Fly Like A Kite


Matariki Kite Festival

Like A Kite

Fly aloft like a kite
Soar high and higher still
Ecstatic and bouncy with delight
Walk dreamily on clouds
Enthrall viewers on the ground

Probe uncertain realms
Be coaxed by gentle wind
To never give up half-way through

Find your strength, have faith
That your string is in reliable hands
Of that fond player, who made you fly
Who carefully tuned your first leap forth
Till you found your own balance

 Fly high like a kite
Just don’t fall like one
Onlookers can be very unforgiving


© 2016-17 Alka Girdhar.


Babying Around


Babying Around

Oh! If I were to be born again
To feel again the newness
Of being a brand new human

Cradle cap that never heals
Slippery skin that peels and peels
Changing color like a chameleon

Making bitter-sweet faces
Secretly smiling for no reason
And crying loud for every little

Looking around wide-eyed
In huge awe and wonder
At bright undefined hues

Amazed at all odd shapes
Jerking alert at rattle sounds
And at human voices

Sleeping the whole day
Waking the whole night
And keeping others awake

Lie on my back full day
Waiting to be picked up
And taken around

Convey hunger in loudest shrills
Making people run around
My family at my beck and call

Let everyone try to please me
While I amuse everyone around
By sucking my little foot thumb

Try to roll-over on my own
Fall from the bed crying
And get my mommy crying

Skin-to-skin with mommy
Looking at her angelic face
As she feeds me calmly

Cradling secure in dad’s arms
As and when he’s around
Till I grow too old for all this.


~~~ ~~~~

. Now I am too old for all this babying around and fancying doing cute stuff.

But we are still like a brand new baby on the day we are born, aren’t we?
And for me, that’s today…my birthday

Also a great day to be back to my blog…with my new baby poem

He Never Died…



He Lives On…in me

This day
He was over.
Long lost
Long gone
Does he now live in heaven?
Possibly he took birth again.
Will never know
But for me…
He was
He is
He will remain
My one and only father
For, a father is a father
He continues…
Flows in our blood
Lives in our cells
Runs in our veins
Thrives in our thoughts
Forever in our hearts
Did ‘that’ day
When he left us
Does this day
19th of April


Quantum Professors




Quantum Professors

“Hellllooo Professor! Nice to meet you!”

“Ha Ha! A long way to go still”, amused Josh laughed it away.

“Well Mr Quantum! Aren’t you almost there, as you’ve started teaching at your own university? That’s pretty much like being a professor”

“Just a quantum bit”, replied Mr Quantum, aka Joshua, a twenty-two Continue reading

Of Abandoned Truths and Pleasant Lies



deviant art: Eve Blackwood


Living with Abandoned Truths and Pleasant Lies

She left me, this mother mine
But chokes my whole world. 
Leaves no place untouched
No moment unharmed
Stifles my thoughts
Nothing in me intact! 

Oh my perturbed mind!
Come with me to a realm
That’s beyond the intricacies
Of such lying truths or truthful lies.
Can’t I be me, just me?
A hardened adamant human
With a soft pliable heart
I forgive her, I’m kind.

One day, like other souls
Thus steering through life
Detached, stoic…solitary
I’ll carve a new meaning of life.
Within merciless treacheries
And unasked-for strife
That I never deserved
But I invariably derived.

She left me, this mother mine
But fulfills my world, every cell
Thoughts of her warm up my heart 
My life now content and complete.
No longing but peace!
Oh peace! Now peace is mine.

©  Alka Girdhar

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

My poem was inspired by the plight of a fellow blogger as he tried to search for his mother, in fact has been doing so for a long time now.

While it’s hard for a child to forgive one’s mother if she has deserted her baby or given  up her child to others, but one can try.  A child who has never seen his or her mother…needs to love one’s mother with unconditional heart, wherever she is near or far. After all, don’t most mothers love their child unconditionally anyway.

Crushed Crush

In response to the writing prompt: First Crush
Who was your first childhood crush? What would you say to that person if you saw him/her again?”

Not based on any personal experience, but observing many others, I assume if people have a one-sided crush on someone, it doesn’t mean much.

My thoughts on this topic:

Crushed Crush – – Two erratic poems

He was my first crush
When I was way past
The age of crushes
Fast forward
Years later
Saw him
And he shared his secret…
Back then
Years ago
He had a crush
On my best friend
My heart thus crushed
He became my last crush


She met me after ages
No more shy, all smiles.
She opened her mouth
I gaped, looked hopefully
Now’s my chance, for sure
This time she won’t refuse.
Before I could speak,
I heard her bold voice
“My son has a huge crush on
your daughter, will she refuse?”
I woke up from my trance
And stuttered “No naah,
She won’t. Why would she?
How can she? Will she?”


Arranged Marriage: Third time’s the Charm

the first one came
head held sideways
looked away from her
and said
‘You are too good for me’

the second one came
head held high
looked down at her
and said
‘I’m too good for you’

the third one came
held her hand
looked into her eyes
and said
I like you just the way you are
You’re the one I was looking for
It seems you were meant for me
And I was meant for you
You are just right for me
I am just right for you”


The acceptance and rejection process in my above poem applies not only to the much maligned arranged marriages but also to all sorts of deliberate match-making, including online dating sites, where people calculate many different criteria before they decide to see that person.

The fact is, whether it is a love marriage or arranged, every match-making is mostly about the other person unconsciously falling fit into your set criteria of looks, age, race/nationality, religion, education/degrees, mannerisms etc. It may seem that it was a sudden clicking that developed into love but the clever mind and heart calculates.

In any case, it’s better to calculate first than to complain later.

