As I see double-decker busses passing by…
Tears well up in my eyes… and I start to cry.
Thinking of you far, far-away
Lying still on your bed, with an empty gaze.

I want to come back home.
Get on the next plane and come to you.
You alone!!!
Baby I miss you! Baby I miss you today.

As I see Black cabs rushing by
I think of you… your sweet charm
Thinking of you far, far-away
Applying a hint of blush, on your pretty face

I want to come back home.
Get on the next plane and come to you.
You alone!!!
Baby I miss you! Baby I miss you today.

When I see the leaves sway in the gentle cool breeze
I turn around hoping to find you there!
Thinking of you far, far-away
How your one smile would light up my days!

I want to come back home.
Get on the next plane and come to you.
You alone!!!
Baby I miss you! Baby I miss you today.

I miss her silly!

Thank you for being there for me whenever I needed you. Thank you for sharing my life. And moreover, thank you for being my life.

Wifey Dear! I love you.

When I close my eyes, and fall asleep;
you are in my thoughts…
vivid in my dreams.
Your presence so close
I feel so lucky.

You are my life, my heart, my soul
My friend, my love, my all
You taught me to fly
and to believe
in me, which I had forgot.

When you hold my hand
all my troubles disappear.
I am filled with
happiness when you
wipe away my tears, O my Love.

The smile on your face and
the twinkle in your eyes
Lift up my heart and I
believe you are mine–
My angel without wings…

Love,
Rosh

Lord you me help me fly to the distant skies
Leading me by your light,
Oh! Your shining bright light!
Aware of the countless blessings and boons

Lord I see your face and your bright aura
Seated by your side,
Lord I’m happy all the while
Basking in your precious presence

I know that it is a dream, yet a wonderful dream
Gently smiling inside
Lord I know that I am saved
For accepting you as my Saviour, My Lord

Lord you made me your child by my birth again
Helping me to believe
That you died for my sins
Crucified on Calvary’s Cross.

Regards,
Rosh

A week after marriage:

Meena: "That butter is gonna kill you some day."
Raj ignored his wife’s remark and continued applying butter on his toast generously.

Butter had been the love of his life till he met Meena. For the first month after they met his butter intake and declined sharply.

When he was first introduced to Meena, he was a massive 110 kgs, but by the time they got married he actually managed to lose 15 of them. For her it was an arranged marriage but for Raj, the first sight of Meena has triggered his love for her. He was enchanted by her beauty.

Meena was uncontrollably emotional after the marriage. She wept a lot. They never went for their honeymoon. Raj tried hard to be the good husband by giving Meena her personal space. He had tried getting close to her during the initial few nights but she had rejected his advances.

Raj knew something was wrong and the only solution he could think of was Time.
Time wipes away all pain, all troubles, all issues.

He gave Meena time.

Two days later:

Raj woke up in his bed alone. Meena would be busy cooking breakfast - he thought to himself. He brushed, shaved and took a shower as he always did.

He called out for Meena. No response.

The breakfast was served on the dining table. Few toasts spread out on a plate before him. And, his favourite pack of butter resting on the table.

There was a note tucked under the weight of the butter. It was from Meena.

"Dear Raj.
I have never loved you. My parents had forced me to marry you. I am going away from your life. Living together pains you more than it pains me. I cannot stand to watch such a gentleman as you going though so much pain daily.Please do not look for me. I do not intend to be found.
Forgive me if you can.
Meena"

Tears trickled from his eyes as he crumpled the letter and threw it on the floor. He did not know what to do. He tried calling her parents. But what would he say to them? That their daughter had run away from home citing a loveless marriage.

He picked up a bread toast and applied generous amount of butter on it. He cried even as he tried to eat the toast. He was unable to swallow the piece that he had bitten off. It needs more butter he said to himself.

He applied some more to the remaining toast.
The pain of losing his wife was overpowering. He cried out aloud -"Meena". The echo reverberated loud and clear.
Meena had left him.

The pain had intensified. It was a heavy, suffocating experience-far more intense than anything he had felt in a while.
Meena had left him.

He could barely breathe as the pain radiated through his chest.

Two days later cops find Raj’s dead body in the dining room with a crumpled note next to him.
"Failed marriage" the inspector smiled after he read the note.

Postmortem suggested a heart failure. ‘Failed marriage’ or ‘Butter’, I guess we will never know.

Regards,
Rosh

Loosely inspired by ‘Don’t Stop on the Motorway’ by Jeffrey Archer

It was 1:00 am when the train reached Derby station. I didn’t have the stomach for travelling alone. My journey from Bristol, to say the least, had been miserable.

Stepping out of the train was such a relief. In fact, I was so excited that I almost ignored that a man had been following me for quite some time now.

I looked around for help. The station was almost empty but for the lady who had been travelling on the same train, seated couple of seats ahead of me.

I ran over to her and explained my situation. Both of us looked back at the man. He was medium built but had a queer haggard look about him. He seemed quite agitated.
We increased our gait, but so did he.

Sylvia, that’s her name, told me that she was visiting her aunt in Derby. She was in her mid forties, bespectacled, with wavy brown hair and streaks of red that was cut short and looked as if it was in desperate need of a comb. Her breath smelt faintly of peppermints, with a mild undertone of nicotine.

