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Dutchess County Fairgrounds

Oct 2025

The Llamas sashayed down the little road between two enormous barns – tall unsheared creatures, desperately trying to look dignified, desperately failing. Then came the big soft sheep some with large ears, some with horns, and finally the teeniest tiniest baby goat that soon lost the struggle to keep up with them. Music, laughter and the sound of excited voices filled the air. Everywhere you looked, you saw sweaters – loud colorful sweaters, exquisite quiet ones and everything in between.  They competed with the reds, oranges, purple and yellow of the trees shining against a crisp blue air. The sun shone gently through a few clouds, making it a perfect Fall Day in New York. This was  the New York State Sheep and Wool Festival, a festival with humble beginnings in 1980, when a few shepherds got together to sell their wares; to this weekend’s event with over 300 vendors and 30,000 visitors. 

August 1987

The smell of food wafts on the hot breeze – fried dough and oddly, popcorn. Children run around. There are a lot of animals and something called 4H.  Standing in the John Hancock Insurance booth I barely register most of this.  The heels of my pumps keep sinking into the soft earth – the long wobbly walk from the parking lot had been a nightmare, "How will I ever make it back ?" I wonder. My colleague Tim is discussing sheep, goats, farm equipment, sports and whatever else with the passers by. If nothing else, he talks about the weather. Sometimes he talks about insurance and hands out a business card, sometimes he writes down a name and phone number. “It’s about establishing contact, getting them to like you. The sale will come later.”  my manager had said about working the fair. All I can think about are the trickles of sweat working their way down my back.  This suit was a really bad idea. "You're from India, you should be used to the hot weather," another colleague remarks. I nod.  I have given up trying to explain that it is possible to avoid the heat by travelling earlier in the morning and after the sun has set and staying indoors the rest of the time.  "I'm never going to make a living selling insurance. Perhaps, I should just go back to India. I don't belong here."

October 2025

I’m exhausted, my feet hurt, so do my legs and back. Yesterday I walked for 6 hours, this morning I've been on my feet for 3 hours. Its way more than my usual 30 minutes.  I lower myself into a metal chair behind the makeshift desk that serves as the information center for the fair. “Will I ever be able to stand again?”, I wonder.  Five young women come by. They are wearing beautiful hand knit sweaters – same pattern, different colors. “Hello, nice sweaters", I can't help it, they really look amazing together. They walk over, and forgetting about my pain, I stand up to talk to them." The woman with the delighted grin purrs, “I designed it, they found it on Ravelry and made their own sweaters.”  We talk some more. And then they move on, I sit back down. A young man walks by. “What a beautiful scarf!”, “I made it myself,” he walks over so I can have a closer look. “And you see this yarn? I dyed it. My friend built the design around this color…” He moves on, I sit down.  There's a woman buying coffee across from me. Something about her sweater intrigues me. I walk over.  "What is different about these granny squares? It is the usual pattern, but there is something about them".  “My mother-in-law gave me this blanket from her grandmother, originally made in 1902. I took out the granny squares and repurposed them into this sweater” she beams. Three hours flash by with me bobbing up and down every few minutes as I see something I like. I’ve lost count of the numbers of passersby I have greeted, and while I occasionally remember my pain, mostly I'm just caught up in the awesomeness around me. A woman walks by. She is wearing a ribbon that says “Crochet, First Place Winner”. "Crochet, really?" And I know I've found my tribe. 

 

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Original Version

Dutchess County Fairgrounds Earlier Today

The Llamas sashayed down the little road between two enormous barns – tall unsheared creatures, desperately trying to look dignified, desperately failing. Then came the big soft sheep some with large ears, some with horns, and finally the teeniest tiniest baby goat that soon lost the struggle to keep up with them. Music, laughter and the sound of excited voices filled the air. Everywhere you looked, you saw sweaters – loud colorful sweaters, exquisite quiet ones and everything in between. Yes. I was at the New York State Sheep and Wool Festival, a festival with humble beginnings in 1980, when a few shepherds got together to sell their wares; to this weekend’s event with over 300 vendors and 30,000 visitors.

 

Dutchess County Fairgrounds August 1987

The smell of food wafts on the hot breeze – fried dough and oddly, popcorn. Children run around. There are a lot of animals and something called 4H.  The young brown woman at the John Hancock Insurance booth notices very little of all this. The heels of her pumps keep sinking into the soft earth – the long wobbly walk from the parking lot had been a nightmare and she wonders how she will it make it back there. Around her, her colleagues are greeting fair goers cheerfully, engaging them in conversation about the weather and the fair and their livestock. Occasionally they discuss insurance and hand out their cards. “It’s about establishing contact, getting them to like you. The sale will come later.”  That was what her manager had said about working the fair. All she can think about is how hot it is and what a bad idea it was to wear this suit. Why did she ever come to America? And why did anyone think she could make a fortune selling life insurance? She didn’t even know how to engage these people.  

 

Yesterday

Here, high up on a bridge, in the middle of the Hudson River, the air was fresh. The water reflected the blue skies and the green of the foliage around. Fall is a little late this year, the yellows and reds shyly peeking through mostly green trees. A painful eyesore during all the time I had lived in the Hudson Valley, the bridge, the longest pedestrian walkway across a river, attracted tourists from all parts of the country. It is a spectacular testimony to what a little determination and generous donations can achieve. Earlier in the day, I had driven up I-684 past the glass pyramids carved into the side of the hill –the Temple of the Gods, we called them – IBM divisional headquarters. Like me, they had the air of has-beens unsure of if and when they transitioned from vital to irrelevant.

 

Dutchess County Fairgrounds Right Now

I’m exhausted, my feet hurt, so do my legs and back. I lower myself into a metal chair behind the makeshift desk that serves as the information center for the fair. “Will I ever be able to stand again?”, I wonder.  Five young women come by. They are wearing beautiful hand knit sweaters – same pattern, different colors. “Hello, nice sweaters, I call out.” Big grins and one of the young women speaks up, “I designed it and posted on Ravelry.”  “Did you all know each other?” I ask and the conversation flows. They move on, I sit back down. A big white man walks by. “What a beautiful scarf!”, “I made it myself,” he grins. “And you see this yarn? I dyed it. My friend built the design around this color…” He moves on, I sit down.  They’re just regular granny squares on that sweater, aren’t they? “My mother-in-law gave me this blanket from 1902. I took out the granny squares and repurposed them into this sweater” she beams. By the time the woman with the winner’s badge comes around, I’ve lost count of the numbers of passersby I have greeted. “They have a crochet category in the contests? Really? You made that? I think I will submit an entry next year. How….?”

