A cup of tea/a cup of coffee

Sharvari Shetty

The cool breeze caressed her face, ruffling the curls on her forehead. Lying on the couch with one hand on the forehead, Veena continued to concentrate on the pages. The sip of coffee along with the lines of the book, added to the color on her face… she was surely reading a love story! She moved her fingers to turn to the next page when the phone rang.
“Hello!”
“Veena come to the park, we are all waiting for you. It’s real fun out here!”
“Oh no, Lalitha.  I feel too tired and this book is very interesting. You guys do the walking and talking. I’ll join you tomorrow.
“Fine! enjoy reading.”
She kept the phone down with her eyes moving on the words. Veena was lost in the world of fiction!

She looked up at the clock to check the time, and then ran into the kitchen to make tea. At any moment her husband would be back from the office and a hot cup of tea on arrival was what he loved the most.

As she kept the water for boiling on the stove she heard the children talk outside on the veranda, and there was an unusual noise. She went to the kitchen balcony to see what it was and realized, much to her pleasant surprise, that it was the first rain of the season. She loved the beautiful weather and leaned against the railing. Drop after drop took her from one thought to another. Soon she was walking down the memory lane.

“Look outside the window, it’s raining!”
“Oh yes Kalpi! Finally the monsoon is here!”
“A cup of coffee would be ideal to enjoy this weather, isn’t it Veena?”
“Yes, surely Kalpi, come lets go to a nearby restaurant for coffee.”

Both of them enjoying the weather, walked towards the coffee shop, splashing water on each other.

“Aaahh! What a blissful weather”, exclaimed Veena.

“Yes of course. I am going to miss college days! These lovely moments, our group studies, the gossip, bunking classes, going for movies and the fun during summer holidays”, said Kalpi.

“Ah! Yes Kalpi, our summer holidays! It has always been fun with our gang of girls. Let’s meet every year and relive memories”.

“Every year Veena? Yeah right! Our paths will be different from now on. Responsibilities, commitments, family and what not…”

“Commitment Kalpi? What commitment? Don’t tell me you want to get married soon? Do you?” retorted Veena.

“Who would want to stay single and independent forever Veena. I feel life is easier when you stay at home with your husband and kids around.”

“I disagree Kalpi I would want to be independent and find a job for myself and enjoy being by myself for at least three years. Experiencing life on your own, earning and spending the way you want and do all that you want to do…”

The wind blew hard on her face. Water sprinkled with it and shook Veena from her college memories. She, the one who wanted to be free from responsibilities was a changed person today.

“Veena, where is my tea? What are you doing?” asked Veena’s husband from the drawing room.

“Getting it dear.”

Veena quickly turned off the gas and the water was boiling by now. She worked her hands as fast as she could to make tea. Veena smiled to herself thinking of the turn her life had taken. She could not believe that just a year ago she was in college, planning to be independent and today she was married woman with responsibilities.

As she sat down next to her husband, giving him his cup of tea, she grabbed her own cup of coffee. And once again she was lost in a world that was different from the one she lived in; a world of coffee cups and memories…

 

Fighting Writing

By Tara Saldanha

Writing and I have had a love-hate relationship from the beginning. My earliest attempts at authorship saw me squirrel away several half-used school notebooks and use them for my random jottings. They were not all random, however. There were a few overambitious attempts at novel writing. I’m sure I have the first draft of a novel about a time travelling pair of twins hidden in the back of my underwear drawer; I can’t quite place where the one about the seed bunkers that were built to tide the human race through a famine in some dystopic future went.

What I do remember, though, is never completing any of these. I always got bored, ran out of ideas or my scribbles got discovered by someone who laughed so hard I sheepishly gave up. From then on, I saved my poems in a secret file on our family computer under some innocuous name. Over the years I even managed to make a small compilation of my Nana’s stories. I entered poetry competitions, got roped into school essay events, and was always the scapegoat who wrote those tiresome national day speeches.

After a while though, writing no longer held the same fascination. It became a chore.  Maybe I just got lazy. I dreaded those essay-like questions in examination papers. Even though I knew what to write, it took extra mental effort to get it down on paper. Creative writing assignments became and still remain a thing of dread.

Ironically though, once it’s done, I love what I’ve written. I read back through the sentences, going over phrases in my head, making them come to life over and over, wondering how I had ever come up with them. I face a barrage of people telling me I should write more. In an effort to explore my hidden writer more completely I started up a blog which quickly ran dry. I realized, however, that I work best under pressure, when work is presented to me and I’m told, “Write!”

I hope, one day, to author a book. I have the perfect phrases coined. I regularly stare open mouthed at people on public buses while trying to decide how I’d describe them in my book. I’ve even expressed my book writing dreams to people besides myself. I just hope I’m not too lazy to follow through.

Onomatoplea

By Amanda D’Souza

  

Rhyme and Punishment

It was 4 am on a Monday morning when Riley sat bolt upright in bed. She held her knees and rocked back and forth, softly humming a curious tune under her breath. From somewhere under the sheets, Luke stirred.

“Are you okay, mommy?”

“Yeah sweetie, go back to bed.”

Outside the window of their tiny, one bedroom apartment, Riley saw the red lights of a faraway sedan flash once. She stopped rocking, and fell back asleep.

**

On Tuesday night, this time, at 4.30 am, Riley sat up again. She was sweating. She couldn’t believe she was hearing that sound again, after all these years. She began to rock back and forth once more.

*Woop, woop, woop, woohoo, woohoo, eh, eh, eh, woooop, wooooop.*

The same sound, again and again on loop. It was distant, and no one in Riley’s vicinity could hear it. But she heard it as clearly…

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