I glanced back again trying to locate the stranger following us. He was very much still there. He was calling out and waving his hands frantically.

I told Sylvia that the stranger was still trailing us and suggested that we run. She agreed and there we were - two ladies running out of the rail station.

I looked back again. The man was chasing us down, still waving a news paper that he held in hand. I told Sylvia that my house was just 15 minutes walk from the rail station.

When we exited the station, Sylvia said that she better accompany me till my house. ‘Two were better than one’ - I seemed to agree.

As we sprinted along, we took turns to check if the man was still following us. He was still very much there. Maintaining a safe distance but surely following us.

"Darn! I think we took a wrong turn somewhere. It’s a dead-end!" I explained Sylvia. She stared at me. We looked back to see if the stranger still followed us. We had managed to lose him.

Sylvia let out a sigh of relief. "I think we have lost him. Let’s walk back and try to find your house" she said. She held my hand and slowly walked away from the alley.

Sylvia squealed like a mouse when her throat was slit. I watched her bleed. I always get excited when I see blood. I wiped the cut-throat blade and threw it in the pool of blood as I always did. That was my signature.

Morning I picked my daily dose of newspaper. The headlines ran with a black and white picture of me by the side.
Daily Mail: "Lady Cut-Throat strikes again! One witness identifies the victim and mentions seeing her with the killer."

Regards,
Rosh

Caution: Not for the faint hearted! The following story has some ideas and themes that may not go down well with everyone.
Reader discretion is advised.

Jessica: "Some more wine?"

Trisha: "Yeah! It’s fantastic.  Different from the red wine’s that I have been having lately."

Jessica: "It’s from a local vineyard. So much hullabaloo about French wines, but I prefer the Californian home-growns."

Trisha (pointing towards the gallery): "What a queer showpiece! Where did you get it?"

Jessica: "Oh don’t you remember my aunt in Borneo? She is a missionary who lives with the so called head hunting tribes.
It was a gift from her. She said that it was the head of a man convicted of adultery.
They have a strange ritual, you see.  They drink the adulterer husband’s blood and then shrink his head and the wife wears it around the neck"

Trisha: "How cruel!"

In venting out her disagreement against the form of punishment, Trisha spills some of the wine on her white secretary shirt. Both ladies stare as the wine seeps through the shirt and makes the stain expand.

Jessica: "Use this towel, my dear. Blood and Wine stains are difficult to remove if they are let on the dress for too long."

Trisha lets out a cry as she uncontrollably tries to stop herself from puking. She spews out the bloody contents of her stomach as she reaches the door.
Jessica watches her drag herself down the stairs to the parking lot. She smiles to herself.

Mark: "Who was it dear?"

Jessica: "Oh! It was Trisha from your office. She wanted to check on you. You have been away from the office for a while haven’t you?"

Mark (with a hint of discomfort): "Yeah. But, I had specifically told her that I would be joining office tomorrow. I shall call her now."

Jessica: "No need to do that now. I have already talked to her. Poor girl! I think she is not well. Look, how she has made a mess of the entire room. I will have to get somebody to clean up."

For a woman who had her living room desecrated, Jessica seemed unusually calm and happy.

Cheers,
Rosh

Inspired by Isiah 42

Lord I sing your praises
To your holy name
Lord I shout from mountaintops
Of your blessed fame

Lord I sing your praises
Lord I shout with joy

From the depth of the seas
To the heights of the clouds
On the mountains and hills
And the land all around

Your majesty (2)
Your Majesty abound.

The Lord will march out
Like a mighty warrior
He’ll stir up the zeal and
Raise the battle cries

And triumph over (2)
And triumph over his enemies

The lord will lead me
Through unfamiliar ways
Turn darkness and night
To light of the days

And I’ll sing (2)
And I’ll sing his praise

Cheers,
Rosh

My God and Saviour Jesus Christ has been an integral part of my life and his presence in my life has made all the bumpy rides smooth. My life has transformed to a beautiful harmonious singsong ever since I invited him into my heart.
May the following song inspire each one of us to open our hearts to him.

My life has been a singsong, O Lord
for you have carried me through -
Hail and Ice and Wind and Snow
Rain and Sun’s warmest glow.

Holding me close;
shielding my fears.
Wiping away
my sorrowful tears.

I sing your praise, Evermore Lord
for you have guided me through -
Brooks and Creeks and Hills and Plains
guiding me through the rugged terrains.

Holding my hand;
blessing my days.
Showing me all
your miraculous ways.

Countless are you blessings, O Lord
for you’ve loved me all-way through -
Sins and Faults and Highs and Lows
forgiving me as you always do.

Lifting my spirits;
with a gentle caress.
Saving my soul
through the light of your face.

Your name shall echo among the nations
for you are the true Living God whose -
Strength and Might and Truth and Glory
Will shine eternally.

