How I Lost the Curtains and Gained a Landmark? The secret story behind Britain's famous Stonehenge.

I should have known better. A man doesn’t climb the ranks of barristers or own racehorses without a touch of common sense, but apparently, mine decided to take the day off. Yes, I am not afraid to admit that I am an impulsive fool. As I sat in our drawing room, clutching a newspaper as though it might shield me, my dear wife, Mrs. Chubb, loomed over me like an emerald-clad judge. She was a vision, yes, but at this moment, she was more “executioner” than “dream.”

“Cecil,” she began, her voice sweetly dangerous, like honey laced with arsenic. “Where. Are. The. Curtains?”

Ah, the curtains. Damask. Plum. Sophisticated. She had been very specific. And here I was, a grown man, bracing for the verbal hurricane about to hit.

“It’s funny you should ask…” I started, hoping humor might deflect the inevitable. Her eyebrow shot up. Not a good sign.

“Funny?” she said, her tone sharpening. “Do tell, Cecil. How exactly is the absence of my plum curtains amusing?”

I could feel beads of sweat forming. “Well, my love, it’s a rather unusual story…”

She folded her arms, emerald dress shimmering ominously in the firelight. This was not going to be easy.

---

It all began with an innocent enough errand. She wanted curtains. I agreed to fetch them. Simple. Foolproof. And then, I made the fatal error of stopping at the auction house.

In my defense, the auctioneer was a showman of the highest order. His voice boomed through the

room, each word painting vivid pictures of grandeur and importance. I had no intention of buying anything. Really, I didn’t. But then he said it: “Lot 15—Stonehenge - A unique piece of British History.”

The room went quiet, and my heart, dear reader, skipped a beat. Stonehenge? THE Stonehenge?

I sat forward in my chair as the auctioneer waxed lyrical about heritage, history, and patriotism. My blood boiled. Rumors in the papers spoke of Americans—brash, nouveau riche Americans—snatching up British treasures like souvenirs from a gift shop. Imagine Stonehenge, our Stonehenge, turned into some sideshow spectacle across the Atlantic. Unthinkable!

Before I knew it, my arm shot up. “Six thousand pounds!” I blurted, surprising even myself. A gasp rippled through the room.

The auctioneer grinned, hammer in hand. “Going once… going twice… SOLD! To the gentleman with a clear sense of national duty!”

The hammer fell. The room erupted into applause. I, Cecil Chubb, had just bought Stonehenge. For the first ten seconds, I felt like a hero. For the next ten, I felt like an idiot. Curtains? What curtains?

“So,” Mrs. Chubb said, her tone frigid enough to chill my tea. “You mean to tell me that instead of curtains, you bought a… landmark?”

I swallowed hard. “Not just any landmark, my dear. It’s iconic. Timeless. British.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Can I hang plum curtains on it?”

“Well… not exactly.”

“Then what, pray tell, am I supposed to do with it?”

Good question. I had no answer. “Think of it as… an investment?” I ventured weakly.

Her laughter was as unexpected as it was alarming. It wasn’t the light, musical sound of joy but the
kind of laughter one hears before a villain reveals their dastardly plan. “Cecil Chubb,” she said, shaking her head. “You truly are incorrigible. Where is it?”

The drive to Wiltshire was long and silent. Mrs. Chubb had insisted on seeing “this Stonehenge” for herself, and I, resigned to my fate, drove like a man headed to the gallows.

When we arrived, the sight of the ancient stones took my breath away. The way they stood against the rolling hills of Salisbury Plain—majestic, mysterious, utterly British. I turned to gauge Mrs. Chubb’s reaction, bracing for impact.

She stepped out of the car, her face an unreadable mask. Then, to my utter shock, she began to laugh. Properly laugh, this time.

“Oh, Cecil,” she said between giggles. “You absolute fool. You bought this? You actually bought Stonehenge?”

I scratched my head. “Well… yes.”

She doubled over, laughing so hard tears streamed down her cheeks. It was infectious. I found myself chuckling too, more out of relief than amusement. The absurdity of it all was undeniable.

Of course, the laughter didn’t last long. Reality hit like a lead weight. Stonehenge, it turns out, is not the most practical of purchases. The maintenance alone was enough to make my head spin. And then there was the question of what to do with it.

“You could charge admission,” Mrs. Chubb suggested one evening. “If you’re going to own a prehistoric monument, you might as well make it pay for itself.”

