Story time with Manju

It was a night draped in darkness and shadows, the monsoon rains pounding relentlessly on the deserted streets of Mumbai. The city’s usual hum was drowned out by the relentless clatter of rain and broken glimpses of streetlights flickering through the downpour. Amid this bleak scene, a young girl named Aisha , drenched to the bone , stood trembling in a black rain jacket , the hood of which covering most of her forehead , hair damp and clinging onto her face and shoulders , under a faded lamppost, clutching her mobile phone with wet sweaty palms. Her voice was trembling as she dialed the police station. “Please, I need help. I saw a dead body in the trunk of that white sedan parked on Mankikar Marg , Chunabhatti. It’s... it’s horrible.” Her words tumbled out in frantic whispers, punctuated by the howling wind and the incessant patter of rain .  Within minutes, sirens wailed through the rain as police cars arrived, their beams casting eerie shadows across the wet street . Officers h...

15th June 2016— a date that will forever stay etched in my memory, for it marked a profound turning point in my life. That day, I lost my beloved husband, Milind. Throughout my life, I was deeply spiritual and religious, placing immense faith in the power of prayers. Yet, during the tumultuous days of June 12th to 15th, no prayer or plea could alter my fate. I was left feeling bereft, helpless, and filled with anger towards God and the universe. In my grief, I ceased praying and stopped lighting the evening lamp. My humble home temple gathered dust; the lamps remained unlit, bearing the remnants of past rituals of faith and devotion. Life moved forward, but my anger and despair toward the divine grew. I seethed in my grief until, one day—just before Ganesh Chaturthi—I received a WhatsApp image of Shree Siddhivinayak Ganpati from one of my husband's clients. He was elderly, and I remembered feeling a calming aura during our brief interactions. I continued to delete the images withou...

  Madhuri entered the Bapat household as a newly wed bride , with dreams in her eyes coupled with tears shed due     to a mixed emotional turmoil, reflecting her state of mind . Her tears reflected her grief of leaving the comfortable cocoon of her parents home , the apprehension towards the life to be , and of course , the joy of living the rest of her life with the man of her choice , Jaideep . An intelligent, quiet, handsome and loving young man . As she kicked and stepped on the bowl of rice , as was the tradition, she managed a faint smile amidst all her emotional turmoil. Jaideep , on the other hand, held her hand firmly in a show of support. Mrs Bapat , Jaideep’s mother held the Aarti thaali , eyes brimming with tears of joy as his father, Mr Bapat,     looked on , eyes full of love .    The Bapats were well known in the society for their simplicity and humbleness . Theirs was a typical middle class Maharashtrian Koknastha Brahmin household. Gra...

  My mother in law, Ruta Phadke, popularly known as Aaji by everyone in the colony and at home, was a very social and talkative lady. She used to smile and greet everyone, whether she knew the person or not . We used to often tease her saying that “ Aaji can also talk to a tree”. She could strike a conversation with almost anyone, language no bar, she could converse fluently in her broken Hindi and English . A phone call from Aaji meant that you had to keep at least half an hour aside , she used to fill the other person with all the family news, right from giving recipes to teaching music.( She was a Sangeet Visharad)  My father in law took very ill and expired in July 2015. She couldn’t accept his loss and slowly started slipping into depression. My daughters, Manasi , Sayali, my Son in law, Bhushan , my husband Milind and I , made all efforts to help her cope with the loss. Gradually she started becoming her old talkative self again . We heaved a sigh of relief . In June 201...

Romance is a universal emotion, with no exception, beyond any barriers.  My introduction to the word Romance dates back to the late 1960’s, when I was probably just about 5-6 years old.  Delhi zoo has always had a special place in my heart and till date, whenever I visit Delhi, I try my hardest to visit the zoo. I have many pleasant memories of our routine Sunday picnics to the zoo, with my father, mother and sister.  My father was a wild life enthusiast and he would take us every Sunday to the zoo. We would see the Royal Bengal Tiger, the White Tiger, Lion, monkeys , but my most loved spot was where Raja and Rani lived.  Raja and Rani were a pair of chimpanzees and lived in an open cage, surrounded by a water moat. There was a landscaped hillock, some planted trees , an Asoka tree in particular, in whose shade Raja and Rani would play and unabashedly display their love for each other. “ Baba, they are not monkeys, they are just like us humans”, the little me exclaim...

  Mita sighed and put the newspaper away in disdain . “ No point in even    reading this advertisement Aai”, she said sadly. “ What’s the point ? I don’t even get time for my regular practice, how will I even attend this summer school by Guru Shashvati Sen”, she said as she started preparing for her day . Mita was a fierce journalist , excellent at her work . Dancing    was not just a hobby for her; it was her soul’s language, a divine art that brought her immense joy and solace. From her school days, she had dedicated herself to the classical dance form of Kathak, studying with unwavering commitment and earning the coveted title of Kathak Visharad with flying colors. Yet, despite her mastery, her dream of completing the prestigious Nritya Alankar in Kathak remained unfulfilled, lingering quietly in her heart and filling her with sadness each time she thought about it.  As the years went by, life’s responsibilities pulled Mita in different directions. Her d...