A Mother’s Concern

                          Picture Prompt For The Wordy Wednesday at the B-A-R

This week’s prompt comes from the amazing storyteller and blogger Sid Balachandran


Oh no! Look at little Chip lick food off the floor. Why can’t he be like Mrs Orangutan’s son, Godzy; who sits at the table and eats his food, like a gentleman. He knows the right forks to use for the different dishes kept in front of him, he even uses the napkin to wipe his mouth after he finishes eating his meals. Mrs O is so lucky, and now look at me and my nutty son!

Here we are by the window grill of the Iyers, I can smell the filter coffee being prepared by Malini Iyer. Wish I could go in and ask her for a cup, it would wash down this corn so well. I wonder if she would also be kind enough to give a glass of milk for Chip, he is a growing boy and needs all the calcium he can get. A mother never stops worrying about her children, be it a human mom or a haplorhini one :)

By Sulekha Rawat


Linking it to the  Wordy Wednesday #6 at B-A-R and #Blogging #Tip




Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
~William Blake (1757-1827), “Auguries of Innocence”


I am drowning here

Holding on to the anchor

Pry my fingers loose.


Echoes in the dark

Piercing screams of anguished souls

Hands on ears, I sit.


Mahogany blues

Crimson whites of dull black eyes

The mad artist paints.


Losing you was tough

Forgot to breathe for a while

My anguish lives on.


Footsteps in the sand

Reminders of days gone by

Washed off by the waves.



Sulekha Rawat


Compassion Day Haiku

Today is 1000 Voices for Compassion Day!


Tears in their eyes

Their anguish and pain move you

Kind souls wipe the tears.


An expensive car

with tinted windows, new wheels

No time for poor souls.


Healing touch of love

Makes life easier to face

Sharing is caring.


She’s not yet had lunch

Polishes off her tiffin,

Starving eyes envy.


Young voices scream out

But no one is listening

Where is the justice?


Let us all unite

Banish sorrow from the world

Make all faces smile

New Doc 32_1

 By Sulekha Rawat

Read how people practice compassion in real life



Written for 1000 Voices Speak for Compassion, where bloggers all over the world are spreading the unanimous feeling of compassion. Link up at IndianAmericanMom

This is my contribution to the unique global movement called 1000 Voices for Compassion.  Today,  the 20th February 2015, over 1000 bloggers worldwide are publishing posts about compassion. It is an effort to spread goodness and compassion in a world torn by strife and violence.Linking this with #1000Speak, #1000 voices for compassion
- See more at: http://letbeautybeyourconstantideal.blogspot.in/2015/02/difficult-decisions.html#sthash.C8ArdgYb.dpuf

A Sweet Gesture

I tried my hand at writing a children’s story and loved doing it :)

DecorA Sweet Gesture


Pinki tried to lick off the ice cream dripping down her hands and wrists but the strawberry ice cream bar she had in her hand had a mind of its own. She tried to hide it behind her back when she saw her mother charging towards her.

“Pinki, how many times have I told you not to eat ice-cream when you are wearing white? Your uniform will have pink stains now, couldn’t you wait till you changed out of your uniform before attacking the ice-cream?”

“But mummy, I was hungry”, Pinki wailed before running towards her grandfather’s room, he understood her so well.

“Let the child be”, said the kind old grandpa smilingly. “She is just a child and every kid loves ice-cream”

“Dad, everyday it is the same story, she is out of control. Her obsession with ice-cream is becoming too much to handle.”

“Nonsense, you were exactly like her when you were her age. Pinki is a good kid, you need to relax and enjoy her childhood. She won’t remain 5 years old for long, time flies, and before you know it she will be all grown up and going off to college.”

Pinki’s mother gave her father an exasperated look and stomped off to the kitchen, her rigid shoulders and measured walk mirroring her displeasure.

Next day, Pinki got off the school bus and hurried towards the ice-cream vendor standing a few feet away, the ten rupee note in her pocket was itching to come out and be with the rest of his brothers and sisters in the vendor’s money box.

As she was nearing the Ice-cream cart, she spied an old man raking leaves along the side of the road. He reminded her of her grandpa, but this man was sweating under the hot sun and doing back-breaking work. Pinki took the ten rupee note out of her pocket and gave it to the old man by the road; he flashed a toothless smile of gratitude and blessed her.

Pinki’s mother and grandpa stood watching this exchange between the little girl and the old man, with love and pride shining in their eyes.

Valentine’s Day Never Ends.

with loveThis Week: Phrase Prompt

Love for all seasons

This week’s prompt comes from not one but three B-A-R members:

Shalini Nair, Sheethal Susan Jacob and Sulekha Rawat

A minimum of 100 words on the prompt.

