After a year of pleasant summer in Malnad, Madhu was terrorised to see her maternal cousin come after her to paternal grand parents house “I think you are gorgeous” he beamed at Tunga, who giggled with pleasure.Madhu stared at his eyes they moved all over her body undressing her in his gaze, emanating sexual energy.She approached Dhanu “ I don’t know how this can be done, but I want him out of this house by evening”

He asked her one question “What about your mother?” Madhu replied “ I can handle that” later  he had kept his word. But he was disturbed, and then at night he had invited her to play a game of chess with him, snapping at her repeatedly, He wanted her to be aggressive, wanted her to beat him. His attitude was patronizing, but his game was not.She kept losing, he had chided “ I thought you were smart you don’t even think when you are upset” Then she had concentrated on the game, decided to give back his game to him and beaten him by a pawn.He had insisted that she play on behalf of the white King.He was elated with her victory, more than she was , it was crucial for him to know that there was a battle in her blood, her mind could strategise and destroy an enemy.Then he heated water with the fire wood , so that she could have a bath, and go with him to the local Marikamba temple.He had taken her till then to only ruined temples built centuries ago, the Gods there had been deserted, some were damaged with a cut nose, or arm, or leg or thumb. It was custom to create a mark of imperfection to a perfect idol. But damaged God was still a God.But there was no worship offered to a damaged god, it was considered to be unlucky.

Though he meant well, the visit to the perfect temple, and meeting that undamaged goddess of fury, had damaged Madhu with a silent force of the need to spell her innocence. That bath made her look for dirt in the nook and corners of her body; they were young, and merely budding. Now she wanted to behead some jasmines, with their tender stalks, and wide spreading fragrance.


This is the final quote of  3 rd day challenge , nominated by Dheeraj Dave  My Pain My Property . I thank Dheeraj Dave for the nomination. Thank you Dheeraj for all your support .

“Better to have beasts that let themselves be killed than men who run away ” -Jean -Paul -Sartre.. 

I liked this quote because in times of real distress , less educated men , those who were known for their aggression have come to my rescue , and somehow this explained the beauty and the beast to me , sometimes all you need is someone who shows up , stands up and says I am here……they may be aggressive , yet more human than those who think and decide it is a dangerous situation and they are there for coffee table conversations when it is safe.

If hatred strikes you , if you get accused , thrown to the lions , you can expect one of the two reactions from people who know you some of them will join in the kill , the others will discreetly pretend to know nothing , so you can go right on seeing them and hearing them and talking to them . That second category , discreet and tactful are your friends- Milan Kundera 

Perhaps Sartre meant that better to have beasts as your friends than the second category.

My nominations are 


3an 1

anisou luz



I saw her in  the  wards , two big sunken eyes , a wasted body of bones , in the hospital wards. An efficient surgeon had dissected parts of her intestine and grafted it to her esophagus , the surgery had gone on for hours….she could not speak easily …she had consumed  sulfuric acid….I was here to understand the suicidal act . But the house surgeon who was taking care said ” This was not suicide , this girl was working very well in a small packing industry that employed 11 workers. She was too poor , raised by a single parent , a mother who is mentally ill. Because she worked too well , the owner increased her wages and began to show her as an ideal to others. They were so infuriated , that on one day when she was very thirsty , they put sulfuric acid in her water bottle , she drank that half bottle , she lived because the bottle was half empty ” ……my throat was dry……it did not make a difference to me . My eyes were moist.


She wanted to desert her gods, a small idol of Krishna, a metallic head of Shiva made from five metals, under the shade of some temple tree, next to the stand of slippers. She had often wondered why people dumped their private idols in a public place of worship, now she was one of them. The knowledge of their presence among her nail polish , sawed her soul.The letters EROS should be spelt backwards for SORE, a sight to sore eyes…….she reversed some other words like MADAM, EVE, they were the same, “backwards’ she said to every other word, reversing them. Those who impressed her with their consistency were jotted down in her book. There were more flowers, some more bouquets of roses sent, by Rake, hoping to overwhelm, Madhu was annoyed. She had no breakfast, she had no appetite, her mother ignored the flowers, and so did Madhu. The house was tense about the elections of her father. Madhu did not bathe; she picked her gods, took some money and went to college.

She went to the blood bank, attached to the Victoria Hospital she wanted to donate some blood. She signed the form and laid on the cot covered with white bedsheets with no prints.The sight of her blood in a neat bottle, for some unknown anaemic woman or man, made her feel strong, human and sexless not like a torn female rabbit, thrown out of the moon. She felt slightly cleansed by this act. She went to the book shop bought some murder mysteries, of Agatha Christie; it would be consoling to read about murders, she chose Miss Marple as the detective. She felt less alone with the books in her hand bag; she had to get rid of the gods.

