A Garden for All

Mr. Ghosh had always been a quiet man, but after his wife, his companion of forty years, passed away, he was left devastated. He became a recluse, barely speaking, rarely leaving his room. His days passed in silence, surrounded by her photos, her sarees folded carefully in the cupboard, and the old Bengali and Hindi songs they used to play on lazy afternoons. She was extremely fond of Kishore Kumar and Rabindra sangeet renditions by Hemant Mukherjee.

His children were worried. His daughter-in-law, Rukmini, would call him every few days from Delhi. “Baba, are you eating properly?” she’d ask gently. He’d whisper a half-hearted reply.

But nothing truly stirred him. The irreplaceable void was impossible to fill. Until that rainy evening arrived.

It was after a fierce kal baisakhi storm. The wind had upturned pots, broken a few branches in the garden. Mr. Ghosh stepped outside — a rare thing in itself — to survey the damage. And then he heard it: faint squeaks - barely audible. He followed the sound, and under the broken canopy of a guava tree, he found them. He switched on the torchlight. Two tiny, helpless baby parrots, their bodies trembling, their feathers yet to fully emerge. Eyes were yet to develop.

He knelt beside them, a strange ache swelling inside his chest.  A sense of purpose enveloped him instantly. “Ramu! Come quickly!!” he called to his longtime household help. “Bring an old basket… and some soft cloth.”

It filled Ramu with equal parts amusement and joy to hear his master call his name in that old familiar tone, something he hadn’t heard in such a long time.

With Ramu’s help, they built a small, temporary shelter in his room, lining it with cotton, old cloth and warmth. Mr. Ghosh kept an eye on them, feeding them drops of warm water, mashed fruits. 

He resorted to YouTube videos to figure out how to care for such fragile, young parrots.

Once he had kept the basket in the verandah. An adult parrot would come through the grills and inspect the chicks; once in a while, it would feed them also. "Could she be the mother"? Mr.Ghosh had wondered. However, after a couple of days, the visits ceased.

Every morning, he checked on the little beings, feeling amused as their feathers slowly grew, their squeaks strengthened, beaks became stronger and redder, and their color became radiantly green.

The birds fluttered about the house, floating from one room to another. Perching on the bedside edge or stationing themselves on the dining table, naughtily nibbling at the fruits kept in the fruit basket. Sometimes they would sit on Mr.Ghosh's study table, staring at the desktop monitor, or at times hovering in front of the dressing table mirror, getting amused by the reflections of their own antics!

Becoming confident and stronger, they ventured to the garden. They’d fly out during the day but always return by sundown, chattering excitedly around him.

The two would also 'raid' the kitchen to collect green chillies.

The garden soon became a home to sparrows, a few Mynahs, and a few more birds that Mr.Ghosh couldn't identify, and he didn't care; their chirping and colorful foliage made him happy.

One day, he snapped a photo on his phone — the two parrots perched on the easy chair in the garden, side by side, beaks touching. With a hesitant grin, he sent it to Rukmini on WhatsApp.

“Look at these naughty fellows, Rukmini! Already bringing their friends over.”

Rukmini replied immediately. “They’re adorable, Baba! I’m so happy to see this. You sound happier.”

Sometimes he’d call her. “Rukmini, guess what — they sat on my shoulder today! Like I’m their tree,” he chuckled softly.

Her heart swelled with relief. “They love you, Baba. I’m so glad you have company.”

The garden became livelier. The two parrots soon brought mates; then chicks followed. The guava tree became a bustling haven. Their playful squeaks filled the once-silent home.

One morning, while inspecting the garden, Mr. Ghosh noticed a small burrow near the boundary wall. Curious, he approached, adjusting his glasses. "Now, what is this?". He wondered. Suddenly, a small figure popped out — a rabbit, wide-eyed, nose twitching. It stared at him for a moment before darting back inside.

Mr. Ghosh laughed heartily. “Arre, Ramu! We have a new guest!”

