“So the number one rule is that all roads leading to Yakshi land must be pure gravel”, said Madhan as he drove his bike down a terribly bumpy path, a thick forest on either side. “Tarred roads are seemingly banned by the Yakshi queen, a great believer of exercise, so that the men, forced to walk to their dooms, stay fresh and healthy. Much like free-range poultry farms, I must say.”
“Stop complaining, grumpy. Especially when you’re so liberal with your brake application”. Neha she sat behind him, holding him by waist. Continue reading →
“I don’t really get your premise. If they were just female vampires, why do your yakshis target just handsome virgin boys. Why not gorge on anyone at all,” said Neha “In fact I could gladly recommend a pervert or two as a midnight snack for the ladies.”
“Sexual urges, machi,” replied Nair, the self-appointed expert on the subject, taking a large swig of his drink.
“Bwaaaah….” whispered Viru, as a background score, a deep-throated growl.
“They didn’t get it when they were alive, so they want it when they’re dead.” continued Nair, “Some lover ditched them. So full senti, then suicide. But how anyone can jilt these gorgeous women, I don’t know. Long black hair, flying in the wind, large eyes like black pearls, lips as red as kumkumum…” Continue reading →
Today was Vishu, the traditional Kerala new year, and had he been at his home in Kerala today, with his dear mother, he would have been awakened early in the morning and taken to the Puja room, his eyes gently shut by his mother’s loving hands. The aroma of incense would waft to his nose, and the strains of a melodious bhajan would croon at his ears, and his mother would release his eyes to let him view the gloriously decorated deity, surrounded by vibrant yellow flowers, fruits and lamps. This would have been his first sight that year, or his Vishukanni, and that would have determined the fate of his entire year. Continue reading →
When the feminists of Tahirir square declared that Snow White of Poisoned Apple fame was to be the poster girl of the Islamic feminist Arab spring, there was an expectation of a second round of executions to prevent the raging movement that demanded everything from Hijabi beauty contests to robotic male drivers cast in form of mahrams (or permitted men) to accompany occasionally unaccompanied housewives to their beauty appointments and kitty parties. But executions by stoning, beheading and death by whipping, had become the norm in the latter part of year 2020, with special targets provided to Islamic courts for female prisoners, the majority inmates of hell, And the erstwhile argument that polygamy favored the abundant single female population was now becoming an seemingly senseless argument, though this did nothing to diminish adamancy. Continue reading →
There are no poor in Manampally…..at least not the type that was poor enough to work for a living.
Or perhaps they did not subscribe to the principal of working for a living. Their principal argument against this fundamental expectation was the presence of the umpteen well-to-do gulf returnees in the land, all of who needed poor families to complete their religious duties of Zakat (charity). In fact the poor were doing everyone a favor by staying poor by not working or by not going abroad and getting rich themselves, and depriving people of the chance to complete their divine duties.
Nine-year old Muneera’s eyebrows perched questioningly, as she combed Aïcha’s long silky black hair.
“So you have two living rooms?” she said.
“Yes. This room is where we greet men and our official guests,” said Aïcha. “My house is designed like a Saudi home, so this is what we call the Majlis. We always keep it clean because Saudis are very spontaneous and guests drop in all the time.” Continue reading →
If I had a Altairan dollar for every loser I found on SeeSomeStars.com, I would be prematurely melting at the SuperNova countdown that new years. But mathematics never worked in such favorable ways, and this is how I found myself instead at another of Mother’s meteor shower, with all her barmy friends who had turned up for the event. The room was alight with bling. Mother’s parties were legendary, and once she’d even got a friend to do a private supernova for her guests entertainment.
So it wasn’t surprising that the party was a quite the cosmic blast. Quite a few stars had turned up, all looking appropriately bored, though not entirely bummed out by the planets that clamored around them for attention. Continue reading →
It was when Jack found his hands and legs tied unceremoniously to the gigantic cross, crumbling under its damned weight, sweating in the harsh June sun, that he realized something. He was in trouble, big time. The sentry nearby threw the whip again his sweating body.
“Ok, Ok. I’m hoisting up. It ain’t gonna happen if you keep slapping that damnation on my back. And, you don’t have all day, mate.”
He managed to stand up, his leg wavering like a ship on a stormy sea.
Did you know that Humpty Dumpty, who sat on a wall, was not a person, or even a genetically modified gigantic egg, but a very large canon!
Looking into the history of nursery rhymes that bring cherished memories of innocent childhood can be quite shocking. Many rhymes had cleverly disguised lyrics to parody royal and political events, especially in times when direct dissent was often punishable by death.
Humpty Dumpty was strategically placed on a wall during the English Civil war and managed to wreak much havoc to the advancing enemy forces, until an enemy Continue reading →
Twenty-five is a very attractive age. Bangalore Society is full of women, who of their own free choice, remained twenty-five for years. Take me for instance. I have been twenty-five ever since I arrived at the age of thirty, which was many years ago now. Frankly, this whole practice of age and its every increasing nature, is quite a vexing social malady, and in my opinion best done away with altogether. Osteoporosis, Alzheimer’s, Arthritis, such unpronounceable ailments it brings with it. As a society, as a collective conscience, it is time we seriously considered obliterating the problem of age.
Depression, I can personally ascertain, is the singular consequence of increasing age. Here I am working, nine to five, twenty days a month, exhausted, with a boss with a mind of a fluttering butterfly and a client with a cactus chair, and I come home tired, late, to a high-strung two-year old who wants dinner at two, and an irate husband who wants dinner for two, and I catch a quick shut-eye between it all.
The clock chimes. Twelve. And the phone rings…a hundred different times.