Pink Butterfly

Thanks everyone who commented and all those who read. I know that these need a lot of refining, and for that I have to get your feedback. So pleeeease comment, and I dont need just praises, I need more of brickbats. So here is my second story, help yourself to bricks lying nearby and start aiming.


I am in the video coach. The compartment which has a net between the “reserved for the ladies'” and the rest. Ladies are cutting vegetables for dinner or knitting woollens as usual. And on another day I might have been faintly pleased by the furtive glances of cute guys across the wire mesh. But that day is not today.

I sometimes can not believe the fact that just a few years ago, I was running around in frocks playing hopscotch. Can someone grow up so fast. From the carefree girl that I was into a mature adult. On the other hand will I look back two years later and think of me now as childish. I hope not. I have changed and it’s a bittersweet feeling. Sorrow for the lost innocence and but new hopes of a happy future. I remind myself to call the estate agent, to look for a smaller home. It’s Matunga already, have to get down at the next station. Most seem to brace themselves for getting down. Even aunties who had been sleeping all along wake up just like that and head for the door.

The crowd on the platform seems a lot thicker today. Lots of them have flowers and other puja stuff. Oh…now I realize, tomorrow is Ganpati. How could I have forgotten something like this. It will be more crowded outside, with its flower market. Jostling and pushing I somehow get outside. It is worse than I expected.

If I could just sell the concept to the client, it’ll all be worth it. I am hoping badly this whole thing falls in place. Why is this guy walking so closely behind me. I turn back and give him one of my stares. I get some more space. The road is strewn with roses and daffodils. It’s ironical walking on a carpet of roses like a queen with people pushing you around. What the fuck..why has the guy put his hand on my shoulder. Keep your hand away, I yell at him. He moves away quickly, out of reach. Fuck him, ..bastard, how dare he. If I catch hold of him I’ll give him the thrashing of his life. Do they have no respect for women. The motherfucker, I hope he rots in hell. And while I am And I feel his hands again on my back. Turning around, with all my energy I slap him across his face. Hey but who is this guy, he’s not the one. People around have noticed my slapping him and somebody grabs his collar. As I look around I see the real culprit rushing away. No way could I get him. Meanwhile people start beating him. He is all the while telling them to ask me, that he did not do anything. What should I do. That motherfucker, if I ever see him again I am gonna…

If I admit to slapping the wrong man, the bloodthirsty crowd will lynch me instead. The man was begging me, tell them it was not me. What should I do, what if they kill him. Would I be responsible. The people shouted,take him to the police. It was their chance to vent out their anger at their bosses, wives and the government. They won’t leave him so easily. I could not look him in the eyes.

I am in a hurry, do not have the time for all this FIR business. Anyway you people have beaten him enough. Let him go, I said. They hardly heard, beating the hell out of him. I slipped away silently.

God…please forgive me.

©2005, K.A.Anand “”

My first short story – ” The race”

Below is my first attempt at writing a short story. Please to be giving your frank and honest feedback. The frankest one will win an Ipod, :))


Round and round they went with the beats. The inner circle moved clockwise, the outer one in the opposite direction. It was a whir of every colour between red and yellow.

Each had their favourite partners. And when that one came, there would be an added twinkle in the eye and a coquettish smile. The victim would then rush through rest of the players to get back to her.

It was the ninth day of navratri. Lovers and would be lovers where playing the celestial dance of garba, in the footsteps of Lord Krishna and his gopis.

She felt thirsty. Moving out of the two circles, narrowly avoiding dandiya sticks, she waved her hands to grab his attention. She reminded herself to punch him for giving “that” smile to the girl in the purple, backless choli.

He joined her and with his usual way with words, won her heart all over again. They ran out of the pandal, and into the parking lot. There was something unseen, unsaid, which both could sense. The only apprehensions were about what extent the other would go.

The festival does it to you. It’s as if all the cement factories in the world had start spewing pheromones instead of the usual smoke.

Everything was a blur after that. The ghagra stuck in the door. The kisses soon after. The knots of the choli, which gave him some hard time. The fumblings and the shy hands.

She stopped him. No it is not safe, she said. But he was well prepared. Out came a small white packet. She relented.

And exactly after 3mins and 40sec I swam into this world. With millions of other competitors. But I did’nt see any of them, as I was at the front. But what was this white hurdle. The old man hadn’t said anything about it in the dressing room. But I saw this small hole, light coming out. I slithered out.

The target was soon in sight.

I became me.


©2005, K.A.Anand

Oh..the look

The westside “festive” campaign has been on for some time. On billboards around the city one can see this image. And I can’t stop looking at this…with it’s combination of ‘indian’ looks and sheer sexual magnetism. Shows that a lot of exposed flesh is not necessary to make something look sexy.

I have been reading a lot of blogs lately. Found two hot topics.

1)Gaurav Sabnis posted an article about a (MBA)college – “IIPM”. JAMMAG had done a Tehelka like exposé of this institute. IIPM had been giving ads claiming wifi campus, swimming pools etc etc. It’s rather complicated ;)..better read it for yourself.

2)And sonia profiles two dance bar girls after they loose their jobs. She is a tremendous writer. And she paints a picture of the girls’ thoughts, the way I have never ever seen.

Meanwhile I am trying my hand at short stories.

Glazed eyes

The water had receded almost a km into the sea, leaving behind a trail of trash. At a distance through the smog could be seen what looked like a barge. Behind him was the residential colony where children were getting ready for school. Mummies and some daddys where giving their kids company waiting for the school bus. Oblivious to all this silent commotion, he looked into the distance into the foggy sea.