Posted in Chennai Bloggers Club, Little Deeds of Sustainability


“Mom, why are we selling the roses, and at such high prices?” Asmita was a bit startled with her baby’s words. “No dear, we would not. They give seeds, and we don’t want to sell them. Why do you ask?”

Ananya seemed upset and was not her usual self, when she insisted that she knew about it. She had heard her dad and the gardener uncle having a heated discussion this morning. Asmita calmed her down and reiterated that they had moved to the hills, away from the bustle of the city and its commercialization to lead a simple life, just enough to sustain themselves. Ananya, all of 9, had always adjusted well to this living, and why not? She was born into it, whereas Asmita and Shyam were the ones who had to unlearn their city lives and immerse into the lap of sustainable living.

The past 11 years had been a struggle; but with sweet fruits thrown in, every time they doubted their decision to transform. Asmita knew that this year there had been a great demand for organic roses; and their valley produced the best ones. She remembered how Shyam had brought to her their first set of bloomed roses, on the day Ananya was born. They had then decided never to sell any flowers or seeds from their farm; they did not want to sell life, just when it was born.  So many people had tried to reason with them, and called them hypocrites. The others were also right, if we could sell other plant and animal products, then what’s with just flowers and seeds. They used to reason it a lot, among themselves, but just used to stick on to their decision.


She wanted to discuss with Shyam, she wanted an assurance that they were not aiming for that utopia that did not at all exist. Living sustainably was like a ‘neighbour’s envy and owner’s pride’, but there were so many times when they just wanted to throw away their ideals of pride and be lost in the everyday trash and commercialization.

Shyam had great tension on his face, and was searching for the right words, as he saw Asmita approaching him. Asmita eased him up, “So did you finally have to agree with selling the roses this Valentines day? Our methods are getting costly, and the inorganic and disposables market has become too big and competitive. I understand our struggle to survive these odds, yet not lose out on our convictions”.

“Do you not doubt me, I am just too glad that you still believe in us?” Shyam could not believe what Asmita was saying. Neither could she. “I don’t know Shyam, but I believe that we came here for a purpose, let’s continue building it, one step at a time.”


Ananya had a big sign board in her hands and was so happy, much unlike her morning self. She showed it to her parents. In her chatty self, Ananya told them her little idea. She wanted to re-gift these roses, to people who would usually not get them.

“There are times when our happiness and rules contradict, but as we have always believed, it is up to us to seek our happiness” while saying this Shyam was just too proud of their daughter.  Asmita too was relieved that they did not have to create any white lies, and soon started working towards a solution.

So, it was decided. They would put up the roses for sale among their other farm produce. Ananya would stand with her placards and explain how the buyers could choose to re-gift their roses. After gifting the roses to their valentine, the couple could drop these roses at collection points, from where these roses would be then given to inmates in the nearby old age home. Though they were themselves not convinced of the logistics, Shyam and Asmita were ready to go the extra mile to let their first bloom, Ananya, never wilt.

Ananya’s sincerity had won lots of fans. Almost all the buyers, had dropped of their roses before the end of the day and had joined Ananya’s family in re-distributing the roses.

Maybe this is a child’s dream, but few dreams do happen, however far-fetched they are.

This blog post has been paired with our beloved Jeffy’s post “Deep Inside the Thorns”, you can read it here.

This post is written for the ‘love theme’ contest by The Chennai Bloggers Club ( in association with woodooz ( and Indian Superheroes (

Posted in Chennai Bloggers Club, Poems

Falling Leaves of Autumn


The unshaped brows or uni brow,

Hairy legs and love handles

Graying tresses, managed with the natural henna

While pulling in the tummy doesn’t work any more

A recent pic told me that you looked way older than the one on the passport.

I stopped by the bedside, and took a deep breath;

I had to poise myself before I take a closer view of yours.

I have to prepare myself to see the greys  and the bulges,

To know that everyday I have been kissing these very frayed lips

And to have never noticed the transformation.

I looked and looked, and yet never felt sore

I was happy to have looked and see the glow

Of a halo of white hairs around your temple,

And the plump body couldn’t contain all the love

You were brilliant and calm and comforting, all at the same time.

A bigger fear crept up my saggy sleeves;

I am a couple of years older than you, would I be any better?

I remembered, since a long time now, I haven’t visited the mirror

As you button up my shirt, comb my hair and adjust my glasses

To overcome the grief of not having a baby to groom

I too had obliged and it made me feel better for not being able to give you a baby.

I tried to remember since when had this routine began

Yes, a late spring evening when the doc told us not to try any more

You had a long debate with him, came out teary but resolute

You told me, baby was just a whim, our curiosity and joys still remain.

I never questioned, I believed in my darling

Anyways, it felt great to love like you are a teen, even in thirties.

Now, reaching the fifties, nearly 2 decades later, I had to look at myself in the mirror.

Oh, I remember, we don’t hang one at home.

