Storytelling

Zumuh Kakuraa

Flash Fiction

**Tenzin Achi’s magical!**
[Image by Tri Le from Pixabay]

Tenzin Achi for the first time was going to reveal the hidden treasure of her green old trunk. She knew we children were very keen and would do anything just to even take a peek inside. Especially after Lo’s encounter with an alien creature who guaranteed Lo that he came via the green old trunk.

When Tenzin Achi was approached to confirm this incident, she had just laughed and said, “Ask the green trunk.” No one ever dared to do that of course.

And today Tenzin Achi has agreed, astonishingly, at such a low bid – one chocolate and five cookies – to introduce us to the mysterious dwelling of the trunk.

“Oi… not letting you see inside”, said Tenzin Achi, “I’ll show you all myself, stay back.” I knew it, we are duped… she wouldn’t have let our curiosity die so soon.

But you know what, we all were prepared for it. Tenzin Achi is famous as canny granny.

Behold, she announced and took out a pair of silver tinned wire loops, which a talking dragon gifted her. Then came out five stones – red, indigo, yellow, green and white; she collected them from a planet she visited, named Kakuraa, and were extremely precious stones.

Seeing none of us impressed, she challenged us to visit planet Kakuraa and ask anyone about the credibility of the stones. Silence prevailed and when someone yawned, Tenzin Achi was seen sweating.

She then took out a tiny copper ball. Now this appealed to all us children and Tenzin Achi beamed.

There was a message engraved on the tiny copper ball and “only a warrior could read it” said Tenzin Achi. Dramatically she said some words in her dialect and we understood zilch of it, but we stayed hooked.

We all gasped in chorus as she twisted and opened the tiny copper ball. She first made all of us swear with our hands on our heart, “don’t pass my secret to anyone – I am a warrior of Phui clan.” We obeyed as we were clueless and eager to know what’s hidden in the copper ball.

Veil uncovered, Tenzin Achi took out a small piece of crumpled cloth from the copper ball, red-white pattern knitted, it looked extremely ordinary, but the story attached to it wasn’t.

She told us about Zumuh (that piece of cloth had a name). When the Kakuraa dynasty decided to leave for another world, they left on this planet, bits of Zumuh. These magical pieces worked as a Genie and it wasn’t easy to get one. Only who believed in magic and showed reverence to the Kakuraa dynasty could find it. Umpteenth times, she said proudly, Zumuh had helped her. Magic lived in her heart and pocket.

Pazo then said harshly, ‘Tenzin Achi is trying to fool us… this Zumuh can’t be used even as a hanky.’ Laughter filled Tenzin Achi’s old wooden room, but she stayed quiet, like me and Lo. Were there tears in her eyes?

I don’t know, but I stood up and told everyone “I too have a Zumuh, it saved my life thrice from a dog.”

They knew it was true, Kaalu had bitten Pazo and even Lo, but I managed to save my pajamas and myself somehow. I took out a round and rotted plastic but alive key ring from my pocket; with red-white pattern on it, I presented my Zumuh.

I told them that a great traveller gave it to me near the hilltop and then vanished. Surprisingly Lo agreed, adding that he too saw that great traveller vanish into thin air.

Pazo asked me to demonstrate the power of the Zumuh. Tenzin Achi had something else in her eyes then – spark of magic.

I stretched my hand, holding the key-ring and shouted, ‘Zumuh show your power, I believe in you.’

‘I also believe in you O Zumuh, let the magic shine’, said Tenzin Achi as she copied me and looked towards the roof, as if it was magical and we could see through it. Lo, who was without any Zumuh, also got up and screeched ‘I also believe.’

Many eyes were glued to the Zumuh and I was actually hoping for a magical blast.

Thunder!!!!!! We all literally jumped on our places. The sky replied and immediately it started to snow.

Although it was winter, it wasn’t the time of the year for the clouds to shower snow. I yelped, ‘Thank you Zumuh.’

We all rock and rolled and tried to copy Tenzin Achi’s funny one-leg-in-the-air-dance, singing ‘zumuh, kakuraa, o zumuh, kakuraa!!’

**Lightning dances along with them.**
[Source – Pixabay]

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A Seeming

Posted on January 15, 2016 by Jagriti Rumi A Seeming Clouds Death Life Moon Myriad Worlds Rosaline Stars Unique

Flash Fiction

That I am and that I am not is a seeming. Life is a seeming just like its partner, death.