She went to the near by Ganesh temple, she sat on the stone bench, in the temple. It was afternoon, so the main door was locked, the temple was deserted, except for one old woman circling the Banyan tree, she would go one round clock wise another anti clockwise. Madhu watched this for almost half an hour, she felt faint. At the end of it she walked up to the old woman stopped her, and said “ I think you should stop this, have you eaten some thing?” that lady meekly followed Madhu to the bench, then she  slept, on the bench which was so hot, because of the winter sun. Madhu felt utterly helpless, looking at this woman, it was too hot to sit there, and she removed the book ‘death’ by drowning and read, it was a very predictable story of a young girl being murdered by her lover’s woman friend.  What was this old woman besides her attempting? To reverse some life, to reset the clock?  Madhu’s gods were three; Krishna was the love of life, Shiva to conquer death, Christ to forgive life. Madhu did not want to discard Christ; his prayer book was at home. May be she would require Shiva, she was in a profession to conquer death. She felt sorry for Krishna, like her lost innocence, she decided to give it to her sister. She watched the sleeping figure of the mad woman, there was such vulnerability and so much faith in those circles, whose wife was she? Where was her child? May be her parents were dead.  She believed in that tree. Why the compulsion to reverse a cycle? Once the speed is on which is up or down in a cycle? Like the motion of the wind, or water in the ocean, cycles moved undirected, inspired by the universal energy. The temple was closed, no stone idols or perfect statues, not even a glimpse. But this enormous mad faith in the living tree, sleeping like a child on this hot bench, head full of silvery hair. Madhu patted the sleeping head, she had rescued her gods. When she reached home, it was almost five in the evening.





3 Day Quote Challenge -2nd Day

I thank Dheeraj Dave for his nomination. His site is My pain my property.

“The real hopeless victims of mental illnesses are to be found among those who appear to be most normal. Many of them are normal because they are so well adjusted to our mode of existence , because their human voice has been silenced so early in their lives, that they do not even struggle nor suffer or develop symptoms as the neurotic does. They are normal in what may be called the absolute sense of the word. They are normal only in relation to a profoundly abnormal society. Their perfect adjustment to that abnormal society is a measure of their mental sickness. These millions of abnormally normal people living with out fuss in a society to which if they were fully human beings , they ought not to be adjusted. —–ALDOUS HUXLEY ( BRAVE NEW WORLD) ”

I work in mental health and I feel the opposite of stigma, I feel positively biased towards  mentally ill since their illnesses are sometimes a protest against the abnormal society.

My nominations are

Yakshan 66




I thought it was highway hypnosis, the way he answered every song that I hummed with another in the car drive. He converted a musical monologue in to a dialogue. I was humming songs to forget death, to me that was reverence for life. He was reminding me to live, they were love songs. Why did I start singing lullabies? Did I know he had not slept in years? Or was I missing my mother, who got jealous when father listened to me more keenly than to her? He stopped the car at a motel, drank as his family felt disrepute and innocently small. He looked at all the wrong places and it was enlightening to know he did not judge lust, he understood it. But he judged virtue to be a sham, he did not understand it…..we passed a temple of Lion man. I felt a flash of a struggle. He fought fathers. All his life, the reasonable, the unreasonable fathers in general  ….And all of a sudden I wanted my father like a little girl. I wanted to go home and not to the green room.


I thank my dear friend Dheeraj Dave ” My Pain My Property”  nominating me for this challenge , it is an honor and I do read a lot of this as pearls of wisdom……Do visit his site for awesome poetry.

This may sound instructional and a bit too long for a quote……yet I loved these words of Bob Marley .

You may not be her first , her last or her only. She loved before and she may love again. But if she loves you you now, what else matters ? She is not perfect -you aren't either and the two of you may never be perfect together but if she can make you laugh cause you to think twice and admit to being human and making mistakes hold onto her and give her the most you can . She may not be thinking about you every second of the day but she will give you a part of her that she knows you can break -her heart.So don't hurt her,don't change her don't analyze 
don't expect more than she can give, smile when she makes you happy let her know when she makes you mad and miss her when she is not there. 


Robert Nesta “Bob” Marley , OM was a Jamaican singer -song writer , musician and guitarist who achieved great fame and success blending mostly reggae, ska and rocksteady in his compositions.

My nominations are

Written therapy


Anshika sharma.





I did possess many diaries

A diary of visits to parks, restaurants, cinema,of picnics

I had a scrap book of parking tickets for a cinema

Bills of a restaurant, flowers given by the hermit

In a temple, feathers collected in bird sanctuaries

Hall tickets of the examinations I passed….

I hoarded memories.

As though someone could steal them from me….

I even stuck pictures of hearts, leaves, my own little poems behind these

Lest I forget the feeling…

Time did stamp most of these mementos with betrayals

I began to steal the feelings from these memories

Tearing off pages

Throwing away thoughts in a flowing river

Drowning dreams in sleeping tablets

Erasing ambitions with routine

Substituting love with duty

Replacing kisses with verses

Melting embraces in lonely blankets

Transferring love to pebbles of Zen

Now I understand that language can translate

solitude in to words

 If words can stand alone why did I translate ?