I searched in your secret stash and found one, clean, so you have been using it…

Oh woman, she has to look at herself, yet you amaze me.

The arched jaw bones, the sunken eyes, nose – is it there?

Is this me? Is this why I was convinced to freelance?

No, it cannot be.. Wake up, wake up wifey………

Ok… no, don’t wake up. I am also asleep.

Shall I sob or throw things in anger?

Did she still call me her cutie pie?

How did I even think that they hair or the love handles would be a problem

My love, no I will not do anything to upset you,

But let me just prepare myself for the morning; you sleep well – kisses.

Yes, today I is a bright new day for me, and for us

I can’t keep you in dark. Yes I know now why we freelance,

I know why you fought bitterly with the doc.

Yes, we’ll go out and see the magic of life and not be bothered about looks

Yes, I have re-discovered this love; my love.

This is an attempt on the kind of mellowed love, that has been matured like the old wine. Early morning, this valentines day, as I came out of the railway station with my hubby after his knee surgery, we happened to notice an elderly couple coming across us. The sight touched both of us, we were silent in its completeness. I wanted to write about it. This CBC’s contest forced me to shed my hibernation and write it…

This is a post written for a Valentine’s Day – Write a love letter campaign organized by The Chennai Bloggers Club.

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You can find the complete set of Love Letters titled “From Chennai, With Love” on Amazon
Also find a detailed review by Mr. Vishal here
Posted in Chennai Bloggers Club

The Other Side

The story so far :

  1. A Haunted Memory
  2. Three Strokes of Red
  3. The Red Saree
  4. Black Heart
  5. Who’s next???
  6. 3 NUMB3RS
  7. Will-O’-the-Wisp
  8. Ressurection
  9. I Watched You!
  10. Fates Entwined


“Madam, please do not attempt to make any calls.”

Annie was taken aback, the voice was squeaky; but the tone, stern and frightening. Not the one to be easily scared, she asked, “And why? Who are you to order me?”

“Please, you are in danger. Don’t meet Prakash.”

Annie was puzzled; is he commanding or requesting? How does he know what she is up to?

“Stop the car”,

she said, as she continued to dial him frantically. The mobile network was betraying her. She tried to open the windows and started screaming.

With great difficulty trying to close the windows and lock the doors, he tossed his ID card across to her and said, “I am ACP, Noel and I have been with Prakash for more than a decade.”

Annie knew how to spot a fake police ID, she has played with one so many times. Yes, the ID is not fake and it bore the words “ACP Noel Joy”.

“You are the next, you will be killed. Don’t go to Prakash”, he repeated.

Annie would not distrust her fiance. She told the driver to stop the car. She had to go to her Prakash, who had been waiting at the gallery. Noel had to stop.

Annie was sure, she would never doubt her Prakash.


Never had he been so restless, the red of his eye against the soft pastels on the wall, like red roses in winter.

He could never miss it; juxtaposing the sites of the first 7 murders that made Jack the Ripper famous, the artist had done a neat job – “Three Strokes of Red”

Tagged - CBC event - Jack the ripper 3 strokes of red


“So you also like the Jack!” Ha, ha.. ha.. the room echoed with his laugh.

“Now there is competition; but how did he get it there?”

“I am not scared. I have trained myself well, too well”, he said shaking the crystal vases neatly arranged on the stairs.

He calmed himself down.

Before succumbing to cancer, Rajarathnam had spent all his love and patience to protect his dear child and trained him well that he may not get into any trouble. He cried, cried for his dad and went to his memories.

L-I-S-S-Y …….. L-I-I-I-I-S-S-S-S-Y …… LISSY, woman you did it. You brought it out. You made me lose my control; you played with my emotions. How many times did I tell you not to mock my love? Why did you go to his lust? He never cared for you. He was greedy, and made money illegally. You never liked it. You hated his ways, buy why did you love him? Why did you bear his child?


What was I? A fool?


Your anger made you redder, your love for that idiot made you redder, the glow of a mother made you redder. Yes, I was mad. I should have killed you and not left. I loved the baby too,  I could not kill it. LISSY, you better not make me regret.

************He moves to his workstation and opens his box of treasures***********

“MARY” bore the last vial.

You were sexy and lively and red. I could not have killed my girl, she wore red, but I loved her. I don’t lust her. I can’t kill her, but you, he said holding the vial, “you were ecstasy”.


Elevators always made her giddy.

She trusted Prakash, she found him odd at times, but she trusted him.

However, she agreed to meet Noel.

She was lost…


Were there more murders if I’m the next?

Her brain was rummaging through the past few days’ events.

Nothing is amiss….

Suddenly, she remembered, the last minute entry, “Three Strokes of Red”. There was no time left to debate. She let it be exhibited. But; but what about it?



Note : This post is a part of the “Tagged” Contest by writer Kaarthika and The Chennai Bloggers Club. Kaarthika’s book is being released on May 29.


Now I tag Malavikka to take this forward 🙂