Initially, the rabbit was hesitant and kept a safe distance from the humans. Over the period, it gained confidence and became bolder. He would hop about freely across the garden, and also enter the bungalow; he would sit near Mr.Ghosh and accept treats from him or Ramu.

 One particular stormy night, it refused to leave. It was afraid of the thunder and heavy rains. It cocooned itself against Mr.Ghosh's feet to comfort itself from the outside torment. Mr. Ghosh laid out an old cushion in a corner of his room. “Stay here tonight, little one. Safe from the rain.” And patted it. "But don't chew off my wifi cable." He warned the rabbit mockingly.

"But I'm worried about the birds outside.." he mumbled to himself.

****************

And so the garden’s family grew. Birds of different kinds flocked to the yard, drinking from the water bowls Mr. Ghosh set out, perching on the neem, the mango, the guava. The rabbit, too, found a shy mate, and together they made their burrow a home. Sometimes, both would visit the house to play with Mr.Ghosh.

"Aree..you have a wife now. Young ones will follow soon".He said jokingly," Do you have any idea how much carrots and cabbages cost?" The male would listen intently, twitching its big ears.

“Ramu, we’ll need to build a little barricade near the back wall,” Mr. Ghosh said thoughtfully one afternoon, watching the rabbits hop about. “Don’t want those stray cats sneaking in.” Then he sighed playfully. “Uff… they’re all making holes in my pocket, these fellows.” He had also consulted a neighborhood vet in case any of his "friends" fell ill or got injured. The vet, a young man in his early 30s, happily helped.

Years passed like this. Mr. Ghosh found purpose again — a quiet joy in tending to his growing sanctuary. Every few days, he’d send photos to Rukmini: of the parrots perched together, of the rabbits enjoying the early winter sun, of new birds visiting the garden.

Then tragedy struck.

One peaceful morning, as the sun rose over the garden, Ramu found Mr. Ghosh in his easy chair under the neem tree, a gentle smile still resting on his lips. The parrots were perched silently on his shoulders, nudging him softly. At his feet, the rabbit sat, still and watchful.

Mr. Ghosh had passed quietly, surrounded by the lives he’d nurtured. His friends, his companions in grief.

In the weeks that followed, Rukmini returned to the old house, her heart heavy yet proud. Together with Ramu and a few neighborhood youngsters, she expanded the sanctuary. They built more shelters, planted more trees, and laid flower beds.

The garden thrived. The current occupants — the birds, the rabbits — kept a gentle distance, watching with quiet understanding.

Once in a while, they would visit indoors - hoping to find their friend.The rabbit would sit quietly near the empty chair that was once used by Mr.Ghosh.

Mr. Ghosh’s garden easy chair remained firmly in its place, moss gathering over its weathered wood. It became a play station for the birds, a playground for rabbits, and many other life forms that made the garden their home.

One morning, Rukmini spotted a peacock strutting across the garden, its feathers gleaming under the sun. And in the hollow of the neem tree, a family of owls had made their home. The young ones would peek shyly at the outside world with wonder and amazement.

The garden thrived with life. And though he was gone, Mr. Ghosh’s spirit lived on in every chirp, every rustle of leaves, every flutter of wings.

The garden was never silent again.

*********************************************
Ankur

Jaatni

In the dusty lanes of Hisar, where heat shimmered off the concrete and discipline reigned in uniformed rigor, Sandhya Yadav was a name that inspired respect—and, sometimes, fear. A Sub-Inspector with a fierce gaze and a stronger will, she was known for her unrelenting sense of justice. Locals acknowledged her as a no-nonsense cop.

Enter Arjun Chatterjee, a calm, upright tech professional from Delhi, deputed to a government project aimed at introducing school children to artificial intelligence. Neatly dressed, spectacled, and rather unassuming, he seemed like a misfit in the chaotic world of Hisar's law and order. His first interaction with Sandhya was formal—"Madam," he said, hand extended. She returned it with a brief nod. "Welcome to Hisar, sir."

At first, they remained within the boundaries of duty—she offered logistical support for his sessions in schools, and he thanked her with polite efficiency. Over time, something in the air shifted. 