I'd Rather be King

 

Yesterday

“Wait, I thought you’re a Scrabble player.” “I am.”, “And you’re a crocheter? And a techie? And you write, and paint, and sew, and you’re a movie critic and a science buff. What are you? “King” I replied with a grin, thinking of the charming 4-year-old Diya I’d met ten years ago.

A Long Time Ago

Perhaps it was the sappy romance novels I read, or perhaps it was the colonial influence around me; by the time I was 9, I was convinced that there were two kinds of women – the ones like my mother and aunts, who relied on their looks, their beauty and their obedient demeanour, the kind that honed the “feminine skills’ of cooking, creating a beautiful home and bearing and raising children; and the kind that lacked one or more of these qualities, and had to work to earn their own keep. They were answerable to no one but themselves, and they appealed wildly to something deep inside me. Or perhaps, I wanted to be more like my father, who got to travel and be obeyed and waited on by my mom. And so, I rebelled against the “appropriate” behavior and demeanor of young girls of my class and took my future into my own hands. My rebellion was supported by the adults in my life, with the caution, “It takes a lot of money to be king.”

The Kings Journey         

It started in a haze of ignorance, without roadmaps, destinations or role models. I was willing to do anything, as long as it did not involve anything illegal or immoral, physical labor or typing. I still cringe when I recall that it was not my smarts, but my looks that got me my first job – selling advertising space in a newspaper.  The first company ran into issues with the labor union and was shut down.. I got fired from my second job – the good looks couldn’t compensate for lack of execution.  Things turned around at my third job. I learnt a lot, became useful, and rose rapidly through the ranks. I worked there for six years until they went bankrupt. I plodded on. I prepared tax returns; I sold life insurance. I considered fulfilling another childhood dream – writing stories.  And realized that the beer money these jobs offered could never deliver my champagne dreams. I decided to go back to school – for Accounting. I knew lots of Accountants, they made good money. Along the way I stumbled onto technology and discovered it was not as mysterious or difficult as people made it out to be. I got a couple of lucky breaks, and graduated with a Master’s Degree, and my dream job. Several lucky breaks, the help of kind colleagues and sheer doggedness later, I’d completed twenty five years in my job and was being handed an Early Retirement package. Wait! Where did all the years go? What about becoming King?

Ten Years Ago

I did the math, I checked it twice. I had three other people check it. Fortune smiled on me again. I could afford to take the package. Financially, it was in my interest to retire. But didn’t people who retired suddenly find their health deteriorating, their lives being seriously disrupted? Didn’t they just die from shock or boredom or something? I couldn’t afford to die yet. I had an aging mother to take care of. I went with the money. I would deal with my mind separately.

Around the Same Time

A friend was cajoling his four-year old daughter, “Come on baby, aren’t you going to be daddy’s princess and finish up those yummy vegetables? Aren’t you daddy’s good little girl, don’t you want to put a smile on daddy’s face?” Diya waved her fork up in the air and said, “No! I don’t want to be a princess. I would like to be King.” Slightly off balance, the father asked, “And what does it mean to be King?”. Without hesitation, “You can eat vegetables or cake or chicken or whatever you want to. You can wear a pink shirt or a red shirt or a yellow shirt. You can play checkers or Nintendo or hopscotch. You can do whatever you want, whenever you want. You don’t have to make anyone happy.” And that is when I realized that while I was fretting over whether I had a job or not, fretted about what to do with all my new found time, I was now King.  

What You Do With Life's Lemons

Braided Essays_Week1_HemaShah – What You Did With Life’s Lemons

The Rocky Start

Disappointed at the birth of yet another girl child, your father wished you had never been born. Your grandmother took you under her wing and made sure you were nourished. When the time came, you walked 2 miles to the school in the next village – wearing the hand me down uniform until there was no more fabric left to let out and it was bursting at the seams.

At 14, they dressed you up in bridal finery and married you off to a man 10 years older than you. A middle son, quiet and mild, his older brother was married to your older sister. She had convinced them to take you without a dowry. You were fair and pretty. You would make beautiful babies. When you said you’d prefer the educated man, your father said he couldn’t afford the scooter the man wanted as a dowry. You dropped out of high school to marry an uneducated farmer.

In your new home in the distant city, you heard the rats rummaging around you in the dark. You had moved here with your husband and son to carve out a new life for your family, in the land of opportunity and riches, away from the vagaries of the monsoon and the harshness of a family in which everyone struggled to survive.

You cradled your 2-year-old son protectively, that lovely, fair beautiful boy who represented that bright future you know would be yours for sure. Nothing would harm a single hair on his head or any other part of him. You worked as a house maid and a nanny. You saw how people lived in the city. How they groomed themselves and their children. You made sure your child dressed well, smelled good and ate healthy home cooked food. He was the centre of your universe. Your reason for existence. And nothing was too good for him.

Dancing in the Sunshine

By sheer luck, or was it fate, you happened upon a very special family. They showed you a little love and kindness, it was more than anything you had experienced before, except the grandmother in the village.

You figured out a way to make yourself indispensable to this family. No task was out of scope, too small or too far beneath you. Like a sponge, you absorbed everything happening around you. You learned how to cook different kinds of foods. You watched YouTube and learnt how to organize cupboards, make metal objects shine like you, iron clothes, scrub floors.

You were the maid everyone wanted. But you stayed loyal to the family, caring for the grandma and grandpa as if they were your own flesh and blood.They became the center of your universe. 

You learned how to count money, the price of things you never knew existed. And your dream started to get clearer and sharper. You wanted your children to have a life like that of the family you served. Built on a solid foundation of education and good work ethics.You enrolled them in schools that would prepare them for such a career. You couldn’t afford the tuition, but learning from the grandma, you found a way. You saved and scrimped and denied yourself everything but the barest necessity. You taught your children to value the opportunity. At Parent Teacher meetings, you dressed in your finest clothes to make sure you wouldn’t embarrass them.

Back in the village, your parents were getting old and needed help. You found it in yourself to forgive your father, and rebuild a relationship with them. You helped your siblings and their children make their way into the big city and save themselves from the unpredictable life of a farmer.

