A few days back, I read a story titled Shit. (The Goat Thief by Perumal Murugan) I read the story twice. Amma was angry with me since I devoured her red lays too. Green lays stock is again over. Perhaps it feels nice to know that the provision store aunty now trusts me. “Neen regular customer ma, amele duddu kodu. Parvagilla”
To console Amma, I decided to narrate her the shit story. She didn’t know what Shit meant. I told her it is a translation of “Pee.” She made a wild guess and asked me, Malabadrathe bagge na? (Is it about constipation?) I gave a half-suppressed laugh and said no. It is about a plastic tumbler that looked pregnant when filled with beer. I made sure I pictured her the humor that the author has penned. I wanted her to laugh and laugh. We got lost giggling at many things.

Dead frogs, rats, lizards, and cockroaches reminded her something. It was an ancient LG Television at home. This TV then made a nest in Ammamma’s home. One day when Acharappa was watching the boogeyman who would pulverize a clock on his head or eat worms while entering, it suddenly stopped working.
He enhanced his waspish action and started hitting the TV’s head. Amma switched it off, then switched it on and then a little dusting too. Nothing worked. LG’s life was nevermore good here. Amma then called the technician and he found out a kutty grave inside.
He smirked and asserted “Yappa, balligal smashanane idhe illi.” (there is a graveyard for lizards) A small lizard family (maybe the mother, father, and the baby) had eternally rested on the control board inside the TV. It worked after sending him out.

The author talks about his home which is messed up and looks lively only when some kind lady sweeps it. I knew Amma wouldn’t resist, she advertised that my place looks happy only because of her. Yes! ma I am blessed to have you – she wouldn’t finish attacking otherwise. Her tongue is sharp and she is a roast master. I get shaped out at least twice a day. The howls of wild animals reminded her of my father snorting. I was glad that she began telling a few things about him.
The stucco floor reminded her of the old home. The comrades in the story philosophize the stinky home to that of a stinky society. I spoke immediately. This is exactly how aunty ponders about her son’s grades. Shut up, Amma said. No other choice.
Phenyl is everywhere an answer for fetid. Ajji never forgets to write lemon-flavored phenyl in the monthly grocery list. The shit smell had become a rascal for a long time that Murugan sir says it moved freely in his house. Amma, out of nowhere, randomly recaptured the famous Mohini devva in Kannada. I recently discovered that it’s not Mohiniya but Oh iniya. Shambala unearths such things when she is bored.

The story is a blend of humanistic affected superiority, class privilege, and gaiety. I was mocked by my thoughts towards the end. Intentionally or accidentally I have had empty talks. The story is stimulating.
Dear fellows discuss social evils and frame solutions. Dear fellows only denied giving the bicycle. The tumbler that was adorned once was left alone on the floor in the end – the man who cleaned shit drank water in the tumbler.
The story explores a normal rural life on one side and the condition of a manual scavenger on the other side. It is like how aunty says periods are natural; how a woman tolerates the intense pain; how everyone should normalize it. But at the end of the day, the same aunty doesn’t let me inside her home for five days each month.
When will her stinky fables shut up?

Amma’s kitchen

I would love to cook (not Maggie) if one day Amma permits me. Of many distinct grievances she laments about, one complaint she doesn’t forget (at least once in a day) is about me not helping her with cooking. Perhaps whenever I intend to help her; either to cut vegetables or anything she needs; she rebuffs immediately with her eyes extensively open and a ringing voice declaring “double-double kelsa beda nange.” Is it weird? Yes. Is it unfamiliar? No.  

The kitchen is the only place simply operative now and then. It is also the most abandoned place in my home. Because I usually just go there to get water, lays are safe in my cupboard. Amma serves food all the time, all I have to do is sit and eat peacefully. I am a little slothful though what is essential to know is that she enjoys serving food. (to me) Today Vj ma’am asked us to write about an object in the Kitchen. So, I travelled on a little voyage to Ammas’ kitchen. I saw multiple things. Coffee stained towel near an aged stove, dishes that are washed but not wiped, stainless steel appliances, cups, knives, bowls, and a few white-coloured dabbas having pink-coloured lids. 

