Prasanna Raghavan

From Long Island Express Highway, Kailas turned north to enter Spring Filed Boulevard.  His visit to his home, he wasn’t sure to call it home, would have impacted who were close to him, had the events happened recently taken another turn.  The Boulevard was chock-a-block with traffic; his laziness didn’t allow him to check the traffic level before entering the Boulevard.  The road ahead stretched in two lines.  A tall advertising vehicle in front prevented him seeing anything beyond its flat back. He switched on his car radio and tuned on to the SyriusXM channel.  The announcer went on and on about all routes busy, he got angry and turned off the channel. Twenty-three minutes than usual he took to reach the turning from Spring Field Boulevard to 53rd Avenue.  There he turned south and joined street no. 216. Street 216 too was busy, but traffic wasn’t stagnant, moving.  Parking spaces on both sides were taken up by all kinds of vehicles, some flashing names of media houses and some adve

It was a mistake happened in a split second.  The lamp shade, I just removed of a table lamp slipped off my hand; fell onto the floor and crashed in a jingling. How I watched sadly, the shade was turning into a white net of shards. The dust that had gathered on its surface had rendered the lamp a dead, fearsome look.  So I was prompted to give it a facelift.  I was also earnestly trying to help my aunt in secret.  But, if my aunt got a clue of what I was intending, I was sure, she wouldn't have allowed me. The lamp, my uncle told was his family heirloom, so had lots of sentimental values attached to it more than its material value.  His great uncle got it from Vas co Dagama's yacht; his story went like that. I never believed him. My point was, how could he discard a thing of much sentimental value in the corner of the passageway to gather dust? Only when visitors came, he got my aunt to dust it and display on his table.  The following week, some guests were coming, and my aunt

Kethan Bhagat, one of the India's bestseller authors, answered in an interview; he writes for changing people's perspective. He's right. Writers are mainly the people who deal with emotions, and only emotions or feelings can change people's perspectives or views. And how can this be possible for writers, if they aren't allowed creative freedom, and tethered at the end of limited expressions? The individuals and the society as a whole get to with only stale or outdated ideas. And many of us are comfortable with outdated ideas because they make life easy, frictionless, and having little challenges. And they don't call it stale, but traditional. The majority of us are conditioned to treat anything that comes under the label of tradition with outright awe and respect, if not we fear stigma for supporting immorality. But the fact of the matter is that what often comes as traditional has nothing to do with tradition but the selected ideologies of a minority that only

Now that I'm not working, so, I can write only about how I experienced it while I worked. Throughout my career life, I lived in Africa, where I'm still living, where conditions of life varied from those at home. I came to Africa, after I got married. When I got married I had to drop my work in India. When I worked in India, my colleagues and myself, stayed together in one house. We cooked and completed cooking and other home chores together, in turn, and life was very balanced. Less responsibilities, more freedom, that was for the spinsters.. But for those among us who were married, didn't seem life as balancing as it was for us, for they were always saddened by missing of their family members-husband and children. After marriage, I came to Africa, and for some time, I stayed at home until my appointment was sorted out. During that time, I was able to manage my home chores and reading. Then I got the job and our child was born, oh things were hotting up. I began to get ofte