And just as everything was going well, things fell apart. The family that you had served for 14 years while raising your children left the city. Grandpa was the first to go. And then grandma. You nursed them till the very end. And then the rest of the family left your city. 

Hunt that Sun

Stunned by the sudden loss of anchor and purpose you stumbled. Sometimes you came close to despair.

But slowly, you recalled the stories you had heard from the grandparents. About hard times and keeping the faith. About resilience and bouncing back.  You learnt to ask for help and accept it. Your friends and family rallied around.

Reluctantly you found a new family to support. They are very young, just a little older than your own children. The young couple are smart. They both have demanding, well paying jobs. And yet, there is so much they have yet to learn. Things you learnt from the grandma.  About hunting dreams and managing your finances. You show them how to make their money go further. You teach them what you've learnt about prioritizing time and money. You promise you’ll stay with them till their baby is old enough to go to school.

And even as you do that, you stay true to your dream. You keep paying off the loan you've taken and rent out the home you've built. One day you will retire there. You build up your skills by asking questions, watching you tube and tik tok videos. On your days off you work ad hoc jobs, organizing people's clutter, making traditional treats at festivals. You are finally able to save, and your investments are paying off. 

Through focus and hard work your kids made it into engineering school.

 

Out of Gas

The following is based on an actual cyber attack that came to light in May 2021. It has been dramatized for purposes of narration

At Emily’s Home in Durham, NC

Emily investigated the contents of her freezer. She normally went grocery shopping on a Thursday, but with less than half a tank of gas, she did not want to take the risk. Gas pumps all over town had run dry. There was talk of tankers arriving at a station close to the highway, but chances were they would run out by the time she got there. Best to conserve and make do with whatever supplies she had on hand.

At Colonial Pipeline

Computer screens across the data centers read, “Your files are encrypted by DarkSide”. Some screens included a demand for ransom to decrypt the files. The IT Team systematically set about isolating computer networks with a view to salvaging some part of the system. They were unsuccessful. They couldn’t tell yet how or when the intruders had taken control of their system. They could see though that every single operations process had been compromised. This was not their worst nightmare coming alive, simply because they had never imagined such a scary scenario was even possible.  Within 2 hours, the Data Center director had informed her boss that that the systems managing the 5000-mile pipeline that delivered gas to pumps from New York to Georgia were unreliable. At the Executive Meeting convened shortly thereafter, the CEO shut down the pipeline that delivered more than half the fuel consumed in States along the East Coast. It would result in an extreme fuel crisis, as this was one of the 2 feeders to gas stations across the East Coast states. 2 decades earlier, this CEO had the led the effort to convert fuel supply to “just-in-time” eliminating the cost of distributed storage for a dramatic reduction in cost. Now, with the pipeline shut down, gas stations would receive half the supply needed on a daily basis. Government agencies, including the FBI and White House were engaged. The company also opened a channel to discuss the US$4.4M ransom demanded by DarkSide.

At DarkSide

The room was dimly lit. The tables were arranged in several concentric half arches. Every table was covered with computer screens, each one of them covered with text that was being constantly updated. At the center of the innermost arch a person huddled over a large monitor. He wore large headphones over his ears and spoke into a microphone that he projected out of them. “Phases 1, 2 and 3 are now complete. Very well done! We now enter the final phase of our operation. It looks like our ransom will be accompanied by some close scrutiny by the Feds. Team 4 what is your assessment ?” A synthesised voice came back into his ears, “They cannot come anywhere near us in 6 of our 11 stations. We have a high risk of exposure at 2 stations, medium to low at the other 3 our agents are in place, if the Feds are able to secure cooperation from the international agencies we’re SOL. There has been no cooperation among many of these agencies for the last 40 years. I’d estimate risk of being detected at 4 of 10.” “That will be all then. Next touchpoint at 18:00 GMT”, he said, and signed off.”

At the White House

“7 states have declared emergencies because more than 70% of their gas stations are now out of gas. The rest expect to hit that mark later today. The Department of Energy has authorized emergency fuel transportation by truck and rail and the EPA has temporarily waived fuel quality regulations. We are working with the State Governments and private sector partners to help us get relief immediately. The FBI is looking into the money trail, and expect to have a concrete update   in the next 24 hours.  

At Emily’s Home in Durham NC

An alert from her neighbourhood community app NextDoor chirped on Emily’s phone. “Gas now available at the Hillendale Gas station and at Costco”. With a sigh of relief, Emily grabbed her purse and entered the garage. It had been an anxious 4 days without going out. One more day and she would have been out of milk and bread.

At DarkSide

It was a little more than ninety days since Colonial’s Gas Pipeline had been attacked. The ground was being prepared for a foundation for an office building. Large earth moving equipment littered the scene. A man with a hoodie sat in a pickup truck nearby. He looked at his phone as it vibrated. It took a few seconds to decrypt it. It read, “All footprints removed from CP. FBI got to 3 of our transfer agents. Lost 2.3M.”  He deleted both messages then drove away.  

The Teacup

 

The Teacup Hema Shah 927 words.

Wrapped in tissue paper, each cup and saucer sitting neatly in its own slot in the box were the 63 pieces of my mother-in-laws fine china tea service. Little pink flowers and green leaves on a pale yellow background.  It was now my issue to deal with as we combed through her belongings looking for treasures to keep, and things to give away. This particular set had been my mother-in-law’s prize possession.

And then I remembered another pattern – fine bone china, pink roses on a white background, a hint of gold on the handle. A dozen cups, saucers, cake plates and a side plate, matching teapot, milk jug and sugar container. Mrs Cunningham, wife of the General Manager of Humphries Tea had presided over that set at the Officers Club in Assam.

Every Sunday, the plant managers and the families from the 23 tea estates would drive over to the Officers Club, dressed in their Sunday best. The wives would join Mrs Cunningham at a large table covered with platters of food. Cucumber and water cress sandwiches with the edges trimmed, atleast 3 different types of scones and buns and cakes, sometimes samosas, sometimes pakoras.

I sat with my brothers and the other little children at a separate table, similar laden with food. Instead of tea, we had milk shakes and coca colas. The fine tea cups were reserved for the grown-ups, especially the women – the men mostly drank something from the bar. We were young, innocent and stupid.