The chopping board is one of those woods where Amma learned the language of cutting vegetables. In nourishing her way of cooking, the records on this board have its own story, some signed with a piercing edge that granted Amma fingers that were oozing blood. It endures stories of her and Ajji, from their catastrophes to victories, each of those incised in memories. It eternally unites specks of coriander leaves, glossy curry leaves, or moments of onions. 

Before the chopping board entered home, Ajji used Elige Mane. (ಈಳಿಗೆಮಣೆ) This was the time when Amma didn’t know cooking, the time when she sat with me and gazed at Ajji performing wonders with kitchen tools. “Why don’t we have big knives like those in a chicken shop?” one day Amma inquired. The answer to this was a loud nerve-racking stare it seems. Like Acharappa and Ajji, this was a couple too. On the bigger Mane Ajji used to sit and grate coconut. On the smaller Mane, she cut onions, capsicums, carrots, and several vegetables. 

Hande (ಹಂಡೆ) is the huge vessel used for heating water. The day you bring it glows like afresh henna applied hair. After a week or two, it transforms like the hair dyed with pitch-black. Ajji used this until we had a kerosene stove tagged along with a cylindrical fuel tank, at home. Stove pins nursed it whenever this wasn’t working properly. But now the stove and her pin both are relaxing in the storeroom peacefully. 

The steel plates grabbed my attention too. There is a steel plate I got from D’s home. It was a cloudless Saturday morning when I asked Amma if I can go to D’s home after school. Amma agreed willingly. I walked along the street hurriedly just to reach my class, find D and tell her that Amma granted permission. I never liked Saturdays in years gone by; simply because it brought Sunday and I had to stay home without meeting my friends. I didn’t like the neighbours; they were like the waning summer. My cousins? They were like fluid periods. So, there was no choice but to miss my friends.

That afternoon D and I slowly walked just relishing the ice cream we bought from the chilled glasses of Telugu aunt’s store. After reaching her home, D’s brother T started at me with his offensive glance, didn’t seem like he was glad to have me there. He prepared Maggie for both of us and served it to me in a round steel plate. This orbicular plate had a petite split on it. D yelled at him for what he had just done, her elevated sound stabbed my eardrums. I didn’t mind eating on this plate and then we all devoured Maggie heartily. D’s tummy was already popping out. Later we played carrom for some time and then finished our homework. T looked bothered almost all the time I stayed there. 

(the second plate from right)

On Monday morning she came to me apologized though I never demanded one. I said that was alright. Why do you have to say sorry for such a small thing? I needed an explanation. 

D seemed nervous and miserable at the same time. She unveiled something to me. She wasn’t offended because the plate had a split but because her puppy ate in this. Should I be mad or sad? I didn’t know how to react. I never wanted to disappoint her as I craved for many other Saturdays with her. So, I easily said “I love dogs so it is okay, Maggie was yummy” I can’t assure you if she was fine with what I said, but D threw a kind smile.

I was trying to understand why did T do this. D then reminded me of the day when my Ammamma (great-grandma) hollered at us since D went into the kitchen to drink water. I was lazy and she was thirsty. Ammamma saw D going towards the kitchen, she followed D and asked her directly. “Yaav caste neenu?” It was evident that she was unhappy with D’s answer. Both of us were chased away from the kitchen. I realized how caste easily plunges out of nowhere.  

D told me that she sobbed out to her brother about this. The guilt occupied my chest and brain. I believed I deserved it since I never apologized. This had to linger in my mind forever, I asked her if she can get that plate. Denied a bit, however, she got it the next day. 

Now whenever I notice this plate at home, it prompts me not to victimize anyone concerning their caste. If it happens unconsciously, say sorry. Amma didn’t regard the plate for a few days. She never knew I brought it from D. Some days later she decided to throw it for how it looked. I protested and told her I needed it because it broke in camp and that it had become a memory of that camp. Amma chuckled fleeting the edges of her mouth. 