One afternoon, during a self-defence workshop in the school, Arjun watched Sandhya giving practical demonstrations. She was swift, strong, her limbs taut and glistening with sweat. The scent she carried—earthy, musky, tinged with jasmine from her light perfume—lingered in his senses long after she walked past. It wasn't just admiration; it stirred something primal in him.

"Arjun ji," she teased once, catching him stealing a glance, "Bengalis don’t wrestle, do they?" "Not unless we’re wrestling with code or poetry," he replied, half-flustered, half-charmed.

*********

Their conversations became warmer, the names more relaxed. She called him "Bangali" in jest; he called her "Jaatni"—half challenge, half endearment. They began texting outside work, exchanging memes and quirky observations. A voice note here, a shared laugh there. 

During Holi, the Hisar police station courtyard pulsed with color and music. Sandhya, in a white kurta now a riot of hues, laughed freely as she directed the chaos. Arjun, in a plain shirt, looked very much the outsider until Sandhya spotted him.

“Bachke kahan jaoge, Bangali?” she called, eyes glinting, a fistful of gulaal in hand.

He barely managed a smile before she reached him. Her fingers touched his cheek, smearing yellow gently. Her scent hit him — sweat, unknown floral perfume, and that unmistakable earthy edge. It did something to him every single time.

“Happy Holi, Bangali,” she said softly.

“Same to you… Jaatni,” he replied, eyes locked on hers.

A bucket of color landed over both of them and the moment broke. But the feeling lingered—raw, unspoken, unforgettable.

*********

When Arjun had to leave Hisar after his six-month tenure, the parting was awkward.

"Delhi wapas ja rahe ho?" she asked casually, though her eyes betrayed something deeper. "Duty calls. But you’ll miss me, Jaatni," he said, attempting levity. "Khaas mat samajh apne aap ko," she retorted—but her silence lingered a beat longer.

They stayed in touch—WhatsApp texts, occasional calls, jokes, banter. Sometimes flirtatious, sometimes vulnerable. Then, one evening, a message changed everything.

SI Sandhya Yadav critically injured in encounter while unearthing human trafficking racket.

Arjun dropped everything and rushed to Hisar. In the hospital room, he found her asleep, bandaged and bruised, but breathing. He held her hand tightly. When her eyes opened and she saw him, she didn’t let go.

"Bangali, tu sach mein aa gaya..." she whispered.

"Tu toh bulati nahi, main hi aa gaya..." he murmured, with a warm smile.

Weeks passed. She healed. The nation took note. The President’s office announced her name for the Bravery Medal.

By then, Sandhya had earned the moniker - Hisar ki Sherni.

"Proud of you, Jaatni," Arjun said ecstatically over the phone.

"Bas kar, Bangali," she said, but the warmth in her voice was unmistakable.

In Delhi for the award ceremony, she shone in her crisp uniform. Her parents watched proudly as Sandhya confidently walked towards the dias to accept the honour from the head of the state.

The next evening, Arjun had booked a table at a rooftop restaurant in a five-star hotel. Post dinner, they walked in the garden. 

Sandhya looked beautiful in a saree in the glow of full moon.

He was quiet at first, then fidgeted.

"Kya hua, babu moshai? Phir koi robot kharab ho gaya tumhara?" She joked.

"Shaadi karegi, Jaatni?" he blurted.

She looked at him, eyes narrowed, then smiled.

"Soch lo Bangali... main police waali hoon. Danday bhi pad sakte hain."

"Mujhe darr nahi lagta," he said, laughing.

She laughed—and pulled him into a tight hug.

The fire between them had burned slow and deep. Now, it glowed in the open.

And though they came from different worlds, their hearts had known, from the start, that something strong—like justice, like truth—bound them.

The Lioness of Hisar and her quiet, unshakable Bangali.

Together. At last.

A Berth to Remember

 It was a crisp December afternoon in Delhi. The chill in the air had just begun to settle, but Arnab Sen, a 30-year-old corporate executive, was already sweating under his stylish sweater. Not from the cold, but from the typical last-minute rush to board his train at New Delhi Railway Station. He had an official assignment in Mumbai and was taking the Rajdhani Express—two-tier AC.