It was a sound idea, but charging people to see a piece of their own heritage felt… wrong. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I hadn’t bought Stonehenge to profit; I’d bought it to protect it from landing in the hands of some rich uncouth American from across the pond.

For three years, I bore the weight of my impulsive decision. The newspapers had a field day, dubbing me “the man who bought Stonehenge.” Friends alternated between congratulating me and questioning my sanity. Mrs. Chubb, to her credit, stood by me, though she never missed an opportunity to remind me of the plum curtains.

Then, on October 26, 1918, I made a decision that surprised even myself. I donated Stonehenge to the British government. No fanfare, no demands—just a simple gesture to ensure that this ancient monument would remain in British hands forever. Public access guaranteed forever.

When I broke the news to Mrs. Chubb, she sighed, a mix of exasperation and amusement. “Well,” she said, “at least you’ve ensured no brash American will claim it. But next time, Cecil, stick to curtains.”

And that, dear reader, is the tale of how I became the accidental steward of Stonehenge. It remains a source of mild embarrassment, an occasional topic of dinner-party banter, and a constant reminder of the perils of impulsive bidding. Mrs. Chubb got her plum curtains in the end, of course. As for me? I got a unique place in history—and a firm promise to never, ever stray from the shopping list again.

Cecil & Mary Chubb

Note: This is a fictional retelling from my perspective on a story I  read about the history of  Stonehenge many years back. Cecil Chubb is credited for saving Stonehenge and ensuring it costs a shilling to visit forever. In return for his generosity, he was conferred with a knighthood

Echoes of the Desert, Cries of the Sea

The sky above Marina Beach in Chennai was a heavy gray, clouds swollen with impending rain. Tukaram wiped and dabbed his brow with a dirty rag, though the effort was futile; the sticky humidity clung to his skin, seeping into his clothes. Jhumroo, his camel and lifelong companion, snorted beside him, clearly uncomfortable. The damp air along with the oppressive humidity was nothing like the crisp, dry wind they both missed from their homeland, Jaisalmer in Rajasthan. But this beach, this city, was their only chance of survival.

Tukaram’s gaze swept across the deserted beach before him. On days like this, when the storm loomed over Chennai, people stayed away. The sea was restless, its waves surging higher than usual, and the warning flags fluttered ominously. There would be no camel rides today. No money for food.

He placed a comforting hand on Jhumroo’s neck, feeling the familiar roughness of his hide. “We’ll go back soon, Jhumroo,” Tukaram whispered. “I miss the dunes too. The desert sand, the sky so clear. But Amma and Bapu… they need us here. There’s no work back home.”

Jhumroo blinked slowly, his large eyes turning toward Tukaram as if he could understand. In a way, he did. The scent of the ocean mingled with the smell of wet sand—a far cry from the earthy petrichor of Rajasthan, where the rare rains brought relief, not this relentless torrent.

For hours, they had walked up and down the shoreline, hoping against hope that someone might want a ride, but the wind had picked up and the rain had started to pour in earnest. Tukaram’s stomach growled, and he knew Jhumroo was just as hungry. They had only a few rupees left, and the prospect of food seemed distant.

The rain soaked through their clothes and fur, and soon, the policemen came. “Go home,” one of them shouted. “The cyclone is coming! The beach is closed. You can’t stay here.”

Tukaram nodded without protest. There was no point arguing with authority, especially not here. With a sigh, he tugged at Jhumroo’s reins. “Come on, old friend. We’ll find shelter somewhere.”

As they trudged away from the beach, the world around them seemed to shrink into a blurry mess of waterlogged streets and darkening skies. Tukaram's

thoughts drifted back to the warmth of Rajasthan, the sound of his mother’s prayers, and the memory of his father’s firm hand guiding him through the bustling market. He missed it all, yet he couldn’t go back. Not while his parents still needed him to send money home.

Jhumroo followed silently, his steps slower than usual. Even the rain, which had once brought them joy as it danced on the sands of the desert, now felt like a burden. His hooves splashed through the rising water, the salt from the sea stinging his skin. 

In the distance, the roar of the sea grew louder, a sign that the storm was nearing. Tukaram shivered in his soaked kurta, glancing at Jhumroo with tired eyes. “We’ll be okay,” he said, though his voice trembled. “We always are.”