For the longest time, the kitchen rug was of cement oxide flooring encased with red oxide in all corners quite tailored. Acharappa used to say it is a poor man’s carpet and that he was poor when he moved to this metropolis. The gas stove back then stood on Kadapa Kallu. It is formed by normal sedimentary rocks of the limestone group. (black limestone) Maybe they are of an era past but Amma found them comforting in its subtlety. Modern marbles or tiles don’t excite her. 

Though I don’t have a sister, the kitchen might be one. She has experienced every emotion of Amma. From unseasoned simpers to volcanic anger that burst out. If only she could talk, Amma would quit lamenting about me. 

On the other side

Simply sitting and gazing outside the window is my favourite kind of thing to do. I sit by this windowpane merely to be me; the whole of me in this mawkish weather now. Bengaluru is a metropolis that will grant you to traverse three seasons in just a day, super know? In the mornings it is wintertime, about midday it is summer while the sun glares at you and it is the rainy season in the evenings, twilight. 

You know what’s normal outside the window? Nothing. It took several days to adapt to this scene amidst a piercing hush. There aren’t many vehicles outside perhaps the kids are playing badminton. Sometime before noon, the vegetable seller named Keshava comes here. Aunts here call him tharkari (vegetable) Keshava. He smiles at this, heartfelt bound into the blaze, for eyes and mouth; also grew in each bit of him. 

The police came here the other day while I was relaxing by the window. This fireball in the sky of the afternoon made them slightly troublesome to breathe through those temporary masks. I don’t remember what followed later, Amma asked me to download songs for her. 

I now frequently notice some guys playing Lagori and cricket in a deserted site here. (after a very long time) It is delightful to see them play here, I don’t have to grieve from stillness again. Aunties on the other hand yell at them for making noise. Whatsoever reason it is, can they please stop yelling? 

Meanwhile in bedtime when neither can I sleep nor can I use my phones, I go back to the window and decide to listen to the sounds, vibrations maybe. Two chaps chatter every day (I can’t resist myself saying this) about getting stoned, about the tears they get while they cut onions, about Public TV and whatnot. I fancy going out to recognize who’s chatting though I do not want them to know that I am snooping. 

I never forget to take some time to stare through this window; consuming everything that the universe ought to share. Extraordinary light and a soothing breeze. There’s my Ajji, (Grandma) simply doing all Ajjas’ (Grandpas’) favourite stuff. Because Ajja loved exploring them being exclusively fascinated with the plants, Ajji does it now. She even talks to the plants when she misses Ajja a little too much. Now you see, she looks like an innocent flawless kid ❤ 

For some reason, I also don’t miss watching a woman, her son and their dog. I have always wanted to know more about this trio but her lips don’t even smile back whenever her eyes caught my attention. I don’t ask. I don’t have to imagine their stories but I do. Why? I don’t know. 

Military aunty is named like this since her husband worked in the army. She forever appreciates the afternoon sunlight with her niece. While I sit here, watching her with a beaming smile, she forces the small baby to wave at me. And the sweetheart simpers; for a moment I believe that the world is perfect. 

Outside this window, I heed multiple stories. A few of them moving and a few others stagnant. And now outside my window, I see a life that wasn’t expecting this change. 

Naan Yaar?

Pariyerum Perumal (2018) Source: Google images

Pariyerum Perumal is an intense movie. Mari Selvaraj is the Debutant filmmaker of this Tamil cinema formed touching upon caste discrimination. The agony of an oppressed is troublesome and thought to evoke. The name of the film and its protagonist symbolizes the literal meaning as The God on a Horse. Perhaps his story is not conforming to his name in the movie. He joins a government law college in Tirunelveli. He says he wants to become Dr. Ambedkar but finds himself as a square peg in a round hole. (in the college)

The idea of beginning this movie with Karuppi the dog is striking and touching. Ellam manusanum inga onnu illa (Not every human being is the same) and the viewer is prompted to tears, here lives a genuine discomfort. The blues and melancholy doesn’t wait throughout the film because of Anand, Perumal’s classmate. The film is loaded with effective statements and observations. Despite these, the movie doesn’t get dark perhaps remains optimistic.