Arnab was a man of particular habits. Ever since childhood, he’d hated upper berths—partially due to his stockier build and an unresolved fear of heights. So, securing lower berth 59 in coach A2 gave him immense satisfaction. He found the seat, placed his laptop bag and suitcase under the seat and leaned back with a sense of contentment. A quick glance confirmed his luck—no elderly folks or women who might plead to swap berths.

He slipped on his Bluetooth earphones and began playing his carefully curated playlist. Across from him sat a middle-aged woman, already busy with her Kindle. The upper berths above and opposite were still empty. The side berths housed two enthusiastic college-goers discussing an AI project—he overheard “IIT Kharagpur” and “neural networks.”

Just five minutes before departure, a flurry of motion arrived at the door of the coach: an elderly gentleman in his sixties, accompanied by a young woman, both panting from the sprint and trailed by a porter hauling their luggage. The porter stashed their bags swiftly and exited just as the whistle blew and the train heaved into motion.

The elderly gentleman—Sneha Roy's maternal uncle (Mama)—checked the berth numbers and realized they had been allotted the two upper berths in that bay. Arnab saw them look at each other in silent dread. The uncle looked far from agile, and the young woman seemed disinterested in any rearrangement. With a polite smile and a surprising lack of hesitation, Arnab offered his lower berth.

"Are you sure?" the elderly man asked.

"Absolutely. It’s no trouble."

Arnab hauled his bag up and made himself comfortable on the upper berth diagonally opposite.

The young woman—Sneha—climbed the berth with feline agility. As she did, her T-shirt rode up slightly, exposing a sliver of her waist and navel. Arnab, watching from the corner of his eye, went weak in the knees. She wore a loose palazzo and a simple T-shirt, but there was something inexplicably arresting about her.

After settling, Sneha pulled out a Tintin comic. Arnab raised an eyebrow, amused. She had seemed so no-nonsense.

“Captain Haddock’s your favorite?” Arnab tried, gesturing to the comic.

Sneha barely looked down. “Hmm.”

“Personally, I’ve always been a fan of Snowy,” he said, trying again.

“Okay.”

Frustrated, Arnab rolled back into his shell. From the corner of her comic, Sneha glanced at him and smiled softly to herself.

The elderly uncle, however, was far more talkative. Within thirty minutes, Arnab and he were discussing Bengali sweets, train punctuality, and real estate in Salt Lake. Arnab was respectful, witty, and unusually forthcoming.

As the train neared Mumbai the next morning, the uncle, impressed by Arnab’s warmth, invited him to lunch at their home in Andheri.

Sneha stiffened. “Mama, he might be busy.”

“Nonsense. He said he’s here for a few days. And we don’t often meet such well-behaved boys nowadays.”

Arnab accepted with a grin.

---

Their Andheri apartment was modest but warm. Polly, the green parrot in the corner, initially eyed Arnab with suspicion but then accepted a green chilli from his hand—a rare occurrence, the uncle informed.

Lunch was homely and delicious. Arnab complimented the food generously, causing Sneha’s stony expressions to thaw slightly.

Over the next few months, occasional texts turned into regular calls. Arnab returned to Delhi but stayed in touch. When Arnab’s parents decided to visit Mumbai around Poila Boisakh (Bengali New Year), Sneha’s uncle invited them over. A new comfort level blossomed between the families.

In mid-April, they celebrated Poila Boisakh together. But it was during Durga Puja in October—organized by a Bengali samity in Mumbai—that everything came full circle.

Sneha looked divine in a sea-blue Tangail saree with a sleeveless blouse on Ashtami morning. She offered pushpanjali beside Arnab, their fingers brushing slightly.

Then, turning to him with a sudden softness, she whispered:

"Would you be okay sharing a berth with me for the rest of your life?"

Arnab, speechless for once, nodded.

Then Arnab shyly but instinctively put an arm around Sneha's slender waist and pulled her closer. Sneha didn’t resist.

