Be Human!

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GoodBye

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This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 13 ; the thirteenth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton .   February 1901- In the small Midnapore district of Bengal in British India was born a little brown girl with intelligent beady eyes. The mother used to work as a maid with the wealthy Mukhopadhyay family in their district. She had enjoyed listening to her mistress recite Rabindranath Tagore’s poetry, as she fanned her, one lazy afternoon. So when her own little brown daughter was born she knew what they would call her. She would be Khanika , a beautiful girl rightly named after Tagore’s beautiful poetry. “Eta Lakshmi Maa!” Her family soon began referring to her as the goddess of wealth because no sooner had she arrived that The Railway Company came forward and offered jobs to the local unemployed men along with other additional incentive...
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HIDDEN

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This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 11 ; the eleventh edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton .                                                            [I] Short in stature, balding egg-shaped head, cherub faced with a stiff, thin upward-curled moustache made his Frenchman’s persona stand conspicuously out in the English crowd. Hercules Poiret in his early 50s’, flicked an imaginary speck of dirt off the sleeve of his dandy suit as he stepped down onto the tarmac at London Airport. Back in Paris a body of a young English man had been found at a secluded spot ...
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This post is a winner at BlogAdda's “HOWZAT?” a husky voice hollered. A short, curly haired, fair lad raised a finger and declared the batsman bowled. The dark and lanky figure with that husky voice now ran towards the bowler screaming on the top of the lungs. In no time the thin framed, dimple chinned bowler, Rajeev had been lifted up into the air and the team was exulting over their victory. This was my team, a motley crew of young boys aged between 9-14 years old. And that lanky, dark cricketer with the husky voice was me. With crew-cut hair, a terribly tanned face and scraped knobby knees showing beneath those fatigued shorts, I was easily mistaken as a boy amongst the group of lads. I was a complete tomboy who ate, breathed and lived cricket like any other boy of my age. The society where I lived consisted of a ring of 10 buildings. The oval foreground of the buildings was divided into two equal halves by a speed-breaker in the centre. Two rival teams existed in the same ...
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