~~~ ~~~

For The Daily Post’s writing prompt History of Language:
Third time’s the charm – Write a piece of fiction describing the incident that gave rise to the phrase, “third time’s the charm.”

Extracted Promises & Rocks That Talk

My previous post…Solid as a Rock…was/is my first ever story on this blog. It was a Flash Fiction in response to this picture with two rocks/stones.

Actually, that day I had simultaneously written three stories for this picture. It was Sunday and the story writing mood had set in.

Here’s the second story “Extracted Promises“…and the third story “Rocks that Talk


Extracted Promises

It was quite an effort to bring her mortal remains all the way from another country to this small sleepy town, but ever since I did that, I’ve been feeling some kind of contentment.  After all, it was mom’s last wish – to be buried near her favorite rocks in Katooba.

As I finished the religious formalities with the help of other villagers, I stood gazing at the ground where she now lay covered.

I wondered, “What was so special about these pieces of big stones?”  I had asked her but she had never disclosed.

Rituals accomplished, as I was about to walk away, an elderly man who looked much older than my mother, came up to me.

He said, “I had done the same for him. Buried him here last year.”

“Who is this ‘him’?  I asked curiously.

“My nephew”, he said looking at the ground.  “These two were great friends”

The man disclosed that he had known my mom and her friend from the times when they played together, grew up together. He had overheard them saying that they may part ways but they’ll come back and be laid to rest next to their two favorite rocks.

“So you see, they had promised each other and now we have fulfilled it”, the elderly man tried to give it all a satisfying closure.

“Gosh! So she was fulfilling a simple promise!!”, I spoke loudly as my eyes popped with surprise.  “Oh! How poignant!  Why didn’t she tell me? Why did she feel I would not understand her.”

But I wondered…Do I really understand her even now?  Mom was very attached to dad, and dad looked after her very well.  So was she just fulfilling a simple promise of an innocent friendship bond?

There could never be any answers to this question, for they both were gone now.

But at that moment I felt I didn’t know my mom enough.  And she didn’t know me either.

*** ***

Rocks That Talk

The two boys passed by these rocks every day while going to their school. As they approached the stones, like most other days today again they started arguing.

The younger six year old repeated what he always said. “How many times will I have to tell you they talk?”  His hand pressed on his ears, he said convincingly, “I have heard them with these ears”.

The older of the two retorted, “Baah!!  You and your funny stories.  As iiiffff….c’mon I have more common sense”

“You don’t wanna believe?  Up to you. The other day I even saw two eyes on the head of the taller rock. Look closely. They are real”.  He emphasized the word ‘real’

“And why would I believe you?  Stones talking. Stones with eyes. Hah!!  What an imagination this boy has!!”, he said shaking his head.

Then something came into his mind. He changed his path abruptly, to turn towards the rocks.  ”Let me check”, he said.

On approaching one of the two rocks, the older boy started slapping the stony surface, while laughing jeeringly. He took out a sharp compass needle from his geometry-box.  Carving and scratching at the rugged surface, he said, “Look they are not talking!  Are they afraid of me? Huh!!”

The younger boy looked at all this in fear and awe, as the older boy walked off still holding the open stationary-box. The two walked away, now with their backs towards the proud stony structures.

A few steps gone and they heard a voice from behind – “Stop!!!”