At 6pm, the lights would be dimmed, and a movie would be projected upon a makeshift screen. It was generally a movie based somewhere in Europe – the men always wore suits, and the women wore pretty dresses, just like Mrs C’s. Mrs C seemed like such a lovely and fair person. She was everything my 8-year-old self wanted to be. Pretty and important.

When I was 9 years old, I was sent away to a boarding school in Dehradun. It was a very small girls only school. I remember how comforted I felt, everytime I happened upon the teachers on their tea break. They were drinking out of the same white fine china cups with the roses. Sometimes we would get to join them. They taught us how to hold the tea cup , the handle held between the thumb and three fingers, little pinkie standing up in the air. “That is the only way to hold a tea cup”, I can still hear Sr Ansel’s voice in my year.

As I peered into the box, my throat and neck felt tight. The muscles in my shoulder ached. Bile rose in my throat as I remembered what had happened that day when I had taken my 2-year-old son at the Officers Club.

I was standing on the large veranda of the clubhouse, rocking my infant child to sleep, when I heard a very loud crash. Rushing in to the dining hall, I saw the remains of 3 or 4 broken cups scattered around the ankles of an older server, Ramu dada. Ramu dada had been a server at the Officers Club since before I was born. He had always been very kind to my brothers and me. In fact he had been kind to all the children that came to the club. A very sad and dejected Ramu dada was staring at the cups in disbelief. “I don’t know what happened, “ he told me. A couple of workers ran out from the kitchen and helped him up. There was a little blood on his left ankle.

Mrs C sailed into the dining area “Look at what you’ve done now, you silly old fool. Do you know how expensive this tea service was. How are we going to replace the broken pieces. I’m going to have to take out the cost from your paycheck. I cannot believe you did something so stupid!!! You silly fool. Why don’t you just sit at home like other old men!”

I felt tears burn my eyes. Ramu dada was a kind gentle soul. He had never raised his voice. He didn’t need to be berated or yelled at. It was only a tea service. And at 76 he deserved to be resting in his cottage, not being berated by this white woman, even if she was his employer.

Eventually, the haranguing stopped. Mr C had come out to see what the commotion was all about. Someone offered Mrs C a glass of sherry. Mr C asked someone take his wife upstairs, and had someone else go look for the doctor. He asked one of Mrs C’s friends to take over the rest of the tea ceremony.

Ramu Dada was helped away by a couple of young orderlies, his wounds leaving a light trail of brown on the beautiful Persian rug.

The image of the cup on my screen suddenly brought back the entire scene. “Why are you crying mummy?” my 3 year old wanted to know. And I felt the tears run down my face. Of course I was sad for Mrs C and Mr C and their loss of a few pieces of china. , But I was heartbroken for Ramu Dada. And I was heartbroken for myself.

Partition 1947 - Braided Essay

 

Week 4 – Hema 722 Words Oct 4, 2025

Partition – 1947

British India Viceroy Curzon sowed the seeds of Partition in 1905 by dividing the Bengal province along religious lines. This burgeoned into a strong divisive force as the Quit India movement picked up steam. With Jinnah holding firm to the belief that Muslims would only be safe in a Muslim state, and Gandhi unwilling to see a divided India, it ended up becoming Mountbatten’s job to execute Britain’s exit from India. Radcliffe, the man commissioned to divide up the country in all of two months, drew what seemed an arbitrary line across the Punjab and Bengal, leaving millions of people on the wrong side of the border. This triggered a mass exodus of Hindus from various parts of Pakistan into India, and the reverse migration of Muslims from India to Pakistan. It was a massive, bloody, uprooting of millions of lives on both sides of the border.

At a Refugee Camp in Lahore, Pakistan

Karim woke up long before the muezzin’s call to prayer echoed through the makeshift tents of the Walton Camp in Lahore.  He wasn’t the only one. Several other, hungry and restless souls were up and about. Perhaps a shipment of food would come in later today; perhaps some medicine; perhaps today he would be able to find transport to Faisalabad.

He had sent his wife and children on as soon as it seemed like British India would be divided into the Muslim country of Pakistan, and India. Like many of his friends in Delhi’s Chandni Chowk, he had hoped that he could continue to live on in a secular India and be allowed to continue to operate the business his ancestors had built up over generations.

But the messages from his wife’s family had continued to grow increasingly urgent. Once the border had been published, hundreds of thousands of Muslims had left for Pakistan. His wife sent an urgent plea asking him to cross over. Reluctantly, he turned over his assets to his cousins and caught one of the immigration trains to Lahore. He hoped he would be able to return in a few months.

The city was in absolute chaos. You could barely get around the city, and there was no way to get to Faisalabad to his family almost 200 kilometres west. He had been lucky to find a spot in Walton Camp where he camped with a group of people who had travelled north on the same train from Delhi.

At a Refugee Camp in New Delhi, India

In India. the once pure, and still considered holy, Yamuna river now looked like a cess pool. The site, just outside Delhi was home to a massive camp for refugees who had just arrived from Pakistan. With hundreds of thousands of refugees dipping into the river to wash, the Yamuna was now more deadly threat than a vital life source.

Rajeshkumar, the owner of a food stall nearby, looked on with sadness. He knew as a Hindu in India, he was among the fortunate ones. He was not forced to abandon his life and home.  Yes, his business had shut down. His equipment along with those of the other stores on the street, had been pressed into service to cook food for the refugees. And yes, he had sent his wife and children to the safety of her father’s home in a village 200 kilometers away. They were safe there. In a few weeks this would all settle down. It would take him some time to recover, but they would be ok.

At a Refugee Camp in Lahore, Pakistan

Karim joined the He joined the rest of the camp in morning prayers, performing them as best they could. They did not have water for the ritual washing, nor clean clothes. But they had clean intentions, and they prayed with fervour. He prayed this madness would end soon. He prayed for food, prayed that his family was safe and that soon he would be with them.

At a Refugee Camp in New Delhi, India

Rajeshkumar completed his prayers  without clean water and incense, precious commodities at a time like this. He applied the ritualistic grey ash to his forehead, invoking the mercy and grace of the various Gods that managed different aspects of his universe. He prayed that the trucks with food supplies would arrive early this morning, so that they could try to feed the starving. He prayed that the madness would end soon and he could be reunited with his family.

 

Barking Up the Wrong Tree OR The Road to Hell is Paved with Good Intentions

 Barking Up the Wrong Tree – Hema (or the Road to Hell is paved with good intentions)

There it was.....her beautiful wooden box with the different sections for storing her ink well and nibs and the spot for the fine paper. But what was that horrible Hussain doing with it? 