**A beautiful sunrise/ sunset… a beautiful seeming.**
**[Source – Pixabay]**

Rosaline, sitting on the branch of a huge tree, was collecting the passing clouds. Though friends with the clouds, she didn’t like to see them at night, maybe because she also collected stars.

The day-night cycle confused her. Grandma’s solution “you’ll understand it once you become a big girl” didn’t help Rosaline at all.

And so she started living in different worlds – the-bright-blue-sky-world, the-mischievous-cloudy-world, the-paper-boat-rainy-world, the-sparkling-starry-world, the-moon-pie-world, the-ghostly-pitch-black-world…

Two worlds sometimes merged into one and formed something unique.

Whichever world Rosaline was in, she was always excited to live it fully. Happily, she always announced early in the morning “today I’ll be in the-mischievous-cloudy-world’ or ‘give way to Rosaline, the-moon-pie-world awaits her.”

Lost in her myriad worlds, she lived madly. She even recorded her visits to these wonderful worlds.

She was proud to be the youngest and the oldest member of her family, youngest by age and oldest by the many visits she made to these worlds.

On her 92^nd visit to the crunchy-autumn-leaves-world, she died. She fell from a huge tree.

Her last words were, “Grandma, you need to plus 22 more worlds to break my record”.

A crunchy-autumn-leaves-world.
[Source – Pixabay]

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Stopping to get a Rhythm Check

Posted on January 5, 2016 by Jagriti Rumi Dancing Flash Fiction Life Memory Mind Pond Rhythm Check Rose Stopping The Wheel Turned

Flash Fiction

Just then, when the wheel turned, the rose fell on the grass and I fell along, the music within me found a new rhythm. I quietly listened to it, resisting the magic at first as I was hurt, but then tears always dry in the end. I got up and walked in suspense, unknown to me before. Bathed in the new rhythm, I paced up and ahead. Trying to catch the music in the air, I ran and reached near a green pond. I had a smile on my face by then. Curious! I tried to fathom the quietness that permeated the air. With a queer yet happy faith in things around me, I started to dance, round the pond… hmm… laa-la-laa-laa. The pond somewhere was hiding a piano, the branches a violin and the beetles, drums. It started to drizzle and I stopped dancing. Sitting by the side of the pond, cross legged, playing with a twig unconsciously, my mind went silent or maybe it was thinking something of its own.

She met the swans!
Don’t remember if I did too.
[Source – Pixabay]

Like it happens in life, the image and the music fades away, leaving a consolation named ‘it is just the past’. But luckily, I still relish that experience sometimes. Let the memory play tricks I say. What fades within, stays within forever and often takes you beyond… that’s enough, isn’t it? If you happen to turn the wheel and fall on the ground along with a rose, you’ll know that it is.

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Over And Over Again

Posted on December 23, 2015 by Jagriti Rumi Crime Fulfilling Aftertaste Glow Illusion Life Myriad Ideas Over And Over Again Shooting Star Sunshine Tides

Flash Fiction

**Springtime – A Painting by Claude Monet**
[Source – Wikipedia]

How can I be alone when I am always there with myself? Is this illusion stronger, better, more true than the other one we call life?

In fiction, the tides merge with the sea, the sunshine flows warmly through the perforated leaves, the collocations rise with sense and settles smoothly, a fulfilling aftertaste savoured by one and all.

This is my hope, light and everything. This is what I am following, leisurely. Those who call it a crime are shunned automatically.

Myriad ideas know me well and I know them too, at least some of them. We haven’t set a selling price or cost price, we are friends and I am not clever. Ideas follow a different train of thought, though unaware about the details, I understand the emotional part of it.

The high plateau doesn’t rise again. There I walk alone and often stop near a tree to rest. One eye shine with stars in it and the other quietly shed tears. For a moment I knowingly choose one of the two sides, but generally I prefer walking on the border line.

I saw a shooting star and like the last time I wished for the same thing… I don’t remember it now, though I am thankful. Whenever I am thankful, I feel confident and happy. Often the glow makes me glow.

What I remember now is that I have been here before… it was as different as same it looks now.

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Some-Lovely-Funny-Times

Posted on December 12, 2015 by Jagriti Rumi Diya Eyes Far Forever and one second is just the same Lives Some-lovely-funny-times Sometimes Stone Cut Stairs Stories Temple

Observation

**Come along…**
[Image by James Smith from Pixabay]

Alice: How long is forever?

White Rabbit: Sometimes, just one second.