But Jhumroo knew better. He could sense the heaviness in Tukaram’s heart. They had come here with hope, but the days had grown harder, the struggle heavier. Jhumroo felt it too. The hunger, the uncertainty. The yearning for the dry heat of the desert, the familiar calls of their people.

As they found a small overhang to shelter under, Tukaram sank to the ground, his back against the wall. He rested his head in his hands, defeated. Jhumroo lay down beside him, his large body close for warmth. He wished he could do more—offer something more than his companionship. But what could a camel do in this strange, water-soaked city?

Through the relentless rain, Jhumroo looked at his master, his friend, his brother. And in his camel heart, he mourned for the life they had left behind. For the life they both deserved but could not afford. The storm raged on, but it was nothing compared to the quiet storm of poverty that had gripped them long before.

The Political Paw-spective

Meet Max and Bella, two lovable Labrador Retrievers living in the lively home of Raj and Priya Misra. Max, with his golden coat, is the older of the two, and he often takes it upon himself to be the voice of reason. Bella, a chocolate Labrador, is more energetic and curious, constantly trying to make sense of the chaos around her.

Their human parents, Raj and Priya, are devoted political enthusiasts, but they couldn’t be more different in their political views. Raj is a die-hard supporter of Narendra Modi and the BJP, while Priya is a passionate advocate for Rahul Gandhi and the Congress party. This difference of opinion often leads to spirited debates, especially when the news is on.

One evening, Max and Bella were lounging in the living room, their favorite spot. Raj and Priya were settled on the couch, ready for their nightly dose of news and political analysis.

The Evening Commotion

As soon as the news anchor started discussing the upcoming elections, Max’s ears perked up. He knew what was coming. Sure enough, Raj leaned forward, his eyes lighting up with excitement. "Did you hear that, Priya? Another massive rally for Modi! The man is unstoppable!"

Priya rolled her eyes and shot back, "Oh please, Raj. Modi’s rallies are all show and no substance. Did you see Rahul’s interview today? He spoke with such clarity and vision!"

Max nudged Bella with his nose. “Here we go again. Why do they get so worked up about these humans on the screen?”

Bella tilted her head, her ears flopping to one side. “I don’t get it either, Max. Why can’t they just agree? Or at least fetch a stick together like we do?”

Max sighed. “Humans are strange creatures, Bella. They have this thing called politics, and it seems to make them bark louder than we do at the Zomato delivery guys.”

The Great Debate

As the news segment continued, the debate between Raj and Priya grew more animated. Raj waved his hand dismissively. “Rahul Gandhi couldn’t lead a parade, let alone a country! Modi has transformed India with his decisive leadership.”

Priya scoffed. “Decisive leadership? More like divisive leadership. Modi’s policies are tearing the country apart. Rahul understands the importance of unity and diversity.”

Max lay down, resting his head on his paws. “You’d think they were talking about something important, like food or belly rubs.”

Bella wagged her tail, trying to lighten the mood. “Maybe we should distract them with our cute faces. It always works when they’re upset.” Max chuckled. “Good idea. Let’s go.”

The Paw-some Distraction

Max and Bella trotted over to the couch, wagging their tails furiously. They nuzzled their noses into Raj and Priya’s laps, hoping to divert their attention. For a moment, it worked. Priya scratched Bella behind

the ears, and Raj gave Max a good belly rub.

But the truce was short-lived. The news anchor moved on to a heated debate between political analysts, and Raj and Priya’s attention snapped back to the TV. “See, even the experts agree!” Raj exclaimed. “Modi is the best choice for India’s future.”

Priya threw up her hands. “Experts? Those pundits are biased! They wouldn’t recognize good governance if it bit them on the nose.”

Max looked at Bella with a resigned expression. “It’s no use. They’re too far gone.”

Bella sighed. “I guess we’ll just have to wait it out. But why do they care so much about these people they’ve never even met?”

A Canine Reflection

Max pondered for a moment. “I think it’s because they both want what’s best for the pack, er, country. They just have different ideas about how to get there.”

Bella nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense. Kind of like how you and I both love treats, but you prefer biscuits and I prefer bones.”

Max smiled. “Exactly. Different preferences, same goal.”

As the night wore on, Raj and Priya’s argument gradually lost its intensity. They were both passionate, but deep down, they knew their love for each other was stronger than any political disagreement.