That beautiful wooden box, with the different sections for storing the ink wells, the nibs and the fine paper. She remembered tucking it away into her backpack after last week’s “Show and Tell” at the art class. The teacher had asked her to show the class how she had used the different nibs to create the award-winning poster. The box was very special. It had belonged to her aunt, the one who was an artist and lived in New York. Her aunt had gifted it to her upon learning of her interest in graphic art and calligraphy. Rani treasured it and kept it locked in her desk, except for when she took it to demonstrations, like she had last week, or when she took it home on the weekends.

She had unlocked her desk on Friday afternoon, and to her horror, found an empty space instead of the box. She had checked her backpack and frantically searched the Art classroom. Her friends and even the Art teacher, Ms Halwai, joined the search. Rani was inconsolable. The teacher had posted a sign on the notice board asking for help finding the box.

And here, at Monday recess, was that dreadful Muslim boy, grinning from ear to ear. He seemed to be teasing her as he held her precious box slightly over his head. She rushed towards him, “Give that to me at once! How could you take it away from me? You don’t even know what it is used for!!”

The grin on Hussain’s face vanished into a sea of red. “I was just bringing it back to you.”

“Of course,” she sneered grabbing the box with both hands. “Cos you knew someone would catch you soon enough.”

Hussain reeled under the venom spewing from her eyes. “Look, you know, that’s not true. I saw the notice on the board. I know how special this box is to you, so I went looking for it. I’d last seen you use it in art class on Friday. I talked to the janitor. He says he found it on a window sill.”

“Oh, go blame the poor janitor now. You must have taken it from my backpack in art class. Why would I go leave this precious set on a window sill?” She turned away from him. Then over her shoulder, “If you must make up a story, at least make up a better one. I am going to report you to Ms Halwai.”

Hussain tried to stand his ground. “You’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m not the guilty party here.” And then weakly, to her departing back, “I just wanted to help you.”  And even as he said it, he knew. He had been wrong to hope they could ever be friends. His was a family of devout Muslims, she came from a clan of fierce Hindus. Both families still bore the scars of “Partition”, some terrible event that happened more than 75 years ago, something that he really did not understand.

The lump in his throat threatened to become a sob. He swallowed it.  He had only wanted to bring the box back to Rani. She had seemed so sad and forlorn on Friday.  Shyly, he had hoped, that they could be friends, perhaps collaborate on a poster together, he had seen some fantastic Arabic patterns.

He waited outside the principal’s office staring at the floor, his chin resting on his chest, certain he was guilty of something even if he hadn’t stolen the box.

The principal would definitely call in his parents. Abba would shake his head sadly and say, “What were you thinking?” Mom wouldn’t say anything, though she’d make sure he realized how much he had embarrassed the whole family. His cousins would tease him, there would be no mercy there. Perhaps grandma? No, that Hindu business would get in the way.

Pandu, the janitor, watched the small crowd clustered outside the principal’s office below. He suppressed the surge of pity that welled up inside him at the sight of Hussain’s forlorn figure. He remembered that day not so long ago, when he had learnt that same bitter lesson. He had tried to help a beautiful woman in distress. Instead of being grateful, she had turned the wrath of the mob on him. He had lost his job and his reputation. More than that he had lost the will to salvage either.

Pandu had been in a hurry to close up that past Friday afternoon. He was going to his village for the weekend. He had quickly walked through the classrooms, emptying the trash and setting the chairs back in place. The box had been sitting on the window sill in the Art classroom. The sill was just above eye level for the middle school kids. This was the fifth item he had rescued from the window sill this year. Kids usually set things up there while packing their stuff, and sometimes they forgot to take it. It was a pretty box, and for a while he entertained the thought of keeping it. Regardless, he would put it in his closet till Monday morning. It would be safer there.

On Monday morning, when he saw Ms Halwai’s notice, he realized that it was best the box be found. He planned to place it back on the window sill in the Art Classroom in the period after morning recess. Then it would be a matter of pointing it out to one of Rani’s friends. He did not want to engage in the business of returning it directly. Who knows what he might be accused of. But young Hussain had knocked on his door at the start of morning recess.

And before Pandu could say anything, Hussain had spotted the box on the shelf. “Where did you find that box? I must have it at once. We’ve been looking for it since Friday. Rani is beside herself. I must bring it back to her.” Hussain had been so eager and so anxious to be a hero he reminded Pandu of himself and his own foolishness all those years ago.

But Hussain was young and the principal was fair and wise. He would give Hussain a chance to prove his innocence. And certainly, Pandu would cooperate. And perhaps, Hussain would learn to curb his good intentions and save himself from really going to hell. 

The Wolf Returns

<Neighborhood bar. A man (Wolf) sits at a tall round table. He has a folder in front of him and a glass of clear colourless liquid in front of him. He is staring at the phone in his hand. A beautiful blue eyed blonde woman (Rose) about 5ft 8” tall and slims strides over to his table.>

Rose:

“Rebecca Rose. I understand you have been asking about me?”

<Stares hard at the mark on his forearm as he rises and extends his hand>

Wolf:

<Seeing her eyes widen as she sees the mark on his forearm> “Perhaps you recognize me, then?”

Rose:

 <Calm, cool, collected, she keeps her hand by her side>

“Yes, and I cannot see why you think I might want to talk to you.”

Wolf:

 “And yet, here you are. You see young Rebecca Rose, it is because I believe you to be a good and kind and forgiving person. And in the past 20 years I have had a lot of time to think about the pain I inflicted on you and your family, I have had a lot of time to be deeply ashamed of what I did, and I have spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to demonstrate that regret and beg for your forgiveness. Won’t you sit down?”

Rebecca:

<Rebecca stares, bewildered. This is so far from anything she had ever dreamed or imagined>

Wolf:

“Please hear me out.”

<Rebecca reluctantly sits on the bar stool across from him. >

Wolf:

“That fateful day I met you in the woods, Rebecca,  please may I call you Rebecca? I was in a very bad place.”