Love for all seasons

He loved her when she was sixteen

Sixty summers later

His love for her didn’t falter

He still felt like he did then


In sickness and in health

They had promised to be true

To each other, come what may

Love their only wealth


One sad day he broke his vow

Pulled his hand out of hers

She stood achingly forlorn

Frozen with fear and sorrow


Her heart and mind shattered

Outwardly she was intact

Her eyes though dry, burned

There was nothing left that mattered


He, who went away without a goodbye,

Lingers on her mind, day and night

Why did they have to part so soon?

Her hurting soul seeks to know, why?

By Sulekha Rawat


Linking this poem to BAR


Wordy Wednesday#3

This Week: Word Prompt


This week’s prompt comes from B-A-R member, writer and blogger, Aditi Kaushiva who blogs here.

Write a minimum of 100 words on the prompt.



She rinsed the towel under running water from the kitchen sink tap before putting it on the clothesline in the back for drying. Next in line was the kitchen floor, it had to be wiped with the wet mop and then cleaned with a dry cloth. She methodically wiped all the surfaces in the kitchen, taking particular care while cleaning the refrigerator door. Inside the freezer lay the neatly wrapped head of her husband of 30 years, chopped off his body with a butcher’s knife. The same one he’d cut her with, all these torturous years. Squeamish? Her? No Way :)

By Sulekha Rawat


Cheer Up

DSC_0629My darling, Sparky, eleven-year old baby dalmatian is suffering from renal failure. Her blood report is alarming and the vet has confirmed our fears but we continue to hope and pray for a miracle. I have spent a lot of time with her since the grim prognosis and we have developed a secret language, she has always understood my feelings but I have begun to come to know her pretty well now. She looks at me with her big, sad and beautiful eyes as if asking me what her fault is. I have no answers…

Sparky’s letter to Me

My dear Mommy,

I will always love you, unconditionally! Read Sparky’s letter here at Social Potpourri

Poems From A Writer’s Heart

Poems from a writer’s heart

Micro Poetry

Bright flashes of light

Fill my dull life with color



All our shared laughter

Keeps me happy and content

Though I miss your smile


We had a good run

But why did it have to end?

Thoughts reach out to you


I rattle about

Looking for you in my heart

My hollow soul cries


I miss you and sigh

Wish we could be together

Memories haunt me


Be happy always

Dream big and live them all out

Love and Luck to you


By Sulekha Rawat

Silent Screams

This post is written for the Wordy Wednesday at the B-A-R


This Week: Sentence Prompt

                                                         What is it that I really want to say?


I just want to sit quietly and think of all the things I didn’t say to you when you were here. I should have told you that I loved walking into your room in the mornings and waking you up by ruffling your hair, which sometimes used to be stiff and heavily gelled :)

But a mother doesn’t mind these occasional hair disasters, what she cherishes is watching her babies grow up into responsible and admirable people. I should have mentioned how much our daily talks meant to me before you left for the distant lands to study and make a career for yourself.

Even the mundane things like watching Eat Street or Psych on television were made special by our expert comments on the programs host and characters. I ought to have mentioned how much I would miss these ordinary moments once you left. Making chocolate cake at midnight while watching football, I am well versed with your favorite team players names, thanks to your constant coaching and mentoring. Manchester City is my team now, I don’t miss their games and know that you are also tuned in at the same time, this fragile connect too manages to make me happy.

I know I shouldn’t have cried holding on to you for dear life while saying goodbye but I am only human. What I should have said then is that I am so proud of you and look forward to hearing from you about the new life you are embarking on, after being my precious baby for 22 years. You are a man now and have to carve a niche for yourself and I am happy you are doing that but I miss my darling son. I miss our silly goofiness, cooking experiments; some disasters but mainly triumphs :)

May god bless you and keep you safe, I pray that all your dreams come true and hope you remember to call up this silly old woman once in a while to let her know that her son is doing fine and having the time of his life.

Love you my darling Kartik, take care.

Your loving mom

By Sulekha Rawat

 This week’s prompt comes from B-A-R member, writer and blogger, Beloo Mehra who blogs here.



She stopped looking back

Ashes lie scattered all over

The place she called home.



The song in her heart

Of Happier yesterdays

On her coffin lay.



Flickering candles

Keep the demons out of sight

Dark souls and red eyes.



On jagged shards

Blood drops dance like crazed lovers

Crimson River flows.



The bridge where they met

Broken mangled bricks and stones

Jilted lovers cry.


By Sulekha Rawat