On dealing with loss

Not many people know that I am an orphan … in the classic sense of the word.  My father died more than a decade ago, and my mother about four years ago.  But that was to be expected, considering that I am in my fifties.

The death that shook the foundations of my being was the death of my brother.  I was 22 and he was 21.

People thought we were twins, since we were very close and always completing each other’s sentences.  We had a bond that was very strong, and we had a sibling war happening every minute of the day - even after I was married and lived away.

At first I felt rage.  Uncontrollable rage, because I felt he betrayed me by dying.  Wasn’t it our unspoken pact to be there for each other?  Why did he have to be a jackass and die on me?  I know its not rational – heck I even knew it then … but the emotion was there nevertheless.  Then came the agony, the pain, the suffering, the tears that could not be stemmed.

I did a lot of things to cope.

But with time the pain left.  There is a God up somewhere, I firmly believe that.  He is indifferent to the suffering humanity in his own way.  Not a sadist, but not a mother clucking over us and trying to shelter us from whatever pain and suffering we face.  Supremely indifferent to our tears, he nevertheless gives us the strength to carry on and the power to heal us.

With me what happened was that the pain became the balm.

Not a day goes by without remembering Dony.  When I see siblings fight, tease each other or hug each other, I am reminded of Dony.  My sons remind me of him, the way they wrestle, pillow fight and tease each other.

But I remember him with a smile.  He was not perfect, he was quite a pain in the butt.  But he was my brother, my companion, my partner in countless pranks.  No memory of my childhood is complete without him.

I wrote my first book, A Bowlful of Butterflies, as a celebration of the bond between siblings.

It is my tribute to brothers and sisters around the world.  It is my humble effort to relive and translate into words the bond I shared with my brother, the bond I carry in my heart and mind forever.

Seeing the book in print brought tears to my eyes, but with a smile.

Live on Dony and yes, if you tear any page of my book, I will hunt you  to the end of the universe, find you, and kick you in the ass!

 

Parents raise you, the spouse lives with you, but it is siblings who really shape you as a person

 

 

Role Reversal

Em woke up and stretched languidly and then looked around. Her eyes fell on Y asleep next to her. A well placed nudge in the rear woke up the prone figure. Y quickly hopped out of the bed. A slight frown reminded him of his duties. He quickly scurried towards the kitchen to start the morning repast. The full bladder would have to wait. Relief would come later once Em’s needs were satisfied.

Em looked after the departing figure distastefully. Really Y would have to get his act together. He was failing to excite Em. He was too tame, the thrill was missing. Em was overcome with a strange sense of restlessness. She wanted the thrill, the excitement of the hunt and the taming.

The repast was on the table when Em came out, fully dressed. Y was busy setting the steaming cup of caffeine next to Em’s plate. Em picked up the newspaper to avoid looking at Y’s drab figure. So boring …

Em hastily finished the morning repast and rushed out. In the open she kept its eyes on the road. Soon she spotted him, dressed in shorts and a singlet. What a man! He walked around with his chest thrown out and his butt moving in a very sensual way. His body language said that he was hot and available. He must not be owned by any one.

Well, he was free to be hunted.

She felt a flush of heat in her genitals. My God! She was wet just looking at this man! This was the thrill stupid Y could not give her. That poor creature went overboard to please. It was useful, but not sexually exciting. She wanted the challenge.

Em took a photo of the man on her cellphone. She would look him up, find out all about him. She smiled a huntress’s smile. The thrill was back in her life.

She rang up home. Y picked up the phone.

“Honey I will be late today. Don’t keep dinner for me. Something has come up”

The hunt was on ….

My letter to Femina

Respected Sir/Madam,
This letter is in reference to the very short story that you have published in your issue of May 5, 2011.

The short story in question was written by me and first put on my blog, which is under Creative Commons License. Later, it was given to Mr. Prashant Karhade who published it in an anthology of short stories by contemporary women writers “Ripples” The MOU was drawn by Mr. Prashant Karhade for all the contributing writers, and it was stated clearly in the MOU that the copyrights of the stories rests with the author concerned.

