Books, Literature

Five Greatest Story-Tellers

O.Henry

If there is one writer who inspired me to write, it is William Sydney Porter known by his pen name O.Henry.   A great twister of words and language. No other writer played with language as much as he. His made extensive use of used wit and sarcasm in his tales. His clever plot-twists, use of cliff hangers made him the master of short-story genre. Born in 1862 North Carolina, he begin his career as a pharmacist. But his serious literary career took off while serving a sentence on charges of embezzlement. Some of  his most admired works are The Gift Of Maggie, The last leaf, The Pendulum & The Ransom of Red Chief.

Guy de Maupassant

It was a chance encounter that I stumbled on Le hora short story at cousins’s house. What a brilliant horror story, it literally spooked me for nights. Henri Rene’  Albert Guy de Maupassant was born in 1850 in France. His own experience in the Franco-Persian war became the setting of most of his stories. He brilliantly portrayed the suffering and tragedy of country folks. His stories also reflect his own despise of rich and bourgeois. His notable works are The Necklace, Le Horla & Boule de Suif.  In his later life he suffered from a mental illness and died in a mental asylum in 1892.

Leo Tolstoy

Leo Tolstoy without any doubt is the father of the short-story genre. His works often reflect the Russian social milieu and the spiritual dilemma that he himself faced in his life. Born as Count Lyov Nikolayevich Tolstoy in 1828, Russia, he drew heavily from his experiences. Despite born in privilege as a aristocrat he very realistically portrayed the plight of peasants and the vast gulf between the rich and the poor. Although he is renowned as great novelist and credited with literally masterpieces such as , War and Peace, Anna Karenina & The Death of Ivan Ilyich, however I most enjoy his short-stories. His short-stories remain a great comfort to me in my hours of darkness and moral crisis. If you are literature lover than the works of Tolstoy is must on your shelves.

Rabindranath Tagore

The noble laureate Rabbinate Tagore remains as one of the most influential Indian writer. His works are notable for ordinary characters placed in extraordinary situation. His stories reflects his own surroundings and people. Most of his work is penned against the backdrop of British imperialism in India. His protagonists very often voice his take on the nationalist movement and woman empowerment. I am drawn to his stories partly because of the strong female characters. I personally feel no other writer in literature has given so much space to women as Rabindranath Tagore. The bard of Bengali Literature as he is fondly called, he redefined the Indian Literature. He truly remains a rare literary gems, his most famous tales are, Kabuliwala, The Postmaster & Hungry Stones. 

Edgar Allen Poe

No list of short-story writers is complete without mention of the great Edgar Allen Poe.  The great American writer known for his tales of macabre and dark remains as one of the most prolific writer of all times.  His life and death like many of his most famous works remains a mystery. One of the first short-story writers, he compressed the art of novel into stories. Many attribute the birth of detective and science fiction to him. Poe was born in 1809 in Boston and led a life marred by financial woes and instability. The master of Gothic fiction, he abhorred the transcendentalism of eighteen century. To name a few , The Tell-Tale Heart, The Black Cat, The Masque of the Red Death, The oval portrait are some of  his most notable works.

desire mightier
feminine, Humanity, Kindness, Compassion, Inspiration, Literature, Love, Nature, poetry, Self-Help, woman

No Desire Is Mightier

I know not…

Was it a dream or a drowsy opiate slumber?

As I stood on a tortured sea-shore

and cast my eye on the swollen waves

passionately  kissing my naked feet

making love to me with a brutish force

taking me in its azure vinyl embrace

slowly grasping my flaming flesh with

a fiery I’ve never known before,

an uproar a stir in my fragile body

exhausted since centuries of decay

the foamy saline waters entering in me

through all nook and corners, fissures and holes

mixing in all the violent blues with the

crimson reds, crawling stealthily like million

serpents, wriggling gushing upwards

Oh! a sensation a loud roar within

a rapture somewhere, an euphoric elation

an electric jolt worth thousands bolts!

My enslaved body in an act of consummation

so strong, my heart-ached, soul-shuddered

at the violation so brutal, like a hapless bird

caught in a nib of a savage Falcon from the

far-east, I let it happen without any contest

Why? Because I possessed it too and let loose

the cinders of  ancient fire burning in me

for I didn’t surrender, and let it go on without

a single doubt or shame nor did I curse

the gods above, knowing that no desire is

mightier than the other, for yearnings

have the same frenzy everywhere.

