Chiming Stories

Incomplete

Flash Fiction

**Open the window and smile.**
**[Source – Pixabay]**

Chantal didn’t finish the story. After gazing through the few lines that she had written, her search for a known voice abandoned her.

She sat near the window, still holding her pen, playing with it in a steady rhythm, Chantal thought of something and rushed back to her seat. She wrote in her notebook–

It appears as if the joy within

Knows nothing about the war within

And vice-e-versa

Pausing for a moment, she then closed her notebook with a rough jerk. Chantal got up and walked back towards the window, this time leaving the pen behind, letting it rest on the table.

Her gait reflected her confused, unsure, restless state of mind. Chantal took a deep sigh and then without giving it a thought, wrote the word ‘Incomplete’ on the windowpane; a hazy layer of fog on it allowed her to.

Chantal’s eyes fell on something interesting, something which was moving towards her house, she smiled. Her hand poked her cheek as she pondered over the matter.

Suddenly, she opened the window and shouted, ‘Hi, how are you? It has been so long…’

A muffled voice replied, it made Chantal laugh heartily.

A smiling Chantal then closed the window and ran towards the door, opened it and left. Her footsteps on the wooden floor made a fine music.

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Queue to Meet Rossetti and His Friends

Posted on February 10, 2018 by Jagriti Rumi God Knows Why Goodbye Old Lane Queue To Meet Rossetti And His Friends Red House Walking Whispered

Literary Nonsense

Walking in that old lane by the red house, who is that, oh, that is me. I turn left and bump into someone. Someone who happened to be a part of a long queue. Queue to meet Rossetti and his friends.

Don’t push, I said out loud, so that ten people before me and ten people after me could hear it. I said so in advance. And when the twenty some whispered, I shushed them.

**Frontispiece: Rossetti in Childhood**.
**[Source – Wikipedia]**

**Rossetti’s Name Is Heard In America.**
**[Source – Wikipedia]**

From the Frontispiece: Rossetti in Childhood to the last one, Rossetti’s Name is heard in America, I maintained the same attitude. I warned and shushed with an irresistible polite smirk on my face.

Walking in that old lane by the red house, who is that, oh, that is me. Allow me to bid goodbye now, I am in a rush, for those twenty some, god-knows-why, are following me.

Read about Rossetti and His Circle by Max Beerbohm here.

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Mind Games

Posted on February 8, 2018 by Jagriti Rumi Mind Games Quite Unique The Human Mind

Quite unique it is… It confines, it suffocates, it destroys a troubled soul… it frees, it liberates, it celebrates a calm self. It scares the same one for whom it holds the beacon. It likes to play games and break promises. It supports, creates and imagines the unimaginable. It forgets almost everything. It remembers almost everything. It never forgives, until it realises that it can forgive. It is a true lover. It loves itself the most. Quite unique it is… the human mind.

My Sunglasses

Posted on February 7, 2018 by Jagriti Rumi Grand Parade Journey Life My Sunglasses Ocean Wind Quaint Temple The Wave

A journey by air, by road, by rail to reach the ocean started with me sitting cross-legged, looking through the window, and thinking about myriad things.

While the world around me appeared to be the same – it smiled when I did, it passed a dull nod when I did – it was secretly weaving a plot.

I got to know about it when I wore my sunglasses.

The unbiased tracks.
Image – Jagriti Rumi

Everything then moved in a wave, including me.

Immersed in one colour, we were all attuned to do the Samba, and Samba we did.

When the ocean wind joined us, it enthralled us, we chased the beats faster to match its incessant flow.

A heavy old bridge tried the same, corroding swiftly, meeting the ocean wind in rhythm.

Standing *steel* solid until…
Image – Jagriti Rumi

I saw the iron steel heavy ocean wind, dancing, through my sunglasses.

The fishermen left their boats, swung their nets, and summoned all the others to sing and dance, to be one with the wave.