I am writing this letter to you out of sheer disappointment. I was under the impression that a reputed magazine like Femina would at least contact an author and take her permission before publishing her story. The original story was mangled, edited poorly and without my permission and then published.

I am a blogger and you have clearly given my blog link under the story. You could have given me the kind courtesy of at least taking my permission before publishing my story, and not tampered with the original.

When I brought this to your notice, you were kind enough to mail me a personal apology, blaming it on the “oversight” of your feature writer of the page.

I sincerely do not think that this is adequate recompense. You have said repeatedly on Twitter that you are looking into the matter. I wonder how much time you need to reply to my mail as well as take steps to “make up for the error” as you kindly assured me in your email of May 26th 2011.

I look forward to a speedy reply from you.

With regards
Ritu Lalit

The Femina fiasco

We are bloggers, we write because it is our passion. And we pride ourselves in our originality. We are unique and creative and that is our sole reason for blogging. No, scratch that. We also get a rush from the comments, the interaction with the visitors to our blog. I can remember walking on air when I found out that people read the feeds to my blog. How cool is that? I had this huge grin on my face people and my family informs me that I was a huge pain for a while.

I have kept the blog ad free, but I am possessive about my content. I gave a couple of stories off my blog to Prashant Karhade of APK Publishers. One was a very short story titled “My Daughter’s Stricken Eyes Haunt Me”.

The MOU signed by me prior to publishing states clearly in Clause No. 4 that the copyright for this story lies with the writer.

Imagine my shock when I was congratulated by Hrishikesh Bawa on Facebook on my story appearing in Femina, right next to the recipes!

I was in office right then and could not lay my hands on the magazine.

And the story … badly mangled, with lines missing

This is the Femina May 4th issue … here is the cover

Should I feel flattered? Femina is a big name … after all. But no, sad to say but I dont. I keep my blog ad free, I do not profit from my writing. For that I work at a soul less desk job. And here is the fruit of my creativity, published in a magazine, for commerce. Some one else is profiting from it. In short, I’ve been had! Mera chu…ya kat gaya hai. And if Hrishikesh had not messaged me on FB I would not have come to know.

I have learnt from other bloggers that similar things have happened to them. Some of these reputed newspapers etc do not even list them as the source.

What do you say, bloggers? Are we so helpless, so unworthy that we don’t deserve the courtesy of a small email or a comment in our comment section? Are we so weak that we can be walked over?

Reactions of bloggers

Femina sinks to a new low

Where Femina Steals

Strongly support Ritu’s position

Femina and the stolen story

The face of my book

I have a bowl at home, a pretty glass bowl, which is filled with glass butterflies.  So when I am sitting at home watching television, I normally have it in my lap and run my hands through it.  I like the clanging noise it makes.  My undutiful offsprings beg to differ.  It annoys them.

So, mostly tongue and cheek, I named my novel “A Bowlful of Butterflies”

I dreamt of this as a cover.

Yeah, yeah.  It is not original and probably has a whole lot of copyright issues.  But I thought it looked classy and dignified.  That is me, I borrow class and dignity you see.  My impetuosity does not grant me much of it in my person.

My huge fear was that the cover would be pink or blue and scream out on the shelves of book shops “This is by women, about women and for women”

That would scare any male buyer of the book, and that is 50% of the population.  Horrors

So we went through a gamut of covers.  Writing the book was easier I must say.  A word of appreciation for my editor, she is so patient.  Shikha, Lady RESPECT!  You’re a saint.

And then we hit upon this one, which I loved

I loved the green, loved the mystery that this cover seemed to convey.

But sadly it was not to be …

As my DIL points out, it has too much detail, it may turn out cluttered.  Well, she is an interior designer and has impeccable eye for detail.

So this is the final face of my book

You like???

