Luck's Labour Lost

Hi everybody. I am Luck. People call me lucky but only when they feel that I’ve exercised my power on their destiny otherwise, they tale the detestable ‘un’ behind me.

I don’t know my age, but I am on people’s lips since….time immemorial….I guess..
I reside in a coin..no.. in a bracelet..no.. in a friendship band..na..in a leaf..no..no..in a dress..no.. yesterday a little girl was telling that her earrings are lucky for her…but… today a man told his wife that she was his lucky charm.. Oh! I can’t give you my definite address you see. But you don’t need one because I am always around you. I always try to make you win a lottery or a game, spare you from your teacher’s scolding miraculously, make you meet your that “special someone”, and even help you to pass in exams by providing a lenient examiner in a merciful mood to your otherwise almost blank answer sheets. Yes, you very sweetly acknowledge and thank me and say “I’m the luckiest person in the world.” Oh how happy I feel after getting such recognition.
But whenever I fail to do so then ah….you shower such pricking, piercing, pinching curses on me. Don’t I feel bad? Look, I’m one and I’ve more than 6 billion people to look after. When I’m busy with an expecting mother in labor or when I’m with a blind man crossing road then I find a boy looking at his not so good progress report card and uttering “Gosh my luck is so bad”. See, now what can I do? Was it not his responsibility to have done hard work to overcome his so called “hard luck”? You know, in these cases, if an endeavor is backed up by a hard work then the task becomes easier for me as I get a strong helping hand.
So please stop breaking my heart and understand my plight because I feel very bad when I fail to help you. And yes, make sure that you always contribute some of your bit to my tough job. Have a lucky day!!

Friends on a Journey

Friends- Love them or hate them but you can’t live without them. They are the first rain after scorching heat, the thick blanket in piercing cold, the flower in a desert, the blissful morning after a dark night, and….mmmm..aa..yes.. the plaster on a broken bone.
But we hate to bestow them with such metaphors when we face their merciless birthday bumps, their furiously beaming faces when they eagerly wait for us to cut the cake so that they wantonly massage it on our face without even caring for our sensitive sense organs, and their grinning faces when they succeed in pulling our legs at formal places. Gosh.. they take the cake in mischief department.
But we want to shower them with such metaphors when they lend their shoulders to us to cry on, when they jump with joy in our happiness, when they hold our hand while crossing the busy road, when they strive to make us smile in blues, and when they assure us that they are always there…

These are the ingredients that make a delicious dish called friendship. We take bites after bites and feel how different each morsel tastes. Different people have different habits but it is when they come into close proximity with us that we realize how similar they are, yet so unique in their own way.
The problem arises when we expect to see a reflection of ourselves in them but when we accept them as what they are we find that they are better than our expectations and then starts the jovial journey of friendship.

So go ahead and take a joy ride with your friends.

Her Decision

“I need a divorce” was the first sentence he uttered after coming back from work. How mellifluously he had summarized their four year relationship in those four hateful words, Cathy thought.
“So is this your final decision?” she asked.
“Yes, I can’t live with you anymore” he snapped.
She gave him a dry look and said in a low tone “I know, you’ve said this before” she paused “but never before our marriage.”
“Yes because before that you weren’t so possessive, you weren’t so fussy, you weren’t so finicky and neither were you so foolish as you are now” he declared loudly.
She lost her temper “ I’ve always been the same John. There was a time when you loved me for all those traits which you so bitterly pointed out. Besides, you don’t need to find faults in me to cover up your ongoing affair with Jessica.” She said gruffly.
He was stunned “How-how do you know about that?”
“Well at least this proves that I’m not foolish. Anyway, you’ve asked for a divorce today, but I’ve signed the papers already. Here-“ throws them at his face “I’ve always endeavoured to make you happy John and this one is my last.” She turned around and walked out of his life forever.

It had been five years. Cathy was sitting on the lavish sofa of her new flat…lost in the memories of the past, when she and John were together. She didn’t want them, but they came rushing back to her. It is not easy to forget your first love after all.
Suddenly, two tiny, soft arms hung around her neck. It was the five year old Danny. She took him in her arms. “Oh, how much he resembles John” she thought.
“Mumma, when am I going to meet my Daddy?” asked Danny with hopes in his eyes.
“When your Daddy will come to know that he has a son.” replied Cathy.

That Unsung Hero

What do we envisage when we hear the word beggar? Very obviously a dirty looking, skinny, handicapped, invalid fellow with his palms outstretched to us. Probably many more adjectives could be added to our imagination. We always come across them especially on a train journey but seldom do we pay attention to them even if we are generous enough to throw one or two penny at them. But in one of my train journeys, this one beggar not only caught my attention but even made me brood.
Well, I was on my way to Kolkata. The train stopped at one small station. Amidst all the hallaballoo of the vendours, suddenly came a voice that made all the passengers of my compartment to turn around. A blind, petite man with an underdeveloped arm was thumping his “dafli” and was singing the lyrics “shukriya shukriya dard jo tumne diya”(thank you god for the pain you gave me). The rhythm of his thumping was perfectly matching the ebb and flow of his crystal voice. It seemed that each note of his voice was experiencing the pain of his life. But he was smiling and singing and thumping without sacrificing the melody. His voice, his expressions and his music was in perfect sync with one another but were unable to hide his agony. There was a stunned silence except his echoing voice.
He stopped singing and everybody resumed their chatting, eating, and reading, but I couldn’t help myself from brooding over that how we keep complaining about everything in life without realizing that there is a tougher life from which we have been spared. But what about unfortunate people like this blind beggar…..instead of complaining, he was thanking God.
After finishing the song, he outstretched his lean palm to everyone. Some gave him, some chided him and some treated him with apathy. Finally, he came up to me and I gave him two rupees. He gave me blessings and moved out of our compartment to another one and started singing again. I could hear his faint but melodious voice and thought- Was my two rupees worth the extraordinary talent of that unsung hero?