Lama understood the youngster’s angst. ‘Sepoy,’ he reasoned, ‘God knows that it’s not who fired the shot but who paid for the bullet that is to be blamed. This isn’t your burden. It’s the Brigadier General’s. Open fire!’ Lama’s words found their mark.
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The day I turned 45, it hit me that my middle-age was characterized by middle-class mediocrity. Was this going to be the blueprint of my boring life? Or, did I still have time to try out new things and make memories to reflect upon in my old age?
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When I look at her, I see not the imperfections heaped on her by society or the blemishes that rabid gossip has left. I only see the beauty bestowed by God. That is my aphrodisiac. I tack that vision to the fabric of my love and stitch it up tightly in my heart.
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I was chomping into a leg of Chicken leg when... A murder! It was a murder! My blood curdled at the sight. I tell you, the chicken that I was eating could not have squawked louder than I did at that point. They noticed.
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A lone, stout candle flickered inside the cottage. By its light an industrious servant worked. He was bent over a massive table heaped with an assortment of items. He grunted as he laboured over his task of rummaging through them and sorting them.
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Warm tears welled up in Aastha’s eyes. ‘Bappa,’ she prayed silently. Any statement that began with that combination of words spelled bad news, didn’t it?
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Sonal Singh On Sonal's Table
