Our Ganesh Chaturthi

Every year, my father's sweet shop does brisk business in the days preceding the Ganesh Chaturthi as an array of modaks and laddus gets sold in thousands. Also, the shop celebrates it's own Puja. 

"Why do we offer prayers to Ganeshji every year, Baba?", I ask my father innocently.

"Beta, He is the Vigneshwar, remover of obstacles."

I ask my Granny, "Dadi, if only I pray to Ganeshji, will He remove all obstacles from my path?"

She replies calmly, "Yes, dear. But this does not mean He magically erases difficulties. When you start cultivating intelligence, balance, and clarity, obstacles dissolve."

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Love-letter To The Wrong Person

Dearest,

The petrichor in this late monsoon reminds me of the musty smell of your body. You were like a sculpture, too perfect, sculpted in the hands of a master craftsman. Never did it appear surprising to me that I was attracted like a moth towards the flame of you. Until the day of my marriage, I had hoped against hope that you would manage to come and whisk me away from my sepia-coloured life to a technicolour, fairy-tale life full of love, desire and affection. No, you never arrived. Despite my vehement protests, I was married off amidst much fanfare to the person who is known as my husband in society. Yet, I have never been able to love him the way he desires to be loved. Despite my status as a married woman with two children, I never forgot the floral notes of your perfume, the graceful way in which you draped sarees, your luscious lipstick-tainted lips, your raven-black hair spilling to your shoulder, that stolen kiss in a long ago summer afternoon. Nobody can take your place in my heart. The love that I felt for you surpassed all societal restrictions.

Still yours affectionately,

J.

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This flash-fiction received a Jury Special Mention at the September 2022 Writing Challenge conducted by Beyond the Box. The challenge was to write a piece of prose or poetry in which every sentence/line begins with the last letter of the previous sentence/line. Word/Line Limit was 200 words for prose/20 lines for poetry.

Poila Baisakh

It was Poila Baisakh. Iyasmina's eyes became moist when she thought about the Mangal Shobhajatra of Dhaka, Bangladesh. Which country was hers? She left Bangladesh years ago. After her marriage, when she applied for Indian citizenship, she was informed that marrying an Indian person could not be the sole eligibility to obtain citizenship. Presently she was on a PR VISA. She sighed silently as she looked outside the window to the swaying branches of a mango tree. Back in Dhaka, Amma used to make mango pickles during summer. 

Five years ago, she came to Kolkata for professional enhancement where she met Rajiv. They fell in love. Despite vehement opposition of both the families, they tied the knot. But now-a-days, Iyasmina, pregnant with her first child, missed the presence of a mother and a mother-in-law.

An urgent knock at the door jolted her out of her reverie. A beaming Shobha kakima, her neighbour, was standing at the door. She handed her a glass jar of mango pickles. "This is a gift for you. I know that women love the tangy taste of pickles during this time. So I made this for you." Iyasmina teared up. Kolkata suddenly felt like home.

Glossary: Poila Baisakh: The first day of Bengali New Year.

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This flash-fiction received a Jury Special Mention at the April 2022 Writing Challenge conducted by Beyond the Box. The challenge was to write a literary piece in which mango/mango tree plays a key role. Word/Line Limit was 200 words for prose/20 lines for poetry.