Rowing is knowing life.
Image – Jagriti Rumi

I hopped and tapped along and beamed, my smile touching my sunglasses.

At night or was it at dawn, what did the quaint temple said to me? It spoke of its time, the artisans ritual of worshiping their tools, shared an epic tale and sang good old folk songs.

What they say about its static avatar is not true, for the temple sways with wind and sings and adds to the music.

Luckily to see this, you do not have to stand at the ticket counter or wait for hours in serpentine lines.

**The alive architecture.**
**Image – Jagriti Rumi**

Meenakshi Amman Temple, Madurai.
Image – Jagriti Rumi

The grand parade, Rameshwaram.
Image – Jagriti Rumi

In my company no one did, but I saw a monkey, no, a langur, happy at the top of the temple, playing with the waves… all thanks to my sunglasses.

Back from the journey, lying upside down on the bed, staring at the funny trees outside the window, I think about Time in general and yawn.

But before those lazy dilemmas hit me, I get up, yes, I sit up straight and plunge forward to look for my sunglasses.

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Bumblebee

Posted on January 7, 2018 by Jagriti Rumi Bumblebee Moon Prose Poem Puppet River Universe Wait White Flower

Prose Poem

**“Towards the Moon flower”, said the Bumblebee.**
**[Source – Pixabay]**

Flying high in the sky reaching for the beautiful white flower named moon, the Bumblebee forgot about home, colours and fragrance of the land.

The wind resisted it, throwing it back and forth. Like a puppet the Bumblebee danced.

It rose up and crossed the cloudy river, river that was flowing to nowhere special, river that was attuned with the Universe.

A tiny spot, a funny Bumblebee approaching its white flower… the moon saw it and decided to wait.

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Towards

Posted on December 29, 2017 by Jagriti Rumi Dash Time Dreams Empty Map First Direction Nowhere Towards Walking

Walking towards nowhere in particular QJ dared not to stop. For last time QJ couldn’t bear the pandemonium that started within when she dared to stop and nothing happened.

With fragments of that dollhouse in one hand and the key to its door in another, walking often becomes cumbersome and a dull routine.

Only lightning wakes QJ, though her afterthoughts always make an indelible note to herself to wake up before being struck. QJ later laughs loudly looking at her scars.

Lightning in full glory.
Image by Anja, from Pixabay.

Walking towards nowhere in particular QJ glanced at her umbrella. Tap! Tap! The umbrella changes its colour yet again, confusing its owner for a dash time.

Fill in the dash with a pleasant-sounding time period, a warm moment, and a lovely realisation. QJ wonders why she never tumbled while gazing up at the umbrella or the sky, maybe she should have stopped and asked the path.

Instead, QJ makes a funny face, fidgets, and gestures to no-one around her that… oops, she almost fell. Click! Train of thoughts leave a compartment at a station at this moment.

QJ ate dreams, but not the ones that came true. Work makes you hungry for more work, it makes you kind towards your dreams. And this is your prize.

Walking towards nowhere in particular QJ is joined by the others. All assuming it strongly that everyone knows better than them.

QJ didn’t agree or disagree for hours full of ages and once upon a time when she did, they all left her immediately to follow someone else.

Just a mangy, horribly plump in the middle, slow dog stayed with QJ. It smiled (or didn’t), but those remaining teeth, all-dancing in opposite direction made her feel that every 21st-century disease, malady, sickness was represented by that slow dog.

Hell yeah! QJ cried for the dog didn’t die, but just slowed down further and sat on the path, resting, waiting. Hell lingers.

Walking towards nowhere in particular QJ thinks about faces, veneer in fashion, layers, surface deep dialogues, and her reactions.

A trap! Superficial flamboyant messages received and sent. Afraid of any change, she blindly accepts repetition.

Walking towards nowhere in particular QJ takes out an empty map and begins to draw.

Lines start to run and form a track. QJ retraces her steps and finds her first direction.