 

The Death of The Monster

Thanks Blogadda for selecting this post as Spicy Saturday Pick

There once was a prince. He would have never got to rule the kingdom since there were too many princes between him and the throne. But that did not bother him much. He wanted to rule the hearts and imaginations of the people of his clan. In these days of electronic media, that was far better a franchise than just sitting on a throne. Even that was not an original idea; a certain princess of an island nation had aspired to and become the “Princess of Hearts” until she died when her car crashed in a tunnel. That princess was beautiful, so it was easy for her.

But he was a tribesman, not too hot in the looks department. Becoming Prince of Hearts was not exactly his cup of tea. So he decided to do something different. He sought to destroy egos. That would hurt and that would leave a lasting impression. It would be his legacy.

So he took looked around for a soft target, among the land of unbelievers. He zeroed on a nation that was egotistical, overfed and pompous. The infidel ruler of the nation, who people called Potus was so full of shit. He kept talking about national pride and convinced his people that his nation was untouchable. The prince gathered around him some tribesmen who were restless.

“I am bored” they complained.

“You wanna do something fun? It’s risky and can cost you your life?” he asked.

“Yeah, why not?” said some of them. Others dropped out. They weren’t that bored!

So he got them to fly planes into the totemic symbols of the proud nation’s pride.

BOOM! CRASH!!!!

Citizens died in the crash, the proud nation wept.

The prince became famous. He, like Gabbar Singh, became the monster mothers scared their kids with if they did not drink their milk or sleep at bed time.

The proud nation peed in its pants, just like Golaith’s supporters when David took him down with a slingshot. It realized that it was not untouchable. It also realized that other countries hated it. The nation did not like that. It dethroned its ruler and crowned another Potus.

This Potus knew that he needed to stop posturing and prove a point. He had to kill monsters. Like all corporate honchos, he had to show results.

He befriended other rulers, some of them simply so that he gained knowledge about where these monsters lived. Meanwhile whispers maligned this Potus too. Some thought he was weak, others thought he was soft. Still others distrusted him. He got worried, he could get dethroned like the last Potus and become a joke on late night talk shows. His wife and daughters would not like that!

He consulted his trusted aide, a sorceress with more ice in her veins than blood. She went online with her crystal ball.

“King, here you are in trouble, and the monster that destroyed our totem pole was found living a cushy retired life with his youngest wife”

“So what do you suggest Sorceress?”

“This monster destroyed your slanderers loved ones. He killed them. He destroyed our pride. If you kill him, Potus, all will be forgiven.”

“So what’s the problem? Kill him!”

The sorceress said, “Potus, please sit down. You are not going to like this!”

“Tell me!” he said, unable to sit down because of anxiety.

“We already have him dead. We just did not tell people.”

“Why?”

“What with Wikileaks and the unstable economy, there just wasn’t the right time.”

Potus peered into the crystal ball. All he could see was grey images. “Why doesn’t Google color them?” he grumbled.

“We don’t own Google, Potus. And stop grumbling. There is more!”

He sighed and said “Tell me!”

“Thing is, we did not kill him. He got irritable, living in seclusion for so long. His tribesmen and sons were also having a bad case of cabin fever. There was a shoot out and they killed each other. We can’t claim the glory”

“Damn! Now what do we do?”

“The monster was given shelter by our vassal nation. You need to threaten the vassal nation with retribution and allow them to let us fly by the monster’s castle and create a huge noise. They will agree”

“How dare they shelter our enemies!”

“Never mind that, we can squash them like a bug. They’re already scared and will agree to sell their mothers right now”

Potus smiled, understanding what the sorceress was saying. “You must have been a good queen to your Potus, sorceress”

“Thank you Potus. Yes I was, but he always played around and got caught with his pants down eventually”

So on a fateful Sunday, when the nation woke up, they got the news that the monster had been killed. Doctored gory pictures of the monster were shown to the nation that danced and celebrated. His decomposed body was thrown into the sea to avoid any controversies.

The tribesmen mourned their prince, who had hurt the proud nation and brought it down to its infidel knees.