Rebecca:

<frostily> “Indeed”

Wolf:

“Yes. I had gotten in with a bad crowd, and I was doing some seriously nasty things alcohol, drugs… One day when I went to the apartment we rented, I found my stuff packed in a suitcase outside the door with a note. My girlfriend had taken my little girl and gone home to her parents. She did not want my shadow to darken their lives anymore.  I moved into a homeless shelter; I couldn’t afford my own place. I missed them both, but especially my little girl. I swore I’d clean up my act, and we’d all be a family again. I attended a couple of AA meetings; I tried to get clean. But it was difficult. I had serious withdrawal symptoms, and a relapse every now and then.  

That day in the woods, I saw you and once again I yearned for my little Rosa. And when you talked about your grandmother’s cottage – something inside me snapped. If I was your grandmother, I could sleep in a nice soft bed in a warm cozy cottage. And my little Rosa would come visit me. She would bring me food …. ”

Rose:

“What……?”

Wolf:

“I know it sounds crazy. I was crazy with the drugs and the withdrawals. Honestly, it must have been your kindness and wholesomeness that stopped me from just running away with the food basket you were carrying for your grandma. All I wanted was her home, her bed and the love of a family.” <A tear rolls down his face, which he hastily dabs with his handkerchief>

Rose:

“But you killed an innocent, weak old lady…….”

Wolf:

“And I will regret that till the day I die. I will regret the pain I caused you and your family. I regret the fear I created in your community. I know it is too much for you to absorb and take in. But perhaps, you will think about it? Perhaps you will consider forgiving me, and helping me make amends? I know I can never right all the wrongs I’ve done. But I want to do whatever I can. I won’t be up for parole for another six months. Maybe you will correspond with me? Come see me in prison? Talk to my supervisor and pastor? Help me in my journey of atonement.  It would mean a lot to me.” <Hands her a slip of paper>

Rose:

<Numbly, she takes it and stares at it>

Wolf:

<He rises and bows> “Thank you Rebecca Rose for your kindness. I shall now look forward to tomorrow, knowing that there is hope for me after all.

<Door closes behind him>

 

Sugar is Bad for ?

Assignment: Option Three: 

Writing a convincing academic paper on anything theoretical. This can include mathematics, political science, ecological issues. literary, theoretical physics, economics, etc. Make it intentionally rubbish or nonsense. Convince us it is the real McCoy

Sugar is the new villain on the block. Dietitians and medical practitioners everywhere are advising their patients to cut back on sugar and carbohydrates and to turn to protein instead.

And yet, for centuries, sugar has been an essential part of our diet – regardless of the culture or age group you are in. Every celebration starts and revolves around sugar, be it cakes and candies or the rice puddings in Eastern countries, or the milk based confections from India. We turn to sugar when we are sad and depressed – cookies, ice cream or just plain old sugar cubes.

So why is sugar suddenly the villain of the piece. Is there any real research to back up the claims of medical practitioners? Our team of researchers went undercover into hospitals and doctors offices to understand when sugar went from being the reward for being a good kid to the absolute worst thing you could give a 7-year-old before bedtime.

In the early 1900s when sugar fields in the colonies were delivering huge profits to the masters in the “civilized” worlds, sugar was being heavily promoted through all channels. It  was a solid energy providing ingredient that not only nourished children but also encouraged them to finish consuming their meal quickly. Lifestyle influencers – primarily magazine editors were also incentivised to promote desserts as a key part of celebrations. Every channel the sugar lobbyists found was being exploited.

By the 1980s, the pharmaceutical companies were manufacturing large quantities of cholesterol and sugar management drugs, for which they needed customers. The sugar consuming patients became ideal candidates for these drugs. The pharma reps enticed doctors to prescribe their medications with trips to international conferences and similar incentives.

But by 2008, margins on these drugs started to fall. The number of reps visiting the medical community and the international conferences started to dwindle. Government pressure to reduce the prices of these drugs further added to the misery of the pharmaceutical companies and indirectly to the end of the gravy train for the medicos.

Angered by having the fine rugs literally pulled from under their feet, hospitals and doctors decided to drive both sugar and the pharmaceuticals to ruin. They also found new suitors in the packaged meat and fish industry as well as the synthetic protein manufacturers.

Today, the same doctor who advised you to put sugar and chocolate in your child’s milk to make him or her drink it up faster, is telling you that that is the equivalent of putting poison into your child’s mouth.

In our opinion, the medical practitioners have as much certainty of the efficacy of protein as they did about the goodness of sugar. They are trying to do the best they can with the available information and the incentives are working as designed.

The PERM

 

Assignment: Write a description for a new invention—something the world cannot live without! Include specifications, materials, what the device is for and why we need it!

Answer: PERM (Personal Emotion Regulation and Monitoring device) for everyone especially people in power.

There is this scene in the movie Mission Impossible – The Final Reckoning where the President surrounded by her key advisers and Cabinet Members stands poised to trigger a nuclear bomb that will destroy millions of lives. The tension in the room is palpable with the Defense Secretary looking like he is on the verge of having a stroke.

Imagine if at that time, the Defense Secretary, the President, indeed everyone in that room, suddenly experiences a soothing sensation, one that steps them back from the adrenalin and toxicity of the immediate situation, and back into a space where they can view the problem in a different context. What action might she take under those circumstances?

Imagine that moment in the White House when the VP is berating President Zelensky for not being grateful enough, for not being respectful enough to dress up for a meeting with such important people. Imagine a little soothing sensation creeping through his system, eliminating all that piss and vinegar and him being able to look at Zelensky as another human being. Would history have taken a different turn?

Pick your favorite adrenalin loaded moment – what might you have wanted to do differently?

The PERM (Permanent Emotion Regulation and Monitoring device) has 3 main components

1. The sensor – which tracks key body parameters such as heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen levels in the blood stream
2.  A vial of medication to reduce heart rate and blood pressure, and increase deep breathing
3.  A monitoring and data tracking function that
1.  Records the number of episodes requiring intervention
2. Monitors and requests replenishment of medication

Contained within a tiny flat chip, the PERM is inserted inside the wrist in a special permeable pouch.

Lab tests on over 500 monkeys over a 7-year period have shown that life expectancy of monkeys with a PERM increased by 30% over the ones that did not have the PERMS. These monkeys were also better respected within their peer group, and frequently more prosperous.

In field tests among college students over the same 7-year period, it was found that the students with the PERM were more popular among their peers. The group with the PERMS also saw, on average, a 27% higher pay packet than the group without the PERMs.