-Lewis Carrol

I closed my eyes and saw the stone cut stairs, broad and homely, stretching from the bottom of the hill to the top, where the age old, beautifully carved and gloriously coloured temple lives. Yes, the temple lives, breathing in prayers and breathing out peace. A magical quietness stops the spinning mind and grants the warmth of love.

Little feet try to reach the bell, failing, but trying, finally adding to the music flowing in the air a happy ‘tan-tan-tan’. Not understanding the images, the big bold eyes, the lion’s roar, its the splash of colours –golden, red, yellow, green- all sparkling gallantly, that enters within to stay. Round and round the temple, the giant smiling peepal tree, flowers in the wind, red threads tied in every direction, the burnt silenced diya, the rich kohl, and faith in miracles, all together makes the earth reverberate.

I am walking in the temple, eating the prasad and savouring the air, the green leaves and the time. Yes, the time, unknowingly I am moving ahead. What seemed eternal has now elapsed in what I thought were years, were just a few funny seconds. Funny because when I opened my eyes, I didn’t see the stone cut stairs or the old temple…

Following the melodies, the colours, the laughs, baffled at every point, blessed now and then, a bit complacent and a bit more naive, I have reached so far. I cannot foresee, but I know now that sometimes, forever and one second is just the same.

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A Dream of Twin Rainbows

Posted on November 30, 2015 by Jagriti Rumi A Dream of Twin Rainbows Blink Cage Clock Dance Fly Imagination Ocean See Sing Soulfully Thunderbolts Wink

Poem

**One, two… lucky you!**
**[Image by Jagriti Rumi]**

My imagination is strong and hence I can see

The waterfalls, mesmerizing clouds and the ever working bees;

I am very much alive with a working clock

Hanging on the earthen, painted, plastic wall saying ‘tick-tock-tick-tock’;

My ears don’t bleed anymore and though my eyes are shy to blink,

I have learned to bar the command and hide behind a paused wink.

Master shouts and thunderbolts hit the wall,

Faking to cry and tremble, I try to make the cage fall.

Yes! I live in a cage! But I have a dream, a dream of twin rainbows.

I will one day fly towards it, crossing the ocean of dead vows,

There I will soulfully sing and freely dance and just be me…

My imagination is strong and hence I can see.

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Boundaries

Posted on October 31, 2015 by Jagriti Rumi Boundaries Crazy Divided Beautifully Painter Planet Earth

What happens in the west doesn’t happen in the east and vice-versa. This is our country and this is our tradition. We love our motherland and we can die for it.

The North is different from the South. And this state, this city, this town, this village and this house is where I belong. I cannot live anywhere else but here.

Lines are drawn and everything is divided beautifully. If not entirely, the plan does work out fruitfully with minor problems here and there.

When these minor problems become big, it is dissected thoroughly and the offender is caught, punished and forgotten. Things turn back to normal; once again it’s a sunny day.

But, there is one story that no one can forget. An ordinary-looking fellow, who lived in the mountains and always painted the oceans in his notebook, once painted the planet earth on a grand rock, it was magnificent, but he was anyway convicted for it.

Maybe he was crazy, that is what most of us believe, otherwise, why will a sane person draw the beautiful earth and then divide it? Yes! That is what he did.

The blue, green planet looked so perfect on that rock as if it was alive, but then, that bloke painted a hand hammering the earth into two, a chasm that spread like the roots of a tree and divided the whole planet.

It was a violent crime, of course. How could he even think so? But then, they say he was crazy.

There’s another story about that painter.

You know that the earth is changing colour, you must have seen the photographs, it’s becoming reddish with each passing day. Some say that this change occurred only after that painter was hanged, which is true, but I don’t know if these events can be related.

It’s all crazy, no?

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She

Posted on October 18, 2015 by Jagriti Rumi Border Burned Guitar Doubtful Star Dreamlike Extraordinary Journey Joy Magical Milky Way Mirror Pride Puzzle She Spirituality Time

Flash Fiction

She is just ten years old. Talkative and curious by nature, she wishes to know, but only about the magical, the dreamlike and the pleasing.

Her world is of all the shades of pink. With the warmth of an honest, caring canopy overhead, she looks at the stars and floats in the Milky Way.

There is ample clarity in everything she sees and time’s her friend – blistering fast or dragging slow. There is only one melody she is tuned to and it is called life.

**She is living in her own world, within and without.**
**Image from Pixabay.**

She is young and brave. Quietly, she observes the world and the world within her, laughs at her.