They sealed the promise with a kiss, slightly away from the hustle and bustle, wrapped in the divine warmth of Maa Durga’s blessings.

Runu and the Ghost in the Woods

Runu is a Class 5 student living in the misty hill town of Kasauli. He loves the chirping of birds, the crunch of leaves under his shoes, and the smell of damp pine forests. But there is one thing he dreads more than anything—mathematics.

Math feels like a maze with no exit. And Mrs. Das, his stern math teacher, doesn’t help. “Runu! Concentrate!” she barks almost daily, and he shrinks in his seat, feeling the heat rise to his ears. The numbers on the blackboard blur. Every minute in that class feels like a heavy stone on his tiny chest.

One cloudy afternoon, after yet another scolding, Runu decides to take the long route home—through the forest. The trees rise like giants, the path is narrow, and soon, he realizes—he’s lost. His heart beats faster. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but he blinks them back.

Just as panic sets in, he spots a faint glow between the trees. Curious, cautious, and a little desperate, he follows it and stumbles upon an old, wooden cabin, half-eaten by time but strangely welcoming. The forest around it is eerily silent, like it’s holding its breath.

He knocks. The door creaks open.

“Uh... hello?”

Out floats a young man—late twenties, tousled hair, bomber jacket, sneakers.He glows softly in the fading light.

“Whoa, relax,” the man says with a grin. “I’m a ghost. But a friendly one. Promise.”

Runu takes a step back. “A... ghost?”

“Yup. Name’s Neil. Used to live around here. Actually, used to study around here.”

Neil invites Runu inside. The cabin is dusty but warm. A small fire crackles in a stone hearth. On one wall hangs a faded poster of Einstein. On another—an old IIT Delhi hoodie. There’s an air of longing in the air, like the cabin is still waiting for something—or someone.

“You studied?” Runu asks, curious now.

Neil nods. “Got into IIT Delhi. Loved math. Hated how people feared it.”

“I hate math,” Runu admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I figured,” Neil chuckles. “But it’s just a puzzle, really. Want me to show you?”

What begins that evening is a friendship like no other. Neil teaches Runu math not with formulas and fear, but with games and stories. They count stars to learn multiplication. They build shapes with twigs to understand geometry. Neil explains how early Artificial Intelligence worked using acorns and pine cones, drawing patterns in the dirt.

In the warmth of that forgotten cabin, something inside Runu begins to shift. Numbers stop being enemies. They start becoming clues, like treasure maps to understanding the world.

Back in school, Mrs. Das notices the change. At first, she’s suspicious. How did Runu improve so suddenly? She watches him closely, half-expecting him to slip up. But when he solves a problem on the board with confidence and grace, and explains it to others without fear—her heart softens.

Soon, Runu begins solving puzzles faster than ever. He starts participating in math olympiads and science fairs, slowly climbing up the ranks. He wins scholarships, earns school accolades, and even begins to help other students who struggle with math just like he once did.

One day, she says quietly, “I’m proud of you, Runu.”

Runu beams. It feels like the world just gave him a high-five.

When the time for school-leaving exams comes, Runu works harder than ever. Neil cheers him on, meeting him in the cabin every evening. They revise, joke, and even sneak in some cricket with a twig and pinecone between problems.

Runu tops the district in the board exams. His photo appears in the local newspaper. His parents are overjoyed. Even Mrs. Das has tears in her eyes.

Sometimes, Neil visits Runu’s home too—when no one’s around—and savors parathas made by Runu’s mother. “These are divine,” he says with a happy sigh, licking imaginary butter off his ghostly fingers.

Eventually, Runu walks through the gates of IIT Delhi. To his surprise and wonder, he is allotted a room in the hostel—the same room Neil once lived in. On the old wooden desk, the initials N.P. are carved faintly, like a hidden blessing.

College life is busy. Runu dives into projects, academics, and even extra-curriculars. He excels, pushing his limits, building models, leading teams, and coding into the night.

But Neil doesn’t appear. Not even once.