Researchers project that regular use of a PERM by at least 50% of leaders in the world will result in the elimination of global conflict by 2050. Work is underway on another device the GERD – which will introduce feelings of satiety when confronted with overwhelming Greed and the Desire to accumulate wealth beyond what one needs to support themselves and one future generation in luxury. 

Women Wearing White

Rewrite following an inspired comment from Nidhi P "Didn't Mother Teresa die around the same time? Mother Teresa died Sept 5, 1997 - 5 days after Princess Diana. I first thought of making Mother Teresa the 3rd Braid to this story. But after thinking about it some more, realized Sr Maria Rosa, my school principal from Apostolic Carmel was even more apt. 

London, United Kingdom : The Princess

A young woman stepped out of a quaint horse drawn carriage, engulfed in a cloud of crumpled white. And in doing so gave seed to millions of wanna-be princesses around the world. This was the complete package. Royal pomp and ceremony, tradition, stately old courtiers, soldiers on horses, a Queen, a King, several Princes and Princesses, in a church that inspired as much as it awed. 

She walked on a red carpet, a 25-foot-long swath of white taffeta flowing like a river behind her. The crinoline dress ballooned around. It had taken the collective efforts of  three coachmen to coax it and the train into the carriage. The carriage had been built more than a hundred years earlier and had been designed to accommodate the more modest outfits of the King's courtiers.

Her diamond crusted tiara winked and twinkled atop her golden hair. A family heirloom, each jewel in the tiara had an impressive story and had been handed down through generations of aristocratic ancestors. It would be returned to her father after the ceremony. 

Under the silk dress covered in lace, sequins and more than ten thousand pearls she wore several petticoats.  One of these had an eighteen karat gold horseshoe sewn into it. It was meant to bring good luck and happiness to the bride. 

Watching the spectacle from the pew,  the queen's sister wondered, "Will it be enough?"

Banaras, India: - The Widow

At the exact same moment, in Banaras, India, another woman stands on the Manikarnika ghat by the river Ganges. She too is dressed in white. 

Her scalp twinkles in theafternoon sun. As required by tradition, her once beautiful long hair has been tonsured. She stands there dressed in a plain white cotton sari, her bangles,necklaces, and earrings, nose rings, toe rings all surrendered to God. The proud red mark on her forehead has been wiped out to broadcast her widowhood.

The flames of the funeral pyre dance in the afternoon sun. She breathes in the acrid smell of burning flesh, tears roll down her face. Soon her husband's corpse will be reduced to a pile of white ash. When the ashes have cooled, they will offer them up to Mother Ganges so that her husband’s soul can achieve Moksha or eternal peace and float away like a cloud.

She does not worry about the future. She will live out the rest of her life quietly and in the shadows. Her son would now shelter and provide for her just as her husband and father had done at different stages of her life.

Her aunt weeps in the shadows and wonders, "How could she be so naive?"

Mumbai, India - The School Principal 

Sr Maria Rosa was the special guest at the Apostolic Carmel High School Reunion. The crowd cheered as even at 82, she marched to her seat on the stage wearing her uniform crisp white veil and habit. An alumnus from the class of 1974 had won the privilege of delivering the alumni address. 

This is what she said. "Over the past 12 months, thanks to social media,  I have had the opportunity to reconnect with several of my classmates from around the world, some for the first time since we left school, 35 years ago.  They are daughters, sisters, wives, mothers and homemakers. Several are successful career women There are lawyers, teachers, doctors, nurses, executive assistants, airline stewards, mathematicians, musicians, dancers, artists,  technologists, even some activists.   This school and the teachers have equipped us to handle the challenges and opportunities of our times. Those of us who went to school here in the late 60s and 70s are especially fortunate, for we had Sr Maria Rosa as our principal. Sr Maria Rosa was an innovative, fearless leader.  She encouraged us to think out of the box, adapt to the world as it changed around us and pursue our dreams, mindfully yet without the traditional shackles of societal norms. Her energy and enthusiam were infectious, cascading this modern approach to all the students in the school........" The speaker went on to list out various projects and activities and their impact on the students. 

She concluded with, "As part of my preparations for this address, I polled my classmates, I asked them if they had any special messages for you Sr. Maria Rosa. From around the world, the answer was unanimous :”Tell sister we love her. We are grateful for what she taught us. We do remember her in our prayers, but more than that, we remember her in the way we live our lives.Thank you sister for leaving such a strong and indelible mark on all of us." 

Stepping off the stage, amidst enthusiastic applause,  I thought, "Thank God, I was one of them." 

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

London, United Kingdom : The Princess

A young woman stepped out of a quaint horse drawn carriage, engulfed in a cloud of crumpled white. And in doing so gave seed to millions of wanna-be princesses around the world. This was the complete package. Royal pomp and ceremony, tradition, stately old courtiers, soldiers on horses, a Queen, a King, several Princes and Princesses, in a church that inspired as much as it awed. 

She walked on a red carpet, a 25-foot-long swath of white taffeta flowing like a river behind her. The crinoline dress ballooned around. It had taken the collective efforts of  three coachmen to coax it and the train into the carriage. The carriage had been built more than a hundred years earlier and had been designed to accommodate the more modest outfits of the King's courtiers.

Her diamond crusted tiara winked and twinkled atop her golden hair. A family heirloom, each jewel in the tiara had an impressive story and had been handed down through generations of aristocratic ancestors. It would be returned to her father after the ceremony. 

Under the silk dress covered in lace, sequins and more than ten thousand pearls she wore several petticoats.  One of these had an eighteen karat gold horseshoe sewn into it. It was meant to bring good luck and happiness to the bride. 

Watching the spectacle from the pew,  the queen's sister wondered, "Will it be enough?"

Banaras, India: - The Widow

At the exact same moment, in Banaras, India, another woman stands on the Manikarnika ghat by the river Ganges. She too is dressed in white. 

Her scalp twinkles in theafternoon sun. As required by tradition, her once beautiful long hair has been tonsured. She stands there dressed in a plain white cotton sari, her bangles,necklaces, and earrings, nose rings, toe rings all surrendered to God. The proud red mark on her forehead has been wiped out to broadcast her widowhood.

The flames of the funeral pyre dance in the afternoon sun. She breathes in the acrid smell of burning flesh, tears roll down her face. Soon her husband's corpse will be reduced to a pile of white ash. When the ashes have cooled, they will offer them up to Mother Ganges so that her husband’s soul can achieve Moksha or eternal peace and float away like a cloud.