The Peace Treaty

Eventually, Priya sighed and turned to Raj with a weary smile. “You know, Raj, we’ll never agree on politics. But that’s okay. We can still respect each other’s views.”

Raj nodded, taking her hand. “You’re right, Priya. Let’s agree to disagree and focus on what really matters – us, and our family.”

Max and Bella exchanged a satisfied look. Their human parents might be hopelessly divided on politics, but their bond was unbreakable.

The Final Bark

As Raj and Priya cuddled on the couch, watching a non-political comedy show, Max turned to Bella. “You see, Bella, humans may not always make sense, but they do know how to love. And that’s what keeps everything together.”

Bella yawned and snuggled closer to Max. “You’re right, Max. As long as they’re happy, that’s all that matters.”

And so, in the home of Raj and Priya Misra, the political battles continued, but love and loyalty always won in the end – much to the relief of two very wise dogs.

As the night grew quieter, Max reflected on the day's events. “Bella, do you think they’ll ever agree on anything?” Bella stretched and rolled onto her back. “Maybe not on politics, but they agree on us, and that’s what really counts. 

With that, Max and Bella drifted off to sleep, dreaming of a world where humans could fetch sticks and chase squirrels together, regardless of their political stripes. And in their dreams, the world was a much happier place – for dogs and humans alike.

The Road That Never Was

In the tranquil landscapes of the Morbi district in Gujarat, nestled amidst the arid plains, lay the village of Vaghasia. Here, life unfolded at its own pace, untouched by the chaos of the outside world. Yet, amidst this tranquil scene, a quintet of spirited souls harbored ambitions as vast as the desert sky. 

The charismatic leader of the group, Jignesh, possessed a keen intellect and a thirst for success that could only

be satisfied by an insatiable hunger for success. By his side stood Preetesh, a man of few words but with a mind sharp enough to slice through the toughest coconut. With them were Mukund, Murali, and Jayesh, each adding their own spice to the curry of life.

They lived in a village along the path of a toll road that was overseen by the National Highways Authority of India (NHAI). For years, the toll plaza had stood like a sentinel, demanding its dues from all who dared to traverse its path. But our merry band saw in this toll road not a barrier, but an opportunity, like finding an unexpected treasure in a pile of cow dung.

One day, during one of their jaunts, they stumbled upon an old factory, its dilapidated walls whispering tales of yore. Jignesh, with a twinkle in his eye, concocted a plan so daring that even the monkeys in the nearby trees paused to take notice—to build a detour road skirting the toll plaza, leading unsuspecting travelers through the decrepit factory.

With meticulous planning and unwavering determination, they set to work, rallying their friends and allies from neighboring villages to aid them in their endeavor. They worked under the cloak of darkness, laying the groundwork for their ingenious scheme, while the rest of the world snored away in blissful ignorance.

But theirs was not a tale of pure greed. No, sir! They understood the delicate balance between ambition and morality, like a tightrope walker balancing on a thin wire. They diverted only a limited number of vehicles through their detour road, ensuring that government buses and vehicles with official number plates were left untouched. The youth manning the toll road before the NHAI toll plaza were well groomed and well spoken, ensuring that no suspicions were aroused among the travelers passing through. Their toll collectors were as polished as a freshly scrubbed brass vessel, leaving travelers none the wiser.

As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, their scheme flourished, reaping rich rewards with each passing vehicle. The toll tax collected by NHAI paled in comparison to the profits amassed by Jignesh and his band of merry miscreants. In a span of just ten years, they had amassed a staggering sum of close to 75 crores rupees—an illicit fortune born from the sweat and toil of unsuspecting travelers.

But as fate would have it, all good things must come to an end, like a Bollywood movie without a happy ending. The NHAI had calculated its coffers would be overflowing as the district of Morbi slowly became a hub of Ceramic tiles in Gujrat. The NHAI was counting on the increased number of trucks plying on its road because of the booming Ceramic tile business to make an even handsomer profit. But something was amiss as the revenue was not growing exponentially as was expected. It wasn't long before whispers of the clandestine toll operation reached the ears of the authorities like gossip spreading through a village tea stall. The government, incensed by the audacity of the deception, moved swiftly to apprehend those responsible.

