Blind Love

At the onset

battling the awkward sea

of silence and unfamiliarity

we drifted towards each other

saving the best

of ourselves 

from the world

to exhibit, serve

to get love

once the facade of novelty

wore out

and you saw the scars

you retreated

and I stood there

naked, like a fool

displaying my soul

to someone

who couldn't see 

beyond my cleavage

Who says

love is blind

it is selective delusion !

Roles We Play #FlashFiction

Niru was accompanying him to one of his creative workshops. She was no resource person or anything but just to travel with him, hear him speak. Yes, she was completely smitten by Hiten.

The venue was abuzz with the participants, all young people, some fairly attractive and there he was the cynosure of all eyes, the muse, the mentor , the artist.

Hiten was punctual, he started the workshop in time. Niru was still busy observing people, one young man in particular, reminded her of Hiten years ago, paint on his shirt, pencils scattered before him, completely lost in his creation.

Almost instinctively Niru walked up to him, put her hand on his shoulder and in a confident voice that surprised even herself , she said, " Please be careful about the intensity of your strokes, they define your depth. I am Niru , your Hiten sir's trainer years ago, now wife!"

Hiten just smiled. Niru had finally succumbed to her seven year itch and was back to painting.

This post is part of a blogathon/ BarAthon at Blogarhythm

Fame #FlashFiction

Shyamu sold cigarettes, matches, and tit-bits near a busy crossing in Delhi. He had been here since a decade and now proudly called himself a shop owner in Delhi whenever he visited his village, courtesy his small paan-shack on the pavement.

But the fact was life was as mundane as it could be, between the shop and his small 8 feet by 8 feet jhuugi in a nearby slum cluster, he was lonely and frustrated as hell. Often he visited GB road for cheap sex but that didn't resolve the loneliness part.

One late night as Shyamu was about to shut shop and go back to his room, the pavement dwellers had squattered their skimpy beddings all over the pavement near his shack, Shyamu was hit by a loud thud.....

He opened his eyes in what seemed like a government hospital, flashes clicking and TV cameras and mikes being thrust on to him from every corner....

Shyamu finally had his six minutes of fame , the lone survivor of a road rage accident involving a famous politician's son.... Shyamu was struggling with his words.

This post is part of a blogathon/BarAThon at Blogarhythm