunch everyday in school, but Mom never makes one for me. Why don’t you ask her to, Krishna !”

“You should try the strawberry cheesecake from that shop near your school. I have heard they are delicious”, the picture advised her. Eating and talking, she lost the track of time, and everything else. 

Continue reading “Krishna, My Friend”