Jignesh and Preetesh, the masterminds behind the detour road, found themselves squarely in the crosshairs of the law. Yet, to their surprise, they found unexpected allies in their hour of need. The villagers of Vaghasia, who had long benefited from their clandestine gains, rallied to their defense, refusing to let their heroes fall without a fight.

When the authorities descended upon their village in a bid to make arrests, they
were met with a wall of defiance—a united front forged from years of shared struggle and triumph. Tempers flared, voices rose, and chaos reigned supreme, like a cacophony of monkeys arguing over the juiciest mango. The air crackled with tension as the villagers, armed with nothing but their unwavering resolve, stood shoulder to shoulder in defense of their benefactors as the authorities found themselves outnumbered and outmatched.

In the midst of the pandemonium, Jignesh, Preetesh, and their friends seized the opportunity to slip away into the cover of darkness, vanishing into the labyrinthine alleyways of the village like mice escaping from the claws of a hungry cat. The authorities, frustrated by their inability to apprehend the culprits, were forced to retreat, their tails tucked between their legs.

And so, to this day, the streets of Vaghasia remain eerily silent—a testament to the daring exploits of those who dared to defy the powers that be. Though their actions may have been born from greed and deception, their intentions were noble—to uplift their community and pave the way for a brighter future.

In the wake of their departure, the villagers of Vaghasia found solace in the illicit riches garnered by Jignesh and his comrades. New educational institutions materialized, bringing light where darkness once reigned. Schools emerged, offering children an escape from the shackles of ignorance and destitution. With the foundation laid, colleges soon followed suit, opening doors to advanced learning and intellectual enlightenment. In the wake of their audacious deeds, a transformative wave swept through the village, shaping a future brimming with promise and possibility.

Yet, the most poignant testament to Jignesh and his comrade’s legacy lay in a temple, mosque and Church built by the looted funds —symbols of unwavering faith and solidarity, rising like phoenixes from the ashes of adversity. For Jignesh and his comrades, it was not wealth or power that defined their story, but the indomitable spirit of a community united by a common cause. Though they faded from the forefront of memory, their imprint endured, etched in the hearts and minds of those who dared to envision a brighter future. Their tale served as a beacon of hope, inspiring generations to come with the belief that unity and determination could overcome any obstacle.

Disclaimer: 

This story is a work of fiction created solely from the imagination of the author. While inspired by real events reported in the news, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to real events is purely coincidental. The characters, incidents, and dialogue portrayed in this story are products of the author's imagination and are not intended to represent or depict any specific individuals, organizations, or events accurately. Reader discretion is advised.

Lost Dreams in the Shadows

 In a small, decrepit house on the outskirts of a bustling town, lived an old woman named Sapna. She had spent her entire life in poverty, struggling to make ends meet. Just like her name, she had dreams of a life which forever eluded her.  As a teenager she was married off to a man named Raja. Just like her, the husband too was a Raja in dreams. Her husband, Raja, was a hardworking man, but they were forever trapped in the vicious cycle of poverty. Day in and day out, they scraped by, barely surviving on their meager earnings.

One fateful day, tragedy struck when Raja was involved in a fatal accident while pulling his hand rickshaw. Sapna's world came crashing down around her as she mourned the loss of her beloved husband. The weight of grief hung heavily upon her frail shoulders, but she soldiered on, driven by memories of their enduring love.

In the days following Raja's demise, Sapna was left to pick up the shattered pieces of her life. As the meagre rations in her kitchen dwindled, she was wondering how to eke out a livelihood. Maybe venture out to the streets in search for work as a domestic help or maybe a daily wage laborer. As she was ruminating in these thoughts she was rummaging through their humble belongings, she stumbled upon a small box hidden beneath the side of the bed where her husband used to sleep. With trembling hands, she opened it, and to her disbelief, she discovered a small fortune in cash carefully tucked away by her late husband. The five hundred- and one-thousand-rupee notes were something she had very rarely held in her hands.

A glimmer of hope flickered in Sapna's eyes as she realized that, finally, their years of hardship might have come to an end. The money Raja had saved was intended for their retirement, a future they had long dreamed of but never attained. At least now, Sapna thought, she wouldn't have to beg for food in her old age.

However, fate had a cruel twist in store for Sapna. As she sat in her bed, her ears picked up a snippet of news on the radio crying hoarse from her neighbor’s shanty, the Indian Prime Minister's voice filled the room. He announced the sudden demonetization of 500- and 1000-rupee notes, rendering them worthless pieces of paper. The news left Sapna dumbfounded, her mind struggling to comprehend the gravity of the situation.