Jothi Mahalakshmi, usually called Jo is a well-born (upper-class) girl. She encourages him to learn English, a language Perumal doesn’t know, and the for language the lecturers at college conduct classes in. They refuse to explain the same in Tamil, since, it is a ‘law college.’ Eventually, Jo becomes his friend. Her feelings for him grow deeper, and she falls in love. Later she invites Perumal to her sister’s wedding and the marriage hall is named after her. This is where Jo’s father takes him, with a trustworthy hand, guiding him to a room. What happens later is something you know, that happens in many other caste-based films. One aspect that stands out is that he doesn’t hate Perumal, he is only restrained by the social evils. Jo is unaware of these disparities.

In an interview with Baradwaj Rangan, Mari sir says, “I used to wonder if caste was even relevant. It was like a monster. People have told me that they haven’t seen caste in action. I tell them that suddenly caste will pop up in your life… you will have to deal with it.” These words cast my mind back to an experience. I was around eleven years old maybe, my friend P had come to visit me and my great grandmother was around. P smiled at her gently. Instead of smiling back, grandma questioned her — which caste? “ST” (Scheduled tribe) She said.

After a while, we were playing and P was thirsty. I asked her to drink water from the kitchen for which she agreed. Grandma noticed this and hollered at me. She yelled at P as well. I don’t remember what she said precisely but the reason she stated was ‘ST people are low-classed, they can’t enter the bedroom, kitchen, or any other place except the living room’ Caste simply jumped out of nowhere. My whats and whys would never be answered. Ajja or Amma said to leave the topic, and I left it gradually. I started crying for not letting my friends come home, that’s when this dilemma was fixed.

Just as Mari sir says, “I don’t think there is a greater weapon than education” the film explicates the significance of education. The phenomenal surge of a Dalit against multiple forms of oppression and several such aspects is carried in diverse courses. The conclusion suggests the opening for an unsettled ceasefire. Please watch the movie.

Zoom – A social affair

A screenshot from Sagar’s (birthday) Zoom party- 2020

While Covid-19 caught hold in Bengaluru and all over the world, I started welcoming emails from,, and Oh well, Zoom is connecting centuries of personalities. Now, I and my friend Sharanya were talking about how Zooms’ usage inflated to the top during social distancing. 

She cast my mind back to the previous year when we had applied for an internship and the interview happened through Zoom. “Took me a whole evening to figure it out but, one year back for our interview, I don’t think either of us knew it’s existence” she states. 

While we chat, Amma calls me to help her with the webinar she has on Zoom. Good evening sir, she spoke with her enthusiastic smile. 

Ma but the audio is muted – I said grinning. 

She overlooked me because she was so much excited watching all of her colleagues on screen. They were all smiling at each other too, it never stopped. Even when the call was getting held due to the internet issues, I could see their grimaces froze with a radiant smile. 

Amma is fascinated with technology and it’s usage. She is bored using Facebook, yesterday she urged me to assist her with the Instagram logistics. She has already discovered the Close friends option on the grams’ stories. 

Birthday parties also happen on Zoom now. E’s doggie and R’s doggie are also waving at each other on Zoom. My annoying relatives are showing their cuisines and messes, their meals and diets, their walls and tables, beyond the town, to narrate the entire saga together. 

The blast of video conferences banged and unlocked my suffocating concerns, anxieties

Anyways, Google meet how are you?

Reddy, I’m overthinking.

This personal essay won the first place for Pen It Down 2020 (Team Sanchalana)

This is a screenshot from the official page of team Sanchalana on Instagram.

This is a dusky night. The wind is grumbling my window. The breeze is not alluring like other nights. I want to go out and see the moon, it seems like the bright idea now.

This midnight cascades like a plush with deep pockets. To evacuate all the hues around me to washed-out grey. I stand in between the sash locks of my window to watch the homely crescent, but the window is excited and anxious at the same time – is it holding the gulp of air?