Cheers,
Rosh

"Maurya’s empire came to power in 321 BC. The empire reached its peak under Emperor Ashoka who converted to Buddhism in 262 BC."
"Muslim power first made itself strongly felt on the subcontinent with the raids of Mahmud of Ghazni. The six great Mughals were Babur, Humayun, Akbar, Jehangir, Shah Jehan and Aurangzeb and their reigns were between 1527 until 1707. "
"In 1612 British made their first permanent inroad into India when they established a trading post in Gujarat and later at Madras in 1640, at Bombay in 1668 and at Calcutta in 1690. In 1672 the French established themselves at Pondicherry and stage was set for a rivalry between the British and French for control of Indian trade." I read aloud from my notes as young eyes stared on.

"I never appreciated History. There were loads of dates and other facts to remember. But one thing all my History teachers would vouch for is the fact that I could paint a picture of History as no one ever could - at least in my school."

"And when I say paint a picture of History - I mean literally" I add for increased effect.

I could see that everyone in the room was involved. Each one of them awaited my next line with infective eagerness.
"I bet you all are bored. Let me stop now."

As was the case for the past innumerable times, I was requested to continue. I smile approvingly.
"Yes. Where were we? Haan, I was telling how my fame started from school, spread through the district, through the state till every news channel in India had a primetime report about me - the child prodigy."

"The Lokayata Art Gallery, Delhi wanted to display my paintings for their Indian Glory Exhibition. I was surprised that I was to be featured beside stalwarts like M.F. Hussain and Tyeb Mehta."
"Do you know that one of Tyeb Mehta’s paintings was sold for 1.58 million dollars? I think that’s the highest by an Indian."
"It was a special day, the day my paintings were featured at the Gallery. We were lucky to have couple of distinguished guests from the British Royalty."
"I can still remember the day, clear as crystal, as if it happened only yesterday. There was supposed to be no sale that evening. Only exhibition. No sale."
"But she was so persuasive. She came to me and congratulated me on such a wonderful piece of art. She was surprised to find that I was so young. I had turned fourteen that year. She asked me if I had an agent whom she should speak to. I vaguely remember asking her why. She said she liked - ‘Taj Mahal’ so much that she wanted to take it home. She asked me if i had a price in mind. Such a beautiful lady, appreciating my work; I was only happy to give it to her for free. I replied in a soft but sure tone - For you, it’s free. "
The young keen eyes had started becoming droopy.
"She discussed with me on a range of interesting topics before bidding adieu. Before leaving, she hinted that she wanted to be anonymous, I have let her be."
"A check for a quarter million pounds arrived in my mailbox a few weeks later."
"To honor her, I have never painted the Taj Mahal again."

By Prof. George Wilson.

"Your grandpa" I add. Everyone in the room had fallen asleep. I admired the fact that the cherubs slept so peacefully.
I kiss them good night before turning off the lights.

Cheers,
Rosh

Zanya held the letters in her hand, still trembling, while an array of tears trickled down her pale cheek. An Army officer had visited her couple of hours back and had notified her that Army Spec. Frank had been killed in a car bomb incident early that morning.

The officer handed her two envelopes and a chest containing some personal artifacts of Frank. He had long gone before Zanya closed the door shut.

The first letter was from the Defense Finance and Accounting Service addressed to her, informing her about procedures for collecting death benefits.

She threw it on the coffee table.

She opened the other letter. Unlike the first letter, this one was hand-written. She immediately recognized the handwriting.

"Darling,
If you are reading this, it means that I cannot meet you any longer - cannot feel you, cannot kiss you. The time that we spent together was the best of my life. I wish that things would have been different - that our country had not declared war on Iraq. Life could have been so different. I could have been with you. I miss you and I love you.
I love you more than you will ever know.
Yours,
Frank"

For the third time in her life she’d lost someone she loved.
First it had been her mother. Then her Golden Retriever - Cuddles. Now it was Frank.

Frank was a warm, caring, religious man who made her laugh and forget her lonely past. From the day he had entered her life, it took a turn for the better. She had begun to appreciate life more and more. He showed her that no matter where one came from, or who one was, life was an unwritten script waiting to be filled in and changed at one’s own will.
But now stark reality awaited her. Her husband of 7 years was no more.

She heard a thunder.  The dark clouds rolled in and the sky darkened. It was going to rain.
A crash of thunder again… A drop here, a drop there…
The gentle tap of rain on the windows engulfed the sad silence.

She wept aloud to break the rhythmic tap of the dancing raindrops. Tears roll down her cheek again. The intensity of the rain is increased too - Each trying to keep pace with the other.

A sudden lightning struck and a strong breeze rocked the trees. A split second image of a person passed before her eyes.
"Frank!" she cried out aloud. Her mind was probably playing tricks.
There came three rapid knocks at the door.

——————————————*****———————————————-

When Zanya woke up in the morning, it was still raining. The marbled floor that had been her bed for the night was hard and cold. She got up slowly to her feet.
She knew that the everyday then onwards was going to be just a little more painful than the previous day. She missed Frank but life had to go on.

She picked up the letter from the floor and placed in on the table.

Suddenly a man stepped out of the kitchen into the little circle illuminated by the sunlight streaming through the window. Was it Frank or a figment of her imagination?

He smiled and disappeared, never to return to her life again.

Cheers,
Rosh