Chasing Rainbows

Copyright Jeff Arnold

They say that there is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.  We know it is a story and yet we want to believe it.

That rainbow is a symbol of our hope, dreams and the fulfilment of happiness.  Many spend their lives chasing rainbows unaware of the happiness lying next to them.

Then there are those who show us the path.  All you have to do is to listen to your heart.  Choose your own way; see life as an adventure and take challenges head on. The pot of gold then comes to you.

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Written for the Friday Fictioneers.  Word count:100

Written in memory of my cousin Anshuman who passed away this week.   A high achiever with a love for life, an unlimited curiosity for new experiences and a zest for adventure.   Farewell my brother I'll miss your presence.

To read the other writers for this week, click here.

I'd love read what you think about this post...

Hope

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

Dreams, you know, they don’t always work out.  Sometimes they shatter or even explode. 

Kaboom!

In your face and all you have left behind is the debris.  Charred fragments of your heart scattered across what we call ground zero now. 

Yeah that’s where we are and it’s not a pretty sight.  You stand there wondering how do you ever survive this?  This wasteland of shattered dreams built with your sweat and blood.  Might as well pack up and go home now.

But in the midst of that rubble you see it, that delicate ethereal piece radiating beauty.  Hope springs anew.

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Written for Friday Fictioneers Word Count : 100. 

Hey! I am back again after missing the last few editions after having surgery on my hand for Carpal Tunnel.  In some ways it was good to get a break from typing away at a keyboard and have an excuse to watch TV.  My entry this week is probably not fiction but more like hundred words of musing.

To read the other stories this week click here.  

The Long Flight Home

copyright-Rich Voza

I have had these calls before.  We discuss myriad topics under the sun, the weather, the movies, sporting events and how the children are growing up.  And so it goes until next time when we repeat the same.  How many times did they end with an “I love you”?

I have had these calls before.  Calls after I talked to my father, listened in to my wife’s brother on Skype and hours after the last chat with my mother.  All unexpected but this time I was waiting for the call.  My brother-in-laws’s suffering was over.

And the long flight home.

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Written for Friday Fictioneers Word Count : 100

It has been over a month since my brother-in-law passed away.  I didn't know how to express my emotions in this blog and have been silent for a while.  The courage and dignity with which he bore his suffering remains an example to our family.  He will be missed.

To fly with the other writers this week click here.

The Journey of Life

PHOTO PROMPT © The Reclining Gentleman

Sometimes the journey of a thousand miles can have no ending.  At other times a walk around the block can lead you home.

When I started this trip I had no idea what road I’d take.  Would I have the Poet‘s regret for the road not taken or would I bask in glow of my judgements?

 A milestone birthday gone this year but I am still looking for answers in the misty morning haze.   

Each day we struggle, stumble and fall.  But it is still worth it with someone at your side to help you navigate the tricky road ahead.

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Written for the Friday Fictioneers  Word Count : 100.  

To travel with the other Friday Fictioneers go here. 

Written in an Airport Lounge, travelling back for work after a week when a milestone birthday happened and thus the reflective mood.

I can't write

One day I thought I would pick up the jumbled words in my head and lay them down in an orderly fashion on a sheet of paper. Sentence after sentence would flow, lit up by the scattered sparks of words and show the way to myriad stories floating in my mind. I wrote a lot when I was young, mostly angst ridden words that tumbled out as I attempted to sort out the cobwebs of confusion in my mind. I tore up those books some years back, unwilling to leave behind an imprint of chaos. Each year I promise myself I will write but I don’t. First it was a job, then marriage and then kids, excuses are not all that hard to find if you make an effort. I think it’s because the stories are drying up. EXCUSE!! Maybe it’s not the stories, it’s me. I can’t write.