I wish we were still friends. I know it clearly that we never had a reason to just walk away in a huff. I am not depressed perhaps it just doesn’t feel good on nights like this.

I am standing here in between the mullions, holding the compressed panes with my gentle hands, trying to fit my fingers in; just like how I try to fit in this atrocious society – my childlike eye is scared to scream now, it is afraid to capture the glimpses too.

Reddy was there to give me fancy captions for my pictures on Facebook. Yes, we were online friends -mutual to Rohan (name changed). All the plans we had made together to meet, to look at each other without filters, to hear him (for we never spoke on a call) were unsuccessful. But what we had, what we felt was true, he taught me what true friendship means. Where are you now?

I am thinking if I was just not enough for his friendship. (I know I am awesome macha, I am just overthinking now)

Although I never met reddy in real, I knew how he’d look. His pictures said it all. He was a self-obsessed buffalo and a genuine mate. A lanky boy with decent old-fashioned spectacles. Reddy’s smiles in the pictures came from the stomach, it was more than just his mouth. The wide smile literally made his lips look like a Columbus game in an exhibition. I remember how badly he wanted to have an athletes’ body. Did you join a gym yet?

The first time we had a conversation was about Rohan. And then reddy suddenly said about the friendship cycle.

Stranger – friend – best friend – stranger.

Reddy told me we’d stop at stage three when I refused to believe this, he promised me to stay. So, bro, you broke the promise.

All those flirty texts have disappeared from my messenger but not from my mind. Reddy told me I was the most interesting person he met online which is okay but he also continued to say I was the kindest too. I can’t remember a single time when I had been kind. I have played the block – unblock game many times; with him especially.

I told reddy all my worries, about all the things I hate and about all the things I love. Dude did the same. It was all fine, to say each other ‘it will be alright.’ We were a little similar. We loved economics and hated math. We liked the moon and disliked the stars. Also, we never saw a few folks for the human beings they were. You know how bitching works in a ‘true’ friendship na?

I know how machas’ room exactly looked like. (I got to see the images of the house when alterations happened; before anyone) Posters of some large magical red, blue and black bikes all over. He hated KTM but that was the only bike reddy had those days. You promised me a pizza party after you get a bullet. So, what about that macha?

After a stressful day or an annoying day or a happy day, it was him for me to share each and everything and the same case for him with me too. I liked listening to reddy because he listened to me. We didn’t text on the days when he was busy watching an entire season of a random show he liked. But we were friends rain or shine.

He never mocked me or the things I like, he liked me for what I was and that is why I am missing him now, maybe. Reddy was a great chef. He’d prepare anything except Sambar. And I still wish to eat the food he promised to cook for me. I don’t remember what it was but I am sure dude knows it.

Stop kidding was always corrected to don’t stop kidding. We made fun of each other and never got offended by it, some sleepless nights, some filmy fundas, some conversations, and arguments, some drama, some good-bad chaos – we had laid the foundation for a strong friendship!

He’d always apologize for not being able to text. “Sorry miss, I just got busy with some crappy assignments and submissions.” As I told earlier, I had never been kind to him, I never said it was okay. But it was still always Cool da.

He didn’t like the traffic here in Bengaluru. He always felt like a total mess, super-duper tired. He didn’t like the ‘New Bangalore’ too. It was all good until four years back – he once tried to recall his school days. He didn’t really like the people who came from different states.

Honesty is a policy he never failed to follow and that is why he directly said to many of his friends (who were Non-Bangaloreans) that the city would have been a better place if they didn’t show up in a huge number. Nonetheless, reddy also told me that he should start liking them because they helped him quite often.

On days when we were happy, we didn’t say nice, nice, and end it all. Instead, it was noise and noice. We never spoke on a call. One way to have fun was to sing songs through texts (to type the lyrics literally).

Reddy told me about the girls he liked in school & college, about the series he watched, the food and the bikes he liked. Two years of a really good, really true, and a really close friendship.

