The Indian Dream

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 3; the third 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.

This is my first participation in a Blog-a-ton and the topic is head-scratching-chin stroking-nonstop-pacing-with-no-luck diffcult.However I came up with a way I could suitably express myself and thus you have three very short stories explaining my dream-the dream of an Indian.

The Return

Arun remembered the day he was orphaned,and how much he had contributed to it.It all came back to him with startling clarity,enveloping him in a blanket of remorse as he choked back a sob.How arrogant he had been,how over the years he had forgotten to genuflect at the altar of love so selflessly given by two souls who asked for nothing but for him to love them back.

The Old Age home was in shambles and there he stood in front of the building where he himself had driven the half dead corpses of his parents-up those very stairs at the very place where they now stood-a ruin of the former people they used to be-but you wouldnot say so you looked at their eyes.His mother in a cotton saree-straining to see him while his father wore a leathery smile which warmed his heart like no other.
Even at this distance,when no words were spoken all anger,bitter words were washed away by the rain which suddenly started pouring in icy blankets.Arun looked up to see the angry clouds,the darkening sky,but instead he focused on three specks that were moving across the horizon.The evening birds were returning home.
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A,B,C,D
Bhola got up early that day and came out of his mud hut.Monsoon was approaching and the straw that formed their roof was decaying.
He sniffed the morning air.It was a little damp,but everything felt special-the sun more brighter,the trees greener.It was after all a special day.
Bhola was a marginal farmer in the Minapore district of WestBengal.He had no sons,but twin daughters who just turned four.
He could hear his wife stirring inside their hut and smiled.His stomach growled with hunger.He and his wife had had nothing to eat last night,the handful of rice that was left-he had insisted be fed to their daughters.The rains were late this year,the unhusked rice in the granary dwindling.He did not have more than a few rupees on him,had no idea when he would be able to replace his daughters’ tattered frock,but he was happy that day.That day,was after all very special.It was the day his daughters would go to school for the first time.

In many parts of India a daughter is still considered to be a burden,especially in rural areas where a daughter means one more mouth to feed but no extra hands on the field.Many are killed in the womb while others who make it into the world are subjected to a life of misery.This is one social evil I wish to see vanished and banished without any traces that it existed.
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This is home

The reflection that stared back at Harish was not flattering.At 28 his hair was thinning,his paunch showing through his shirt.But his less than appealing appearance was made up by his brain-which was its weight in gold.Sometimes he wondered why The Big Guy singled him out to be brainy but never worth a second glance.Couldn’t he be moderately handsome,still brainy and yet an IITian with a dream job in California?
Speaking of California,he turned to look at his ticket which lay on top of his suitcase.He walked towards it,picked it up and cradled it,cooed to it.It was not just a plane ticket,it was his ticket to his golden future-a life of luxury in the Land of Opportunites.
His bags were packed and his mind was made up.He looked at the glossy ticket again,and then tore it up.
“This is home”,he called out to noone in particular.His father was pruning his plants,his mother was probably busy in the kitchen. “This is home”,he called out again,and sauntered out the door to rejoin his job in the city.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.