The holy month of Ramzan

[Continuing on my Festivals of Bombay series. This is the month of Ramzan, and for the last few weeks, the cry of the muezzin has served as my alarm clock- there is something strangely soothing about faith, even if it is not your own.]

The holy month of Ramzan. When the faithful fast from sunrise to sunset. Not a morsel of food passes their lips, nor a drop of water quenches their thirst. And after evening prayers, they break their fast with a single date, as the Prophet Mohammad is said to have done.

My friend's teenage daughter kept the fast for a day last year. Her father is Hindu, her mother Catholic. But her friends are Muslim, and she wanted to do it with them. She barely survived the day- her friends do it 30 days in a row.
Such is true faith.

_____

A drabble is a story told in exactly 100 words.

It was a dark and stormy night

"It was a dark and stormy night...", began Stella. Her granddaughter groaned, "but Nana, why do all your stories being the same way?"
"Because stories always begin on dark stormy nights."
"And then something nasty happens, and after a couple of twists and turns, everything works out fine. Right, Nana?" Stella nodded, though she didn't quite like the tone her granddaughter was using.
"But, Nana, it is dark and stormy tonight. And because there is no electricity, you are telling me stories. What's nasty about tonight?"
Stella smiled. "True. Forget that one. I'll tell you a story about my childhood."
________

This is a drabble (a story in exactly 100 words), based on the prompt for Jenny Matlock's 18th Saturday Centus. No points for guessing what the prompt is.

It is inspired by the countless evenings when I would sit on the balcony with my grandmother, hearing her tell me stories from her childhood.

My grandmother was one of my dearest friends, so this is as good a time as any to pass on an Award that I got from a dear friend who also counts her grandmother as her first real friend. Hart Johnson who herself is a great hoarder of Awards passed on the Awesomous Maximus Award to me a couple of months back.
I'm going to pass the Award onto a few Awesome people I met AFTER I received the Award-
Leigh @ That's Write - not only do we share a birthday, we were born in the same year- weren't we just meant to be friends?
Mary @ Giggles and Guns - she loves her family, laughing and a good mystery. I love her.
Julie Musil - one of us is definitely channeling the other - we often end up blogging about very similar stuff on the same day. Isn't that fun?
Tina @ Life is Good - we have so much in common, it is almost uncanny, and I am not just talking about the fact that we would compete with each other to fall off a bar-stool when sober.
Barbara @ The Middle Ages - one half of Deb and Barbara, I seem to be where she was a couple of years back- which gives me hope.
Jules @ Trying to get Over the Rainbow - if you have ever loved a grandmother, you have to read about her love for her's.
Girls, I love you all.

So there you are, six new people for you to get to know better, and one less hoarded award for me!

And after visiting all those blogs, if you have some time, do drop by at Burrowers, Books & Balderdash to hear me wondering how we managed without YA in our life?

A Teacher's Life

Detail from the Card made for
his teacher by my son.

[This is a work of fiction, though it is based on several of the wonderful teachers I knew.]

"Whatever I am today is because of you."
"Ma'am, you taught me to believe in myself."
"You were such an example to me."
"When I look for a school for my children, I look for teachers like you."

At my retirement party, the outpouring of affection from generations of my students brought tears to my eyes. All these years of believing I was a failure, because I knew I was unsuccessful in teaching my students trigonometry and calculus. When actually, I had achieved something far more important. I had taught my girls to take their rightful place in the world.
_____

A drabble is a story told in exactly 100 words.

[September 5 is celebrated as Teacher's Day in India, in honour of the second President of India, Dr. S. Radhakrishnan. Two years back, I had ranted about how we had forgotten him and other leaders who deserve to be remembered, here.]

Once Upon a Time

Hoarding for the movie overlooking
the city that is now Mumbai

"Once Upon a Time in Mumbai" is a Bollywood movie loosely based on the life of an erstwhile mafia don. It is in the news for all the wrong reasons, mainly to do with how broadly you can define the term 'based on the life of' as.

But in that hullabaloo, people are overlooking the fact that name itself is an anachronism. The movie is set in the 70s, when the city was still called Bombay*. But people who seek to re-write history by changing the name to one that never existed, are not too concerned with facts, are they?

_____

A drabble is a story told in exactly 100 words.


* The city that is now Bombay/ Mumbai was just a collection of villages till the British realised that the excellent harbour made it an ideal location for a city. The city was built by British, who therefore had every right to call it by whatever name they chose. They called it Bombay, and for over four decades after they handed over government to the Indians, that was the name by which the city was known.
Then politicians decided to generate mileage by re-naming the city Mumbai, a name that never existed, except as a corruption of Bombay. Wouldn't it be great if it were as easy to re-write history as it is to re-name a city?

Life on the Street

Where commuters see a perceptual traffic jam, he sees a business opportunity. He acquires roses in bulk, to sell to people waiting impatiently for the traffic lights to change. He doesn't sell the flowers himself- he oversees the fleet of children and women who do the actual selling. He doles out bunches of flowers to them, collects the money, pays them their share, and gives advice on selling techniques.

A few years back, he was a flower seller himself. One of those grimy faced, but cheerful boys who presses a bunch of flowers wrapped in cellophane against your car window, and bargains cheerfully with you on the price even as you tell him you don't even want the flowers. 

He is functionally illiterate, though he can add, subtract and calculate discounts faster than the well educated commuters he sells to. He may not know much beauty in his life, but his aesthetic sensibilities are high when it comes to arranging flowers into fetching bouquets.

Hard work, an ability to asset himself, and a few lucky breaks have pushed him up the value chain- he now makes more money than he did as a seller, but it is not enough.

He is a street dweller, who calls the pavement under the flyover his home. The clothes line strung across the pavement is not a washing line; it is the closet he shares with his extended family of flower sellers. The fluttering fabric occasionally provides the illusion of privacy; the wooden planks serve as beds at night.

He is willing to do whatever it takes to better himself, but he also knows that it takes more than just grit and determination to break out of poverty. He is pragmatic and determined, but just once in awhile, he needs the narcotic of escapism- a Bollywood movie.

The Pot of Butter

[Lord Krishna, one of the most loved Gods of the Hindu Pantheon was born at midnight. His birthday is a day of celebrations across the country. This is how it is celebrated in Bombay.]


The world may now know him as a God, but growing up in Brindavan, Krishna was just the naughtiest of all the kids. He would steal butter from the kitchens of the village women. They took to hanging their pots of butter from the rafters, but he always managed to reach them. They knew he was lying when he said, "Main nahin makhan chor/ I am no butter thief", but couldn't stop loving him.

Once a year to commemorate his birth, decorated pots are strung high above the street and youth make human pyramids to reach them. Winners take all.

_____

A drabble is a story told in exactly 100 words.

Janmashtami

[Lord Krishna, one of the most loved Gods of the Hindu Pantheon will be born at midnight. Here's the story of his birth, which is celebrated as Janmashtami across the country.]


On a dark and stormy night, in the deepest dungeons, a baby boy was born. The eighth son of Princess Devaki, imprisoned by her brother, King Kansa. The child prophesied to kill his evil uncle and bring peace to the world. The child would have been slaughtered, as all his siblings were. But a humble cowherd substituted his new born child, and took him away to be raised as his own.

Who's heart was bigger? The mother who sacrificed her own child, and lavished her affection on another. Or the mother who gave up her child, so he could live?

_____

A drabble is a story told in exactly 100 words.

Picture credit