Battling the questions and transforming the answers, she moves ahead with every failure and tries to fathom the success.

A mirror walks with her; she has broken it umpteen times but they are still in a relationship. Her cries, her sighs, her laughs, her smiles, her ways and one life… all packed in a rucksack is her pride and joy.

The doubtful star burns with her glare and the rhythm of change trespasses the old.

She is living for others now and has placed herself on the top shelf, in a green trunk, under an old book. Close to many and far from herself, she is standing on the border – this way or that way… her life is slipping away…

She just woke up and whatever was under the old book, in a green trunk, on the top shelf she burned that rusted world to dust.

Walking on ashes, she turns black and grey until the mirror returns. It is not going to be joyous all through, but she doesn’t mind the sound of a burned guitar.

They say she is weak and crouched, that she hears less and that her wrinkles make her a puzzle. A puzzle indeed and a child from within, no one knows what a good time she is having.

Her old eyes shine like a starry night and things magically appear and disappear with her touch. The words cannot express bliss; she is singing, hear this – ‘La-la, li-li, o, la-la, li-li’.

She is extraordinary. She is over there, can you see her? I know you can.

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Black Sparrow

Posted on October 16, 2015 by Jagriti Rumi Black Sparrow Dark Dream Eyes Fear Flash Fiction Rain Stones Stories

Flash Fiction

**Dream-like peaceful.**
[Source – Pixabay]

Her eyes… there is fear in her eyes.

It was blurry… but I remember it clearly. Old hands like my mother’s but she wasn’t my mother, then why do I see her? The place is cold and that is how I feel until I look at her, I feel cold and wet as if I didn’t run away from that day’s hard rain. Everything around was cold and wet that day and so was it in my dream. That day when I was strolling in the park I saw a black sparrow… Francis said he would rather be a black sparrow than fight in the war. I saw the black sparrow, and I left the park.

She is sitting on a wheel chair, she is wearing black. Today, when I picked up the burnt paper, I crushed it without knowing why; my hands can still feel the smooth blackness. But she was surrounded by a harsh blackness, she was in the sun, but everything was crude and dull. I hate myself for crushing the burnt paper, I can feel the crude blackness now.

Francis collected stones all the time, he had strange hobbies. Stones he said are beautiful unless we give them a shape. The old lady, someone’s mother, had an image in her eyes; a dull face as if sculpted, and I agreed with Francis that it looked utterly dead. It scares me every time I see the dream.

I am there to help you old lady. Who is it that you are holding in your eyes? What are you whispering? I can’t hear you? She isn’t looking at me Francis, she is looking somewhere else. Francis I can’t see you. I can’t see the black sparrow. I am tied to the dream. I see her eyes Francis… her eyes… there is fear in her eyes.

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What To Do?

Posted on October 2, 2015 by Jagriti Rumi Busy Life Destination Dreams Great Novel Mind Platform The Train of Thought Thoughts Travelling What To Do? Window

Literary Nonsense

The Busy Life (1953) by Jean Dubuffet
[Source – tate.org.uk]

The train of thought never stops, does it?

Standing on a vague platform, everything except me undergoes a peculiar kind of metamorphosis now and then. Bewildered, I stand in utter confusion, with a dazed expression and remain amusingly voiceless.

Waving madly for the train to halt or at least lazy down a bit, I am increasingly getting ascertained about the fact that either I am powerless or I am being considered as a crazy cheerleader.

Often, no, more than often, I have successfully boarded the train.

What happens then – settled quietly near the window, with a half-read great novel that I have tried to finish since one year, five months and two weeks, looking old and rich in my hands, I get lost in the dream world looking through the barred window; settled quietly near the window, with a notebook in front and a pen in my hand, I write down miraculous lines, tying down the strength to move the humanity and a saleable story together, staying humble myself throughout the reverie; settled quietly near the window, but loathing everyone around me and worshiping softly to reach my destination soon…

“My destination…” I say and I am kicked out of the train, back on that floating platform which dances every second on some idiotic tune and disturbs my balance.

I fall down, cry, raise questions, get answers, plan things and proudly compliment myself, with a touch of modesty of course.

And then what do I do? I go off to sleep. How much can the mind take? “So long, my friend”, says my mind and dozes off. Shut down! Power off!

Click!

Switch on and I am back on that platform. Trains have started passing me. I yawn, a full day of travelling to a gazillion places ahead.

Busy life, what to do?

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