But macha, why didn’t our friendship grow like the big banyan tree picture you sent me? Why didn’t it turn out to be aesthetic? like the birds that wander around my mind, like the branches that never stopped growing, like the shades of yellow and red that glimmers in front of grey clouds, for the bird that wandered is caged now.

Did you just play it safe or am I just being too dramatic now?

Podcasts, try maadi.

Source: Google images

For the past few days in this quarantine, I have been reading more and writing less. Something different awaited and here I am to traverse the techniques of podcast listening. (still figuring out) This is a new experience, you can try someday too. Don’t you want to try listening to a story without any visuals? 

If you don’t know which is better or if you’re unfamiliar, Stitcher is a streaming setting that hosts diverse podcasts. Sound cloud is another choice. For crispy Indian audiotapes, the other banana podcast is available. There are several more wide-range of podcasts online. 

I love to hear anecdotes but, maybe the storyteller must be in front of me so that I gaze right into that eye! and listening to podcasts has gradually made me endure this. I opened the catalog on the app and all I did was to scroll through it for an hour. I do the same on Instagram with all my stalking skills. 

The recommended episodes of the podcasts I don’t happen to follow seldom bothered me. Nevertheless, it is nice to hear these more often. Amma never did any additional task while she prepared food but now watching me wander around with these, she has also started listening to her favorite songs in all three languages of Kannada, Telugu, and Hindi. 

Discovering these podcasts has now moved me to create my own podcast someday. In the previous semester for an MMJ project, I was asked to record a podcast. Pushpa, my exclusive friend who tolerates me and agrees to whatever I say encouraged me to do this. Now it is obvious that she was my first guest na? 

It was Pushpa and me who talked about the menstrual myths for around 15 minutes – my first ever podcast. It is exciting because you don’t have to worry about who is staring at you, just talk, talk, and talk.  It is an old chestnut, although there is a lot of discovery in this. There might be moments anywhere you converge on to attending, you might give hours just for it but it just doesn’t happen. (initially) Like the hymns or songs you enjoy, listen to podcasts more often. 🙂

be all ears

Source: Google images.

I had been smirking every so often that Amma asked me “Aye yarhatra matadthidiya headphones hakondu?” (Who are you talking to with the headphones on?) I kept searching for various podcasts on multiple apps this time. Spotify sunte ja didn’t work for me this time. 

Amma always keeps a stock of lays chips at home. (I am most addicted to lays and cucumbers.) I considered while eating lays, I can focus better – just the podcast and my lays. The window, fortunate skylight, and a small music session can make time for me later on. Then I asked her- Ma, American style… and she suspends me by editing it to light green lays. 

Western podcasts are great perhaps I am compelled to get frenzied and juggle often – pause, listen, pause again, and listen again. During all this drama happened, purvi sends me a hi and reminds me of the other banana podcasts. Oh yeah, VJ ma’am spoke about this one afternoon, I told to myself. Green lays didn’t benefit me therefore I removed my headphones and raised the volume to 100. Amma also won’t disturb if it is loud. 

This is the episode 24 of the other banana (bunch of idiots with microphones and lots of free time) podcast. The podcast is about a Tollywood movie called Maryada Ramanna. It is Sunil sir for Telugu comedy after Brahmanandam sir to me. And here I sit welcoming on his prime crossroad movie!

“It is a movie where you don’t have a central character as a hero, it is a huge departure from Rajamouli’s other movies…” and the guest proceeds to explain about SS Rajamouli’s 2010 action-comedy movie “Maryada Ramanna”. The podcat encompasses everything that appeared to be the best in the film and also a few things that did not suit the fittest. 

The most intriguing point is about the protagonist who had been playing the role of a comedian until this. Surprising details like the weapon strategy used in other movies vary from this. The directors’ dimension of observing the artists is justified through this movie. 

While I was listening to this fun podcast, many of Rajamouli’s hit cinemas sprang to envision my subconscious mind. Eega is one of those and it just didn’t go away. I kept humming My name is Nani… Nenu eeganaithe gani… and guess what? I paused and heard the part on repeat. No chee to me this time because the accounts were getting interesting. 