Runu misses him deeply. On quiet nights, he sits on his bed, looking at the initials, wishing he could just talk to Neil again. But the cabin is too far. And maybe... maybe Neil has moved on.

One day, during campus interviews, Runu lands a job with one of the top multinational companies specializing in AI. His project receives applause. He is offered a record-breaking package.

As the applause dies down and the room empties, Runu steps out into the corridor alone—and suddenly, there he is.

Neil.

Leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, smiling with pride. “Told you math wasn’t so bad, huh?”

Runu rushes toward him, heart bursting. “You came!”

Neil nods. “Always watching, buddy. Always proud.”

And just like that, with a playful wink and a warm smile, Neil begins to fade into the soft hallway light—leaving behind the sound of laughter and the warmth of dreams fulfilled.

The Third Figure

Renu Sharma wasn’t searching for anything that Sunday afternoon. She just needed a break — from client meetings, looming deadlines, and the polished glass towers of Mumbai that never seemed to sleep. The Colaba flea market was her usual escape. Chaos in the best way: faded books, rusted cutlery, old movie posters, the occasional antique that whispered stories from other centuries.

She found the painting tucked behind a cracked mirror, half-wrapped in newspaper. The moment she saw it, her fingers froze.

Two children — a girl and a younger boy. Dressed in old woolen coats, cheeks hollow, eyes dark with something heavier than sadness. They weren’t looking at her. They were looking through her.

“How much for this?” she asked.

The vendor, weathered and yawning, replied, “Four hundred. Came from Poland or Germany, I think. Maybe 1940s. Some say it was painted inside a camp.”

“A camp?”

“Nazi camp. Or so I’ve heard. But it’s just a painting, no?”

Renu didn’t respond. She bought it without bargaining, carried it home in a cloth tote, and hung it above her work desk.

She had no idea what she had brought into her home.

---

The voices began the third night.

Whispers. Like a language remembered in a dream. Soft. Almost apologetic.

“Mama?”

She sat up, heart hammering. Her apartment was silent.

Or was it?

A giggle. The sound of feet padding lightly across a floor that shouldn’t creak.

She blamed exhaustion. Advertising was all late nights and overstimulated brains. But the next night, it happened again.

And then — she saw them.

The same children from the painting, standing near the foot of her bed. Pale, solid, breathing.

She wanted to scream, but her voice caught in her throat.

They spoke again — German? Or was it Polish?

“Mama... du bist zurück.”
(You are back.)

She understood them. Somehow.

And deep within, something shifted.

---

By day, Renu withdrew. She missed calls. Skipped meetings. She told her boss she had the flu, but in truth, she couldn’t bring herself to leave the children.

Every night they returned. Each time closer. More comfortable. They told her about the cold. The soldiers. The day they lost their mother to a gunshot by the fence.

They showed her the moment — in flashes.

A scream.
Running.
Then — a bang.
Pain.
Snow turned red.

She saw it all.

And she felt it.

One night, she clutched her stomach and fell back on her bed, gasping as if she'd been shot. There was no wound. No blood. Just the ghost of agony of something that had happened in the past.

---

The children would cry sometimes. They’d whisper, “Bleib bei uns, Mama. Für immer.”
(Stay with us, Mama. Forever.)

And she would nod, tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry I left you.”

Because now, she remembered. She remembered everything.

---

Then, one morning — she was gone.

Her bed untouched. Her door locked from inside. No sign of struggle. Her phone, keys, and handbag sat neatly on her table.

The police were called. Missing person’s report filed. Posters printed. But no one knew what happened.

Except maybe the painting.

Later that week, her best friend came to pack up her things.

She paused in front of the painting — the one Renu had bought from the market.

And her blood ran cold.

There were three figures now.

The same girl and boy, still holding hands. But standing between them was a woman. One arm around each child. Her head tilted slightly, smiling.

The face was unmistakable.

The same gentle wave in her hair. The same delicate features. The faint dimple on her left cheek. And the tiny pearl earrings Renu wore almost every day.

It was her.

No doubt.