One day this too will pass

One day this too will pass. Each day on social interaction sites on the world wide web, people log in, lurk, comment, fight and flirt with random strangers. They are drawn by the daily fix of interacting on sites that draws them in each time.
- I am leaving now and I mean it.
- No I ain’t never coming back again.
- You don’t deserve me ingrates.
- Yo! Wassup guys? Did ya miss me?
But it is quite possible that we never come back again. Life is short and not all of us wander around the earth in our 900th year. The first time a friend died was when I was in year six. I had left him behind, in the old cantonment town near Pune, to go and study far away in Nainital. He died due to a sun stroke while I lived on in the cool air of a hill station.
Then there was ‘dog’. Behind the bluster and fights lived a teen that needed love. Some of us loved boarding schools, but we had gone there because our parents wanted the best for us. There were others who were dumped because their parents had no time for them. That was dog’s story too. He survived a horrendous year when his right hand was fractured in many places and he spent the whole year in a cast. Then we broke off for holidays and when we came back I looked for him until someone told me his story. His plaster off and freedom regained, he got on a moped to drive around the city. In another freak accident the door of a car flung open and he crashed into it. He died on the spot.
‘Sam’ had been accepted in the Masters program of his choice in US. It was his last Holi in Delhi and time to live it up. When we had wound down he was still going strong and drove off to Bhadkhal Lake. It was late in the evening when they decided to head back home but when the truck collided with his motorcycle he didn’t have a chance.
M came back in a body bag from his first posting in Kashmir, whatever pieces of him that they found anyway. His father, a decorated soldier himself, had to ask his wife to not look at the remains, lest it sullied the memory of her son. This time there were children involved as he left behind a three year old and one year old son, and the wife he had married overriding objections in the family.
And last year it was JP’s turn, JP who was my classmate in school. Originally a year senior, he joined us in year eight. Loud, noisy, in-your-freaking-face-so-what-you-going-to-do crazy JP. Mad about sports and good at it too, in each and every team representing the school. The first person to initiate soccer game during a break, sorting out teams to play, endless energy that never seemed to burn out. And gone from our midst before his children hit their teens.
Each death came at a different stage in life. Each one reminded me that it’s not just the old and the infirm that get taken away. That life does change in an instance, in the blink of an eye. Memories remain and then they too fade away. Take care, stay well.

Rainbows Are Free

"Pick up your toys".
"Why Dadi?"
"Because you can’t leave them on the floor. You must learn to look after your things".
"But why Dadi? Why do I have look after them?"
"Because things cost money, you can’t be careless and throw them around. Nothing in life comes for free".
"Not everything. Somethings are free".
"Like what?"
"Like a rainbow. You can’t buy rainbow in a shop".
Wisdom from a four year old, sometimes kids can teach us a valuable lesson.

All Dads Die

"Why did Dada die?" asked my three year old after learning about the passing away of her grandfather.
"People die when they grow old" I said a little unsure about how to deal with the subject.
"But Ija is older than Dada" said the six year old referring to her great grandmother "Why did Dada die before her?"
I wonder if sometimes politicians have easier press conferences than parents. How does one teach children about death of a loved one? What does one do when faced with barrage of such questions? Somehow they never give out a user manual with little children. You know the one with instructions that tells you what to do and when.
"Is he not coming back now?"
"No my dear he is not with us anymore but he remains in our memories".
"My friend Jack has gone away too, Papa has Jack died?"
A brief pause while you figure out how to explain the difference between going away to a place and the departure from our life of a loved one to a three year old. It was to be a recurrent theme in the conversation over the next few days. The six year old by the virtue of having spent more time with her grandfather remembered more. The elaborate games played with a very patient grandfather, the walks they went on and those long conversations on the toy phones. Then one day sitting with her younger sister she recalled with grown-up tone that only a child could muster. "I feel sad that you will never get to know how much fun Dada was".
"All dads die" said the three year old.
As I pondered over the innocent statement of a child I realized how true it was. As time goes by you find yourself morphing into your father. A face that starts to remind you of your father as you grow old. That and the DNA strains which come out in a laugh that sounds familiar. And fingers big, fat and squished in ways that scream out your heritage to the world.
So it’s true that all dads die, but a part of them still lives on inside us. We take on their roles as we bring up our children. We are dads now, working on memories that will remain long after we have gone.