The next day, clutching a 500 rupee note, Sapna shuffled into the nearby grocery store to buy some essentials. The kindly old grocer, who had known her for years, noticed her confusion. With empathy in his eyes, he gently explained the implications of demonetization, enlightening her about the urgency to exchange the old currency notes at the bank.

Fear and trepidation gnawed at Sapna's heart as she embarked on a journey she

had never taken before. She made her way to the bank, her weathered face reflecting the weight of a lifetime's worth of hardships. Uneducated and unaccustomed to such formalities, the bustling bank intimidated her.

As Sapna approached the bank teller's counter, she handed over her treasured rupee notes with hope and desperation etched in her eyes. But instead of compassion, she faced accusations. The skeptical teller, eyeing her worn-out clothes and frail appearance, accused her of theft, refusing to believe that the money was the hard-earned savings of her deceased husband.

Undeterred by the bank teller's accusations, Sapna returned day after day, standing under the scorching sun in front of the bank, clutching the worthless notes. Little by little she turned weak with exhaustion while the passing away of Raja was gnawing an ever-increasing hole in her heart. She pleaded with the bank officials to recognize her dire situation, to understand that the money was her only hope for a dignified life in her old age.

As days turned into weeks, Sapna's health deteriorated, her body frail and weak from relentless exposure to the elements. But her determination never wavered. She refused to give up, for she had nothing else to lose. The world around her moved on, unaffected by her suffering, as people rushed past her without a second glance.

One scorching afternoon, Sapna's body could no longer bear the burden of her struggle. She collapsed to the ground, her breaths shallow and labored. Her fist, still clenching the worthless currency, opened as she drew her last breath. The few thousand rupees fluttered through the air, a pitiful testament to a shattered dream.

As Sapna's life ebbed away, a horde of desperate onlookers descended upon her fallen body. They jostled and fought to snatch the fluttering bills from the air, their greed overpowering any semblance of humanity. The money that was meant to secure Sapna's future slipped through her fingers, only to be torn apart by the hands of strangers.

Six Years in Chennai

Six years!! Six fricking years!! Yep its been that long since I moved into Chennai in Tamil Nadu. It wasn't an easy decision to move here at all. I still remember my friends at Birlasoft in NOIDA trying hard to dissuade me from moving to Chennai. But there was friendship on one hand and a newly solemnized marriage with Vidisha on the other hand. A love marriage to boot for on top of it. There is a saying I read somewhere, "Love conquers all things except poverty and toothache". In short our love marriage meant we had near empty pockets by the 20th of every month. Something had to be done to change our lives and that something came in the form of a job offer from Cognizant Technology Solutions in Chennai. So I accepted the job offer.

Chennai is not all embracing to someone who doesn't speak the Tamil language and has no money in the pocket too. I remember walking 5 KMs to office on many days just because I did not have enough money after the first month I moved in and I did not know the language enough to ask for lifts from colleagues. The reason being I had to pay 12 months rent in advance in order to get a house. It was tough to adjust but adjust I did or should I say walk I did as after all "Paapi Pet ka Sawal tha"...lolz. 

Chennai takes its language with gravitas. I still remember informal office meetings sometimes getting conducted in chaste Tamil sidelining me completely. I used to feel bad about this initially and it really hurt. 

Chennai has the most genuine people around. Those same team members who had earlier conducted the meeting in Tamil would summarize everything in English at the end so that I did not miss out on anything.

Chennai taught me to surmount the language barrier by simply being polite to everyone. So my introduction to the two life saving words, Anna and Akka. Just dole out an Akka or Anna while addressing people and they would definitely try to help you out.

Chennai is a city that slowly grows on to you and grow it did. The old world and the new world live in perfect harmony in this city. One still sees people cycling on the roads while the Jaguars and the Mercs glide past them. 

Chennai has been a gastronomically delightful place and I have eaten some of the best North Indian food over here. If Delhi had its Chandni Chowk, Madras (Oops! Chennai) had its Mylapore.

Chennai doesn't differentiate the 365 days of the year into seasons, One gets to see different degrees of heat here with all of them being above 36.5 degree Celsius. Phew!!

