A collection of flash fiction.
A string of daily mundane stories, wreathed with words and a lot of compassion.
[Some of these short stories have been recognised by various literary organisations.]
She always told me that she wanted to be a writer. Despite not having been to a school ever, words came easily to her.
Life taught her.
Wife, daughter-in-law and a mother of three, she was bound to the threshold by invisible reins.
Her hands were like mordant holding the family together under one roof. Her heart resonated glee and contentedness. Her smile healed. She was like golden sunshine. Beautiful!
Rebuked much, thanked little, she kept living for others, never for herself. Like a banyan giving shade and fruit. Never wanting anything in return.
"Sometimes, in the dead of the night, I used to hold the pen and wish I could write about the turbulence of the storms and tranquility of the clouds that flows through my veins", she told me once.
I listened and wondered what she meant. She made me think very often.
I thought about it again one fine sunny morning under the willow when her frail self was lowered into the posterity of life.
My Grandma. She was a story I wished to write.
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