She does not worry about the future. She will live out the rest of her life quietly and in the shadows. Her son would now shelter and provide for her just as her husband and father had done at different stages of her life.

Her aunt weeps in the shadows and wonders, "How could she be so naive?"

Washington DC USA, The Lawmakers

The President is delivering the State of the Union address. He sees before him an ocean of dark blues, greys and black, with a blinding big white cloud in the middle. It is a group of women lawmakers who have chosen this occasion to make a statement.

More than a hundred years ago, a group of women had looked into the darkness of a world designed by privileged men and had chosen to fight against it. These women chose to wear white to symbolize the purity of their purpose. The Suffragettes had worked to reverse the law that denied women the right to vote. 

The lawmakers are honouring the Suffragette and committing to continue to work for a bright future for women, this time with a seat at the legislative table. In a dark world, they offer hope for a future in which women can take back agency over their bodies, minds and hearts.

I wonder, "Will this really happen in my lifetime?"

Class 1 - The Bodies

This could not be my dad. My dad was muscular and fit. The body on the ice slab was obese. It had a bullet hole through the chest. But it was wearing a shirt very much like my dad's favorite shirt. 

The official’s eyes were bloodshot and slightly crazed. He too was struggling with maintaining his composure. “”Can you help us with a description? Identification marks..?”

Three nights ago we, my mother, my sister, my cousin and I  were  watching “Kaun Banega Crorepati” - the Hindi version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. Dad and his colleague Andy were out at a business meeting with a delegation from the UK. They had just finished negotiating film distribution rights, and Dad was going to be dropping Andy off at the airport around midnight. 

Mid-question we heard the strident sounds of the  “Breaking News” feature,  the station switched to coverage of the horror unfolding across the city.  Bomb blasts had gone off in the past hour, at 6 different places in  Mumbai. There was also word of a gunman shooting at citizens inside the Grand Victoria Terminus. The city was under a “shoot-on-sight” curfew. 

We saw a text  from Dad on the Family group. “Andy and I are at the Oberoi. Looks like there is some disturbance here. Some mad man playing terrorist. We are walking out the back entrance. All will be well. Good thing I'm wearing my lucky ducky shirt. Love, Dad.” We tried calling him, then, but could not get through. 

Cell phone towers were malfunctioning across the city, but the television network soldiered on. We watched as firefighters tried to control blazes across the city. We watched the terrorists on CCTV footage from the Taj Palace hotel. We saw the smoke erupt as they set it on fire.  We heard about bomb blasts in a taxi cab and at the railway terminus. There was no mention of the Oberoi on TV. My mother tried to console us as much as she tried to console herself,  “No news is good news”. 

About twenty four hours later Mom received the following text from Andy. 

“Typing this from the back of a military van giving us a ride to the airport. Rakesh helped several of us escape through a side door. He is with the police at the Oberoi, he's showing them where another group is sheltering from the terrorists. I’m sure you will all be together very soon.”  

We couldn’t tell when he had sent the text because of the issue with the cell phone networks. 

When the curfew finally lifted 36 hours after the first attack, my cousin Keki and I ran the 2 kilometers to the Oberoi. We had heard reports that over 100 people had managed to get out. 

But we did not find my dad there. The terrorists were still holed up inside. We were forced to leave as a commando unit rolled in. 

It had been another 24 hours before the military commandos had totally secured the hotel. We were directed to a make-shift hospital set up in a nearby office building.

“My dad was wearing a similar shirt, but this isn’t my dad.” “How can you be so sure ? Bodies change…..”  “I’m sure”, I said, my heart soaring at the possibility that dad might still be alive. “This man is wearing a gold chain with an Om pendant on it. My dad has a platinum chain with the Zorastrian Farvahar.” 

“There isn’t anyone else wearing such a colorful shirt”, the man said. His assistant tapped his elbow, and spoke to him quietly. I followed their gaze to the body lying by itself on a table in the corner, the face covered. The blood splattered t-shirt was a St Peters class of 1977 t-shirt, exactly like the one dad sometimes wore under his lucky ducky shirt. The bullet had narrowly missed the Farvahar which dangled apologetically off to the side of his body. 

Writing - A New Phase

 I've had the good fortune to take some Writing classes this past year. The "purpose" based approach and the peer and teacher feedback has been very satisfying. At the same time, the pieces now feel a little raw. I have a greater appreciation of edits and rewrites. The unedited pieces are still my favorites despite all their flaws. I probably haven't edited the others properly! As in all forms of hand crafting - I'm still spinning wildly across the various phases of editing and rewrites from "first draft", "good enough", "Don't ruin it", "just start over". Perhaps the classes will help me find the "STOP NOW" spot, 

I took my first class "Flash Fiction. Tell a story in 750 Words or less" in the Fall of 2024.  This spring it was Potpourri Prose - examples of writing from different prompts or forms of writing. And here we are in the Fall of 2025 experimenting with Braided Essays. All under the guidance of Jane Seitel at OLLI - a master poet and writer. 

These classes have helped me re focus on writing and helped me connect with some really good writers. Their inputs and feedback have been very useful in my writing and editing journey. Jane's inputs have always been focused and insightful, encouraging me to remove the chaff from the wheat of my writing. I'm loving it all. 

Here is a collection of my class homework in various stages of polish, starting with the current class and going back to previous modules. 

Braided Essays 

We're doing these from Sept - Nov 2025. I am struggling with this form - the idea is to write in a non-linear fashion - apparently disparate pieces that interweave and come together in one beautiful braid.  There is a part of my brain that does not want to let go of the linear, logical progression of the story. But I shall become a poet yet!!!

To Be Posted: Week 1 Essay - When Life Gives You Lemons

Women Wearing White  Updated 10/28 with Nidhi P inputs

The Teacups

Partition

Out of Gas

I'd Rather Be King

Am I Home? updated 10/28 with class feedback

Potpourri Prose - Different forms of Writing 

This is from February of 2025

Barking Up The Wrong Tree - Story illustrating an Idiom

The PERM - Scientific Report

Sugar is Bad - Informercial

The Wolf Returns - Screenplay

Flash Fiction - Writing stories in under 1000 words

My first writing class with Jane Seitel of OLLI at Duke. Sept - Nov 2024

The Bodies 

Some Older Stuff

The Bougainvillea

I look forward to seeing input, feedback and reactions from friends and family, helping me hone this craft to wherever it goes.