But I know not…

Was it a dream or a drowsy opiate slumber?

 

 

 

 

 

wild flowers
Humanity, Kindness, Compassion, Inspiration, Literature, Love, Nature

I Am A Wildflower

I may not be the exquisite rose of your French orchids,

or the fragrant Jasmine of your manicured lawns.

A wildflower of some unknown species, yes I am of a wild tribe!

The type that grows on the sides of your very dirty roads and

muddy paths, the kind whose seeds are never sowed

and fruits shall never be reaped.

 

Do you know that in my womb, I too carry a fragrance?

A pungent smell which never made it to the bottle of any perfume.

No lover ever came knocking on my humble door. No never!                      

Such abhorrent is my appearance that my beauty is never a joy to any.

My petals are never given a chance to kneel at the altar of any shrine,

for the pundits prophesied, it would have been blasphemy of some kind!

 

But I continued to sway when the cold winds would blow and

bloom whenever the benevolent Sun would shine.

I flourished, even when the florists at my site continued to whine

I thrived when the rains were scarce at an hour when suddenly the eclipse

took over all the Suns, and the Moon simply refused to show up.

 

So you ask me why?  For I possess a zeal, a yearning to live, so strong that even

when I am trampled on your dirty roads, I never cease to grow….

and continue to grow and like a phoenix rise from the ashes.

I am a wildflower, the kind that grows on the sides of muddy paths.

Lolita
feminine, Humanity, Kindness, Compassion, Humour, Literature, Love, poetry, satire, sensual

Another Loilta ( Revised)

Stretching apart her thin toothpick legs 
Sat robustly on his stunted arthritis legs
Suckling chocolate lolly-pop euphorically 
Careless licking melted cocoa from corners of lips 
Droplets of sweat accumulated on the forehead
A raw beauty in the care, guardian of
Venus two steps behind womanhood
Could feel the-hard bony rib cage against
His sagging rotten flesh, pulse palpating swift 
Impoverished  bosoms like two sand dunes, 
adorning  emaciated slender waist, yet 
not evolved into any shape, resting on a thin frame 
Could sense a ruffle beneath trousers
Serpents crawling underneath, slowly gradually
Raising  heads out of Ecdysis, sloughing old skin
Squishy, velvety pulsating reddish fleece 
Held his tremoring hands back, a young passion 
Taking birth in his heart, an urgent yearning to 
Explode with rapture at this rare rendezvous 
Odorless Scent of a young body filled his nostrils 
Like on opiate he fell into an ecstasy unparalleled
ready to  burst like a volcanic rapture, dormant for 
Seventy years, a malady damping elated spirits
Frightened maybe he has forgotten the tricks
Nervous fisted his hands with a fractured ego
Mustering courage extends forth sweaty palms
Trying to feel the touch of virgin demoiselle
Heart missing a beat gushed into million stars.
Little snake-lings crawled back to the hood.  

Open Kitchen
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An Open Kitchen

The majestic oak trees just shed some woods

the lush baby spinach leaves oozing out of hoods.

In the large pristine green pastures equally growing,

the youthful wild umbrella mushrooms wooing 

and with the raw Ramona tomatoes in my sight 

I am sure that my stew is going to be really bright. 

While preparing stew in a pot it started to slowly rain,

but my mom told me no hard-work ever goes in vain.

The ever benevolent Mother-Earth as my open kitchen

and while stew simmered,the humble deer also pitched in.

seduction
feminine, Humour, Literature, Love, Nature, poetry, satire, sensual, wit,

A Secret Culinary Seduction

Once again with a thought of being honest to the

marital vows taken in the bygone century I decided 

to lay down a gourmet meal for the darling husband.

 

Discovered an  ancient recipe from the archives of

the great Confucius and took out a vintage Indian

spice box chiseled out of great silver ivory tusks, handed

to me by the Roman goddess Edesia to tame wild husbands.

 

The box gilded with rows of turquoise peacocks mating

with peahens, embellished with golden petals of marigold,

with spice bowls placed like pawns on the board of chess.

