Bharani's

She lit the gas. The blue flame gave out a soothing warm heat. The kettle was placed on it. It had been seven years since her husband died. She used to prepare his tea at six o' clock. He would sneak in, kiss her and smile and she would listen happily to his daily news. The kettle was boiling. She used to love to pour out his tea, while he was talking to her. The world had always been outside. They had been one; united body and soul. It had smashed. The cup broke. The noise frightened her. Each piece spread in different directions. She had forgiven her son. He promised that it would never happen again. He had promised that he would never leave her, "All sons say the same thing," she thought. She picked up the pieces and put them in the old box. She poured out the tea for herself and himself. Three lumps of sugar were put into his cup; he always had a sweet tooth. "How was your day at work ?" There was no answer. She stared at the empty chair and the steaming ...

"I don't know what I may seem to the world, but as to myself, I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the sea shore and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me".

Finally we got to travel on the new Chennai-Bangalore highway in the past couple of days. I have been hearing so much about it ever since it was completed and this time when a Bangalore visit was required we decided that a drive it had to be. Now if a person inclined to finding faults were to go on such a road trip you bet the smallest of complaints will be blown out of proportion and transformed into a post. Dear reader, I am sorely tempted to do the same because I did have minor comments, petty bits of sarcasm that I bored my fellow travelers with. Nevertheless, it was a comfortable journey on a very well-maintained highway, something that can be done without worrying about bad roads near Vellore or wondering if the Chitoor route is better and so on. We took the route via Vellore and easily covered the 290 odd kilometers in 4 hours. It can be done faster; it can even be done slower because there are no badly behaved drivers honking their way past you. The traffic flows smoothly and t...

“Soldier, soldier, marry me, And I’ll give you a fife and drum.” “Oh, how could I marry such a pretty, pretty thing (?) When I hadn’t got no shoes to put on.” Away she went to the shoemaker’s shop As hard as she could run, And got one of the very best sort,And the soldier, he put ‘em on. “Soldier, soldier, marry me,And I’ll give you a fife and drum.” “Oh, how could I marry such a pretty, pretty thing? Hadn’t got no coat to put on.” Away she went to the coatmaker’s shop As hard as she could run, And got one of the very best sort, And the soldier, he put it on. “Soldier, soldier, marry me,And I’ll give you a fife and drum.” “Oh, how could I marry such a pretty, pretty thing? Hadn’t got no gloves to put on.” Away she went to the glovemaker’s shop, As hard as she could run, And got one of the very best sort,And the soldier, he put ‘em on. “Soldier, soldier, marry me, And I’ll give you a fife and drum.” “Oh, how could I marry such a pretty, pretty thing When I hadn’t got no hat to put on?” ...

She dwelt among the untroden ways Beside the springs of Dove A maid whom there were none to praise and very few to love: ~ A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye- Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky~ She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me

My mother is the sweetest and Most delicate of all. She knows more of paradiseThan angels can recall. She's not only beautifulBut passionately young,Playful as a kid, yet wise As one who has lived long. Her love is like the rush of life,A bubbling, laughing spring That runs through all like liquid light And makes the mountains sing. And makes the meadows turn to flower And trees to choicest fruit. She is at once the field and bower In which our hearts take root. She is at once the sea and shore, Our freedom and our past. With her we launch our daring ships Yet keep the things that last.

A sharp shower came on as I walked along the Strand, but I did not put up my umbrella. The truth is I couldn't put up my umbrella. The frame would not work for one thing, and if it had worked, I would not have put the thing up, for I would no more be seen under such a travesty of an umbrella than Falstaff would be seen marching through Coventry with his regiment of ragamuffins. The fact is, the umbrella is not my umbrella at all. It is the umbrella of some person who I hope will read these lines. He has got my silk umbrella. I have got the cotton one he left in exchange. I imagine him flaunting along the Strand under my umbrella, and throwing a scornful glance at the fellow who was carrying his abomination and getting wet into the bargain. I dare say the rascal chuckled as he eyed the said abomination."Ah," he said gaily to himself, "I did you in that time, old boy. I know that thing. It won't open for nuts. And it folds up like a sack. Now, this umbrella.......