Chennai has probably the strictest police force around. I really am not joking here. I had tried bribing a cop once and had to pay a 'chalan' double the initial amount. Salute to them. It indeed is one of the safest cities I have ever lived in.

Chennai takes to Brandy like Punjab takes to whisky. Seriously I have never seen so many brands of brandy in a liquor shop as I see in Chennai. 

Chennai loves its gold. Six years and I am still awestruck seeing the kind of gold people wear over here.

Chennai takes its politicians seriously and their movie-stars even more seriously. Be it a political rally or the release of the latest Tamil block buster movie, posters appear magically overnight and disappear too after some days only to be replaced by the poster of someone else.

Chennai loves its beaches. Any public holiday or any regular Sunday one finds the beaches chockablock even with the sun beating down on your head.

Chennai loved its whistle podu team aka Chennai Super Kings. Alas, CSK got banned now. I still remember people having murder in their eyes for me when I used to cheer Mumbai Indians during the annual jamboree called IPL.

Chennai has taught my nearly 2 year old daughter more Tamil than she has picked up Odiya, Hindi, Sindhi or English. She still addresses me sometimes as "Appa" instead of "Papa"

Chennai you have taken 6 years of my life but you have given me back equally. The same chap who once used to walk to office, could earn enough to buy his first car here. Now we are all set to take possession of our first house too when I return back to India. A house that the once young star crossed yet empty pocketed couple would like to turn into a Home Sweet Home in a city they call their hometown now. Chennai you are mine now. 

Namma Chennai - Chance ey illa!!

Summer Vacations

Bapa n Maa have arrived today in Chennai. Well that's Bapa n Maa for Lil' Sam, Nana and Bou for me. In other words my parents have traveled all the way from Odisha to Chennai for the summer vacations.

Here I am 14000 KMs away all alone. Miss being there in Chennai now. Good days have come to roost in Chennai. My niece will be travelling from Ahmedabad to Chennai for her school vacations. The house will be filled with cheers and shouts of joy when two grand daughters get reunited with with their grand parents. Cartoons 24 hours of the day. Ice Creams, cold drinks and of course chips flowing. Story telling sessions during the evenings. Running around the house. Swings in the park nearby. Perhaps a visit or two to the beach.

Time sure flies by. It still feels like yesterday, when all of us cousins used to get together for summer

vacations with our grandparents. We used to be a motley bunch of kids numbering sometimes up to 15 cousins. Ohh!! The fun..The games....The fights....Moments which will remain etched forever in all our hearts.
My grandparents used to live in a village named "Nalihana" which was about 30 KMs from Puri. They owned a farmhouse which was spread across 35 acres. Warm sunny weather with the cool sea breeze flowing in the evening. Trees to climb all around the place. Mangoes to be plucked straight from the 100 odd mango trees and eaten without being washed. "Hoo-doo-doo ing" the bullocks which to the uninitiated was the war cry to make the bullocks go faster as they pulled the bullock cart. Fishing in one of the several ponds. Long lazy baths in one of the ponds owned by our
grandparents. If I remember correctly there used to be seven ponds but the best was the "Bada Pokhari". Nature at its best. Fresh coconut water from one of the coconut trees. Fresh honey from the apiary. Cricket matches and the occasional kabadi matches with the village children. 


My grandfather owned a Luna.Moped. That Luna was probably the first bike all we cousins ever rode. The thrill of zooming down the broken village roads at 25 KM per Hour......Wooohooo!!! I tell you we were speed demons...lolz. Evenings brought with them the
cry of the cicadas. The sea breeze made the evenings much cooler, not that we cousins minded the heat of the day. Night came early as most of the times there was no electricity in the village. The night brought with it, "Chuda Ghasha". That heavenly concoction of flattened rice mixed with generous amounts of pure ghee and lots and lots of coconut and jaggery. Yummy!!! I am salivating just thinking about it. 

Personally for me the best part of all those summer vacations spent with my grandparents were the story telling sessions. Both my grandfather and my grandmother were voracious readers who could read Odiya, Bengali, Hindi and English. The stories they would recite to us while all of us cousins sat with them during the evenings under a star lit sky still ring true in my ears. My favorites were the Jim Corbett stories. My love for story telling and story writing probably comes from those stints with my grandparents. 

Time sure flies by. That small lad from Nalihana today is in the USA and has his own daughter of nearly two now pestering her grandparents for a story this summer vacation of 2016.