 

Each spice trying to outshine the other in exotic flavors

and rich aromas. With a conniving  conspiracy to satiate

the belly and in the state of intoxication of thousand opiates.

 

To put forward a burning desire in my bosom since I put

my promiscuous gaze on one emerald green neck-piece in the

grand Promenade on route number five, one fine spring day.

 

For I resisted the entire spring and summer and carefully

weighed a hour in the fall when planets were to be aligned

in my favor as prophesied  by a Turkish soothsayer 

 

I took out my slender Moroccan tagine, and lined

it with a luscious dark pressed oil glistening like sparkles

on the earthen pot and smeared it with my scheming hands

to the farthest corners possible for the spell to work.

 

Sauted some mellowed sweet onions, craftily sprinkled the

topaz turmeric, with julienne of aphrodisiac garlic and

blew a long kiss of exotic scarlet peppers over the tagine

 

To prepare a curry of a freshly butchered young lamb

still warm, acquired specially from the northern highlands,

reared and slaughtered only for the special occasions like this.

 

Adorning the garb of a regal chef, I simmered and simmered

for hours till the juicy flesh fell of  the fragile white bones,

while engaging in brown study  of all that I can extract from the

hapless man in the state of profound ecstasy.

 

I laid my plan meticulously in the hibiscus laden English bowls while

weaving a devilish plot, wore a plunging lace blouse with the help

of pygmy elf of seduction to give a little sneak- peak of the cascading

waterfall between the two splendid alps, and clamped lips for a pout.

 

Threw an oomph in the curry along with the strands of aromatic  

Kashmiri saffron and laughed at the marvel of my own success,

 while patiently waiting for the door-bell to ring and my unarmed 

knight to arrive to begin with secret culinary seduction. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

feminine, Humanity, Kindness, Compassion, Legend, Literature, Love, Nature, poetry, sensual, Spirtual, woman

Final Liberation

The exquisite hope diamond ring that was

tightly wrapped around my shaking finger,

is it enough to keep me chained or do you

think I stayed for a few golden jewels?

You can very well tie me with the,shackles

of your heart’s desire and lock my yearnings

in an embellished magical lamp and seal it

with an Indian pearl. But are the ruby and

topaz strings strong enough to tie my soul to

some wooden vows? Has any sorcerer ever

been able to trap a soul? My soul has been

emancipated long before you were born it 

flew across many deserts, crossed many

channels and soared much above the azure

skies. And for my wild heart, you can scribble

many criss-cross lines with a marker of your

desire.Could any illusionist ever conjure up 

the strength to tame a heart? The profanities

that you hurl at me are no longer the cause

of my woes. I no longer feel humiliated

when you mock at me with a grin on your

handsome face or call me a whore or an

unstable lot. Much before you since centuries

men have called me different names and

temples and shrines haves offered me

several offers of redemption and even tried

to chastise me in the holy waters of sacred

rivers. But while pundits and priests were

performing fire rituals for the purification of

my sinful flesh my soul was busy consummating

with the hollow winds and erect trees on the

moonless nights. My spirit paid ablutions

and offered few locks of raven hair as a

sacrifice to the  Goddess of Earth, Gaia and

my soul just soared higher and higher

after being blessed with the final liberation. 

Rebelling
Books, Humanity, Kindness, Compassion, Inspiration, Literature, poetry, Self-Help

Rebel

Trudging through the still corridors 
An eerie silence filled the hollow air
Empty classrooms, phantom voices
Spotted the broken corner seat,

My permanent abode once, it
Still bears the marks of my shrine
Disinterested drew rough images 
Wrote long verses on insignificant life

Cold stares of teachers who never care
One Ms. A always looked disparagingly 
A look of disdain, threw the poetry book
On my face, a roar of laughter around 

Now as I walk heavily through the grim
Cubicles, the quiet hallway, in retrospect
I Realize, the true cause of feelings,
Suppressed inside me for decades

The silent rebel in me took birth in these
Grey dull classrooms, devoid of any 
Human touch, an insurgent, exiled in 
My body, a non existent blob of flesh 

A faceless creature lost in the sea of 
Students called only by roll number five
Humiliated by such an indifferent education 
I vowed never to return back .