But the canvas wasn’t altered. No brush strokes disturbed the surface. The frame remained sealed, undisturbed. It was as if the third figure had always been there — simply waiting for its moment to appear.

---

Some say Renu left the city. Others whisper darker things.

But those who saw the painting?

They knew.

She hadn’t run.

She hadn’t died.

She had gone home.

And finally — they were together. The children. And their mother.

Smiling.

Forever.

Fellow metro passengers ...

I have been wanting to write on this for quite some time now however due to scarcity of time , couldn't pen it down.

Traveling by metro is an experience in itself and one does come across interesting set of people. More so when, daily commute is of two hours.  Let me jot down about the most interesting types that I have observed:

1) The narcissist: Boys/men of all age groups, who spend good amount of their commute time by observing their own reflections on door/window glasses and feeling happy and contented. Never mind the occasional bald patch or the paunch.

2) The showstoppers: ladies/girls fit the bill. Perfect height, perfect hair, perfect skin tone, enviable physique combined with tasteful clothes and accessories. Time of the day doesn't matter to them. Whether it's the morning commute or late evening return, they appear just perfect.

3) The Music Jockeys: Another interesting lot; they tend to play their preferred music so loud that even if you are two coaches away, the music will be clearly audible and you can dance to the beats! I really don't understand why do these people use headphones/earphones?

4) The Book worms: These set of people are very much attached to their books and journals. So much is the attachment, that they tend to continue reading even while walking down the platform, sometimes coming dangerously close to the edge.

5) Sleeping beauties: These people manage to take power naps even if they are standing. While seated, their snoring keeps other passengers awake and wide eyed!

6) The foodies: Though eating is prohibited inside the metro trains, somehow these people manage to smuggle in their burgers and shakes and have good time while traveling. Bon appetit to them..

7) Chatterboxes: specially the women/ girls fall in this category. They have inexhaustible energy and can yap for hours without showing any trace of tiredness.

8) The web series enthusiasts: These group is always hooked to their mobiles or tablets, devouring the episodes of current popular web series. Their engrossment level sometimes make them travel beyond their designated destinations!

So these are few of the passenger types i daily find during my metro commute..

Now, one may ask in which category do I belong? That I leave on my fellow passengers to decide ..

Signing off /-

Slow annihilation of greeting cards

Among-st other things, sending and receiving good wishes are an integral part of the festive season.It is as important as sharing sweets and candies or buying new purchases.

During this time of the year, I feel bit nostalgic about something that was so much inherent to the festivals. Buying, sending or receiving or even making them at home, was so much fun.

I am trying to revive our fond memories of Greetings cards. Unfortunately, due to technological advancement and changing dynamics of human needs and preferences, this once important article has seen the sunset.

I vividly remember how I would wait for greetings cards to be delivered by the post man during the Christmas and New year period.

Once I had received a Santa shaped card from one of my aunt (who was based in abroad that time) and had kept it with utmost care for many years. I even had made copies of it using drawing paper and crayons and had gifted to some of my close friends and class teacher.

Some of the cards received were pretty good. Nice paintings, sketches and photographs were depicted on them. I was particularly interested in the sketches and paintings. They provided good fodder to my personal drawing endeavors.

At that time, there used to be regular markets full of vendors who would sell cards of all shapes and sizes on footpaths and push carts.

They were very economical and appearance wise, some of them were excellent, though paper quality of some weren't upto the mark.

The artworks on the cards, though bore artistes' signature, but most of the time they weren't legible. However the quality of the sketches/water coloring/ pastel work was always commendable. I still wonder how such good work , was available in such attrociously low price ( most of them would come in 5- 10 rupees range !)

Then came the dot-com boom. Physical cards were being replaced by e-greeting sites.

Then came the mobile revolution. Greetings were exchanged via SMS.

And now we are in smart smartphone era, and our greetings exchanges are being taken care of by various mobile apps.

Greetings messages have lost the personal touch that they are supposed to have. Nowadays, it's only "forwarded".

The "forwards" don't have any true feelings associated with them.

Sadly, the old world charm has vanished..