But a strange thing happened. The Potus and the Prince both had similar names, with just a letter that was different. To some, they both appeared similar. Both had taken steps to kill, maim and destroy to keep their name shining. Both had crossed lines to destroy pride of the other. One’s motive was controversial; the other’s method gave rise to conspiracy theories.

They say the monster is dead. Really? Which monster?

55ers by Kid#1

Two gunmen stood in an open field.

“Nice sight isn’t it?” said the bald one to the hatted gunman

“Yes seems like it’s a good day to die.” said the hatted one in a taunting tone

The bald gunman raised his gun and a thunderous bang echoed in the field.

He smiled and said “Then die.”

………………………………………………………………………………

A mother and a son sat in a food court.

The mother was brooding about their last failed business venture.

She was eating a plate of dim sums.

The son looked at the last piece going in her wide open mouth.

He smiled and said “Well you win some and then you dim sum.”

Three 55ers, A tag

Editor’s note: this tag is doing the rounds on Facebook.  I prefer to respond on my blog.  People, feel free to take up the tag

THE ESCAPE

He loved her madly, she reminded him of a hummingbird, small, full of life. He was scared she would fly away. He tried to clip her wings, with frowns, by imposing boundaries. Every unkind word, every restraint cut into her soul. One day she broke free, they called it suicide, but he knew the truth.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………

MOM’S GIFT

He unpacked the parcel.

“What did your mother send you?” she asked

“A pullover” he said, unfolding it and shaking out the tissue

“It’s so huge” she laughed

He just smiled quietly.  After she left he wore it and snuggled by the heater blissfully, reliving the childhood feeling of being cuddled in his mother’s lap.

…………………………………………………………………………………

A VAMPIRIC LOVE AFFAIR

“I wish we’d met earlier, I was gorgeous then” she complained, her soft lips pouting

“I’m glad we did not, your beauty could kill me” he said, drawing her into his arms.

“How much do you love me?”

“I’d die for you” he said smitten.

Her fangs dug into his throat … and he did.

The Princess of Nonsense

“Oh but she was a tiresome child, I did not mind that at all, but let’s face it dearie, she was huge!”

Sir Mouse cleaned his spectacles and peered at the princess who was fanning herself with a bunch of forget-me-nots.

“And she kept disappearing and leaving only a grin. D’ye know how creepy it is to just have a grin staring at you?” The princess shuddered delicately.

“Erm, I think you are mixing up Alice and the Cheshire Cat.”

She looked apologetically at her long suffering courtier and said, “Sorry Sir Mouse. I am a bit mixed up today. Ever since you told me about a man who leaped out of a bath tub and ran naked in the town yelling something, my nerves are shot.”

“That was Aristotle and he was yelling Eureka. He discovered some formula.”

“Humph, he shouldn’t have lost them in the first place. Careless bloke. He possibly lost his towel too. If you ever take a bath, please check if the water is right. The only reason to leap out of a bath is if the water is hot. Then, in my opinion, you should yell “watersshot watersshot” and not Eureka Eureka.”

Sir Mouse kept his opinion to himself and said “Yes your Majesty”

“Now Sir Mouse, you may go. I am bored with you and the school work. Send me my waiting ladies.”

Sir Mouse gathered his papers and left barely concealing his relief. The wizard had to be given a scold. Those forget-me-nots were not helping. The princess was getting more nonsensical by the minute!

The princess flung the bunch of flowers into the waste paper basket and stomped a petulant foot as she scolded her waiting ladies, “The satin dress is way to tight. I hate scarlet, it makes me look so pale. Go and call all cloth merchants. I need a dress done up in linen and gauze, yes it should be rose colored. I hate these dresses. Go, now!”

The poor women rushed out. She threw the offending dresses after them and slammed the door shut.

A man laughed as he came out from behind the curtains, “Excellently done my love.”

She sighed, smiled naughtily and said, “The things I have to do to just spend some time with you.”

The path of royal love is always devious