Thursday, June 4, 2015

#10CreativeDays: Day #3

Theme: BANK

Bella Puri

Be a Tortoise

The  tiny seed struggles to sprout against all odds, the little fledgling leaves its nest to brave possible failure of flight.
The slow tortoise with a load on its back challenges the sprightly hare to a race. They bank on themselves to win…

Natasha Puri


An outburst, a breakdown,
Unsolicited debits from my account
A heartbreak, an angry shout,
A cash withdrawal at every pout

Here's a game that two can play,
One of these days, I'll make you pay
I'll go shopping to the Lover's Mall,
Your tiny betrayals, I don't have change that small

A smile here, a laugh there
That balance sheet looks highly unfair
I wonder, every time my heart goes ka-ching
Why are you so into emotional banking?

Wednesday, June 3, 2015

#10CreativeDays: Day 2


Bella Puri

My father had a yellow Vespa and as a child I used to wonder why did he not go for a  green or a blue one, those were my favorite colors.
He drove it with great pride and took great care of it. Looking back  I think that  in between the dullness of retired life and the strain of court cases, his  yellow Vespa was like a slice of sunshine. 

Natasha Puri

"I like it, but for the yellow walls. Makes the house look old and dirty." 

"But yellow is the colour of history, baby. Just think about the many lives lived here, how many like us called this their home."

"And we need a constant reminder, because …"

There was nothing very appealing about living in a rented house in a society that was probably older than us. But this first conversation about finalising this particular flat, stayed with me forever. Someone’s home once would be where our life together would begin. And even though I would have wanted it to be prettier, cleaner, more shapely, I wouldn’t complain. I just desperately wanted us to begin our lives.

As I stared at the empty house with the yellow walls, I relived a little bit of our two years here. Our first joint attempt at cooking a dinner which ended with us ordering pizza; our first sofa, which came after a reasonably long wait of hosting people on a well-decorated mattress; our first painting on the wall, that I insisted brought out its yellow-ness even more. And then slowly, our first fight … sleeping in separate rooms, me being slightly happy that we had the option of another room.

These old, decayed walls had housed us out of our infancy. Some moments spent in love and others, not so much. On some days the yellow shone as brightly as our day and mood, and on others, it signified the dullness, the gloom.

Suddenly, the empty house seemed so full of memories. Yellow is the colour of history, he had said. And so, one room in our new house – with white walls – would be yellow, for all the memories of our first-ever home, our own little ray of hope.

Monday, June 1, 2015


My mom and I have started this collaborative art project for the next 10 days. This means, based on a common theme, I will write a story, poem or haiku and my mom, an artist herself, will visualize the same. The themes have been set for us by Prema Govindan.

Day #1

Theme: Glass.

Bella Puri

A Little Glass Window

Amidst  formidable stone walls and towering ceilings we can so easily miss out the existence of the fragile little window of glass.
But for it  would we be able to perceive the beauty that lies beyond these impermeable walls?

Natasha Puri

I was in a hurry to grow up. I wanted to feed myself, wear what I wanted, comb my hair and do other grown up things like wear make up. But being ambitious, is not a quality they like in two-year-olds. They label us obstinate, indisciplined, whereas all we really want to be is independent. 

For all my life, I believed that the English language had only one word: No. Can I watch more TV? No. Can I have a toffee? No. Can I play some more? No. But the one no that bugged me the most was when I asked to drink water from a glass. That ‘no’ was accompanied with a heartless explanation about how little I was. I watched as my elder brother drank his juice, water, milk and other ordinary liquids from Mother’s crystal glass. I swear he held it in one hand to taunt me. Often, I found myself fantasising about it, it beckoning me, as the light hit its beautiful curves and shone with rainbow colours of the spectrum. There it stood on the dining table, always out of my reach, my certificate of adulthood, my trophy.

One fine Sunday afternoon, I devised a plan. During a busy family lunch, I nudged my mother for water. I pointed fervently to the crystal glass, she didn’t have to go to the kitchen to get my ugly plastic bottle, I gurgled. I cried, it was right there! Hand me the glass! My harried mother lifted the glass and placed it back. It was the longest three seconds of my life. I could see the hesitation on her face – one more howl and she would give in. I let out another loud one and as predicted, she poured the water in the glass and as it travelled to me, I could feel myself growing up. I was inches from adulthood. I held the beauty in both my hands. It was heavier than I had imagined, and I swear the water tasted better. I felt my legs growing taller, my words had become clearer and my baby fat was slowly but surely receding. I lifted the glass many many times, and asked for many refills. I would never stop drinking water! Impressed glances made the rounds, I saw nods of approval all around the table. I had arrived.