“This movie is made in five languages but then none could build the same feel and suspense as Rajamouli has created” the man states. This movie is inspired and remade (or a copy of) Buster Keaton’s Our Hospitality movie. You can listen to this podcast here: 

There is no half-truth anymore, the other banana boys audiotape the fun and agreeable podcast and now I have my podcast preference for movie critiques. Kannada, Telugu, Tamil, or Hindi you will discover well-made south Indian film stories here. Pause and rewind will eventually stop ya.

After exploring amidst so many podcasts, banana boys is one unique record that stopped my hands which invariably sought to put my phone away and dream

That faultless girl!

Source: Google images.

Bholii bhaali ladki, kholu tere Dil ki, Pyaar vaali khidaki is a Bollywood song sung by two famous Indian singers Kumar Sanu and Alka Yagnik. The podcast starts with this song! This docudrama is about a lady called Kajal and a gully boy who admires her.

I have listened to a few podcasts but some or the other thing will always divert my attention. Sometimes it is Amma who is always inquisitive of what I listen to with my headphones on. The other times it is those annoying cute little kids from my neighborhood who come home uninvited to play games. However, I didn’t entertain all these this time. 

The podcast is audiotaped in Hindi. I found this podcast on a website called “Agents of Ishq.” Yes, when Amma caught the name she felt mysterious and fired her doubtful questions on me, perhaps after listening to the podcast she was relieved. She breathed a sigh of relief while her hand rested on her thigh. 

Kajal is an honest, innocent girl who is scared to love. Not because of the dilemmas of it, it is solely because of her integrity and understanding. What if her parents notice and find out about this? 

She is a 30-year-old woman who lives in Ranikhet, Uttarakhand. Kajal enjoys makeup, dancing, and is crazed about clothes – “lekin salwar suit ka” she claims. She feels unusually happy when she wears a heel and walks around with her hair open. Like every other tiny girl over there, Kajal also wishes if she was a little tall, she would look extra beautiful – she says.

Amma is short too still, she believes that being short is being adorable. Someone has quoted it, ‘Pint-Sized and highly prized.’ Chunky girls are truly petite but savage! (Pushpa, my friend is a simple and naive girl who’s height is 4’8 but her attitude is 6’1.)

Kajal tells about the guy who liked her, and she kind of liked him too. “Uska face-cut Bandar jaisa tha” she describes him with her appealing baby voice. She dislikes the fact that he confesses his love with hints and implications and not proposals and statements. 

Kajal likes watching the guys but not talking to them. She also knows that no one in her family has had a love marriage and she can’t marry the guy due to religion. An old schooled romance prevails through the podcast. It has delightful details of Bollywood here and there. You don’t need a picture or a video to visualize what Kajal is telling. It is a 4-minute podcast yet striking, ‘short and sweet’ you might say.  Listen to this podcast here: 


Picture source: Google

Some of us don’t believe in God and you call us an atheist.
Some of you don’t believe in logic and sagacity, what do we call you?
Oh don’t walk on the path of the black cat – it’s unlucky
Oh don’t cut nails after sunset – it’s ruinous
On Friday the 13th, during a full moon you say,
perhaps you forgot about the human ghosts
Was the earth destroyed?
No, superstitions several carried and the rumors hurled around,
Echoed all around; beyond all disasters
The brains had to shut down
everyone is watching TV
with eyes that passed hurricanes
the feet beside a glisten froze cold
They showed a few facts maybe
most agreed; also many argued
Seldom he plays with the mind
flies behind the clouds for fear
for the world is going to end?
100 were leery with dread running through their head
100 were alarmed to recapture the voices of the darkness
150 craving to control their thoughts
150 broke peace buried within
200 human demons who’s voice caught grey minds
200 stayed awake several nights by grief
250 said all in one name of religion, faith
250 deduced the devil will end the course of survival
300 incessantly bombarded us and meddled in the confidence
312 lent themselves entirely to fortuitous of superstitions
Merely just a few remembered the ghost that Amma warned
about folks who will look around like the ghost itself
Oh darling, ever heard of the year 2012?