Towards the first direction.
Image by Oliver Mbrax from Pixabay

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खुद से

Posted on December 17, 2017 by Jagriti Rumi Yourself खुद से

मुझसे भी न कहिए
जो खुद को अब तक न कही हो

बातों के सागर से
एक एक करके चुन लीजिए

फिर खुद से ही कहिए
और खुद की ही सुनिए

Translation

Yourself

Don’t tell me
What you haven’t told yourself

There is an ocean of things
Choose one to talk about

Then talk about it
Talk to yourself

My Time

Posted on December 14, 2017 by Jagriti Rumi My Time

My time. My time to rule and regain. My time to change and develop. My time to cashback. My time to realise the certainty. My time to live the constant, again. My time to undo and start over. My time to let go. My time to disagree. My time to understand. My time to cry and laugh. My time to be there and everywhere at once. My time to be quiet. My time to see and smile. My time had/ has / will come.

Amla Pickle

Posted on December 10, 2017 by Jagriti Rumi Amla Pickle Creativity Folk Tales And Songs Inner Joy Terrace Winter Morning Sun

Flash Fiction

Winter is coming… time to make pickles.
[Source – Pinterest]

Winter morning sun, a plate full of amlas* drying on the terrace soaking in the air makes for a delicious amla pickle recipe. Of course the ceramic pickle jar, oil and a mixture of spices add zingy flavours to the story, but this happens much later.

Go ask the winter sun what magic it carries, sprinkling warmth and soothing glow, intoxicating the land and almost everyone you know.

Or ask a farmer who works bare feet for hours and hours, sweating and smiling.

Go sit on the terrace on the pretext of shielding the amlas from those happy big flies. Beware, the air will make you high, for it brings along winter folk tales and songs, colourful kites and children’s laughter.

Winter just appears to be slow and quiet, maybe such is its inner joy and creativity.

The spell will work, all you have to do is sit on the terrace, ask the winter sun and taste the amla pickle.

(*Amla – Indian Gooseberry)

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Sunflower Smile

Posted on November 30, 2017 by Jagriti Rumi Crayon Forever Gin-soaked Hour Rosy Glow Soul Sunflower Smile Sunlight Tiny White Daisies Warmth Winters

Flash Fiction

**The sunflower warmth just touched you.**
**Image from Pixabay.**

Smile that sunflower smile, I love to see your beaming face, eyes closed and the rosy glow. Oh, come on! Remember those winters how we huddled to be in direct sunlight… warmth of the burning star touched our souls, and we smiled.

Peeping through the bushes, the sunlight always made me feel like I am in a photograph – yet to be taken.

While the tiny white daisies were busy decorating and tackling the mad wind, blushing, swaying and often taunting it for impeding their progress, the sunflowers stayed glued like a crayon drawing on the wall, letting the sun seep within.

Seeing the clouds approach, the sunflowers never trembled or rebuked the sky’s spongy friends… for the sunflowers could feel the presence of that warm burning star, part of it now stored inside them.

Maybe that’s why sunflowers’ signature reads ‘Forever’ rather than their glowing name. Oh, how lovely!

Now just smile that sunflower smile, I love to see your beaming face, eyes closed and the rosy glow.

**Smiling sunflowers and the gin-soaked hour.**
**Image from Pixabay.**

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Greetings!

A storyteller, following the ancient tradition of cave chroniclers, standing in vrikshasana (the tree pose) on a hill top (it is sunny, but windy), breathing in and out stories (relishing it all, but at times overwhelmed), declares animatedly that she will continue to – tell stories, share rare story gems, and connect with the pacy universe while also keeping the website ad-free.

Big thanks to my readers. Stay tuned!

Also, a humble request to the new subscribers to check the spam folder after subscribing. Silly (but necessary) confirmation emails often land there instead of the bright inboxes. Merci!

Ya-hoy!

Chiming Stories (formerly Home Chimes)

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