Their feet jammed.  The younger boy was calm, for he had heard these voices before. The older one sat down shakily with a thud. The contents inside his geometry-box scattered all around him noisily, breaking the silence of the valley .

*** ***

You have previously read my articles and poems. Do let me know if story-writing is my forte or not.

Thanks for reading!!

© All rights reserved by 2015

Solid As a Rock…


This was the lush valley of Solan Hills where they both went to school together, played hand in hand and loved each other even when they didn’t know the meaning of love.  

The two sturdy rocks in the middle of soft grassy terrain was their favorite spot. They gave these rocks their own human names. They would sit leaning on their own rock and talk for hours.

But as they grew up they had to leave these meadows, where they both truly belonged.

He got a job in a far-off city. She followed him. They got married and the next sixty years slipped by bringing up a robust family.

But the pair had left their hearts behind – in their small town full of grassy mounts and proud rocks – the memories of which recurred in their dreams and always gave them strength.  

So when doctors told him he had terminal cancer, he pleaded that he wished to be buried next to his favorite rock in Solan. She nodded and reassured. 

They were two bodies and one soul. Soon after he breathed his last, she lost her will to live.

Their children brought them back to their playground and now they lie in deep sleep next to their favorite rocks.

The whole town remembers them as lovers who came back to where they came from.

*** *** ***

This is my first ever story attempt on my blog.  It’s in response to Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) , a story challenge hosted by Priceless Joy. 
The above photo prompt for the story was provided by Louise from The Storyteller’s Abode.

Thanks for reading! In my new found story-writing mood, I have written two more stories in response to the above photograph.  I reckon they are different if not better than the above story. You can read them here: Extracted Promises & Rocks that Talk

© 2015 Alka Girdhar

A rant…From Me to You…

The Daily Prompt: From You to You  has asked us to…Write a letter to your 14-year-old self. Tomorrow, write a letter to yourself in 20 years.”

Oh baby! Was I ever fourteen?  I can write about 40 as that’s not distant, but 14 seems so remote though I do have vivid memories to share. My sensitive and studious 14 year old self does need some sermonizing on practicalities of life but I’ll leave it for some other time.

My son should answer this prompt. In fact, I can write on his behalf as I know him inside out. I think I do. On the contrary, maybe I don’t. He’s always been a thoroughly good boy during his schooling and now university but generally, as they grow up they have their own lives, esp. our sons. As such, in these times we all live in our own cocoon. Particularly at young age they want to carve their future, spread out their wings so they’re busy trying out new ventures and journeys.

Right now at this moment my son is in London. He went all alone for a month long academic trip to Europe. After Switzerland and Germany, he’s now in UK.

The last few weeks were anxious anyway but today I’m worried like hell, for he has not been picking up the phone since yesterday. Right now it’s midnight in London and I assume he must have been caught up in tube transport strike during the day or when coming back home late evening. Something to do with that.

When I last talked to him almost two days ago, he said he will not go out of his accommodation on Thursday as the city may get chaotic. But the whole day on Thursday, his phone was switched off, so I have no idea what’s been going on. Due to his hectic schedule and the time-gap between the two countries, his phone calls have been generally erratic throughout his trip, but this one’s the longest disconnect we had.

Of course, all this gave me a sleepless Thursday night. On top of that, today on Friday morning, I woke up to a power shut down. It’s not usual for Sydney to go without power, but that’s what happens when you need something the most. A few hours of no electricity meant phones can’t be charged, problematic net connection and all. Finally the power is back so I’m writing all this.

Now…waiting for his phone call. Possibly he’s asleep at this time. He will wake up and call us. But I have the phone numbers of Australian Embassies ready and also that of London Police.

My husband, who is busy with his inter-state tasks, tried to contact him as well but was amused at my panic. He laughed and said …”Police. Huh! Aren’t you too worried?“

Yes I am.  For I am a mom.

So yeah… 4, 14, 21, 40, 60, 80…nothing matters as long as we are safe and alive.

mother and child

My son with his mom when he was younger, she was younger but not 14

Whether we get little miseries or bigger woes, abundant achievements or tremendous failures, small joys or exhilarating happiness, it all holds value only when we ourselves are secure, and sure of the safety of our near and dear ones.

So. What will I say to my fourteen year old self? Maybe some of the above. And much more.


He called later in the day, as if nothing happened. So everything is ok now.

I can’t hold his hand anymore to keep him within my range. I should realize that it sets me free as well.