Physics the destroyer

I was sitting on the terrace with my grandmother. She was sipping her evening tea. I wanted to go downstairs but she did not want the small kid to go down alone. So, she started telling me stories. Stories about fairies. I asked her "Where do they stay?".
"There, you see. Can you see those lighted houses below the water in the pond?"
Yes, I could see those. A row of houses. Every window bright with the lights inside the rooms. There...someone moved...perhaps a fairy! And just imagine, looked like  a whole city below the water!

Physics took just a few more years to destroy all those houses.

Winter advantage

Pompomdidi gifted me a shirt. A deep tomato colored shirt made of some synthetic material. She got it from America where she stayed. She was a very distant cousin of mine but I used to feel proud of her - she was the only person I knew who stayed abroad. I used to get awestruck by looking at her fair complexion - and the obvious reason behind it, that she stayed in America. I was hardly in seventh class then.
Next seven days or so, I never missed wearing it. Finally, the Sunday, I decided to wash it myself. Once done, the next step was to press it using my father's electric iron - with my own hands. Obviously I could not leave it to anyone else - it was a shirt from America. None of my friends had such an item.
Unfortunately the American synthetic shirt could not bear the heat of the Indian iron and the back part melted. A big hole in the back. A big hole in my heart too.
But Americans used to come to India in the Winter and that was the time for us to wear sweaters. So, next day onwards again I wore the same shirt and a sweater on top of that. The large tomato colored collars visible below my grinning face.

Invitation

Paban was the helper at Kishore's tea stall just outside my college. Perhaps he was about 12 years old. Very lively. Only thing I knew about him was that he was not Kishore's son. Once I asked him, "Where do your parents stay?"
With the usual grin while still working on the cleaning of the glasses, he replied "My village is near Palla road sir! Take a train to Palla road, about a couple of hours from Howrah station. Then take a bus or a cycle van or you might even walk sir. It is very close to the station ..just 6 or 7 miles!"
"Is it a nice village?"
-"Why, of course sir! Would you like to come? Next time I go home I'll take you with me".

I never went to Palla road. With my lower middle class background, with our single room rented house, I had always hesitated even to invite my closest friends to my house. This boy Paban defeated me hands down! I could not have accepted the invitation.

The last bark

I was facing the cigarette stall. Heard the sound of  sudden application of brakes on some heavy vehicle. Before I could turn, someone shouted...."Oh no! Gone!"
Then I saw it. A stray dog lying in the middle of the road and a truck a few meters ahead picking up speed again.The hind part of the animal was totally crushed. Slowly, it stood up on his front legs - or rather lifted the front part of the body only. Looked at the departing truck, and then it barked, as if to tell the driver "Can't you see". Then it fell. That was the last time I heard him.

Dirty Garbage

That was my first trip to Chennai. Raman received me at the station. Raman, my classmate at Jadavpur, Raman who even learnt to read Bangla in his first year itself. Raman, my good friend.

In the auto, I asked him "So, where do you stay in Chennai?"

"Heart of the city man, the place is called Mylapore."

I could not resist my laughter. "Did you say Mylapore? What a name!" A Bengali like me would pronounce it as Moylapur...the city of Garbage as one translates.

Raman understood the jibe. Strangely he did not react. He slowly turned his face towards me and gave a wicked smiled.  Then he said "Your dad built a home in Kachrapara I suppose, the garbage locality as they would call it in Hindi?".

The picture

I found it next to the garbage dump. Why did someone throw away such an wonderful piece of art - or should I call it technology? It looked like an ordinary picture. Strange that someone took the pain to paint the face of a donkey, very accurate. When I turned it a little, the face also moved. I could not believe it! I felt the donkey blinked too. A technological and artistic masterpiece?
Took it home and kept on my table. I was away from my room for a while and when I came back, I found my sister Lata standing in front of the picture. Did she like it? Generally she never likes anything I like. But what is she doing there? Applying lipstick? In front of the picture of a donkey? What else can Lata do, I hate to think that I have a sister like her.
Lata turned. And then she asked me "Why did you suddenly purchase a mirror? You do not even comb your hair once a day!"

Thinking more

Did some research and realized that I am not the first person to think of micro stories. The concept had been there for a long time. Some people tried to define it formally too but the definitions were mostly around the number of words...50...100...300 and so on.
I have a different opinion though. Why restrict creativity with a measuring tape? "Very short" is a good enough definition for me. But then what? Just very short? Why would someone even care? May be if that person is in a hurry he might care, but why even read a story then. Particularly if that is not interesting or likable!
I thought again about the definition of short stories by Tagore..."Simple ordinary life events...when it would end, the reader should wonder..what next?" As if it is a village road which took a sudden turn ahead. Everything very nice around but what is ahead? What next?
Can a micro story be defined like that? Crazy, stunning just like a lightning in the dark night? Momentarily you see all and then everything vanishes.
I tried to read some of those micro stories. Ones I read were either very abstract, not for common people or those were description of some events in some way. But I want it to be like a whip lash - came and gone as you blink but left the pain on your back. Or a sudden burst of laughter.

I really do not know exactly how I want my micro stories. I am just thinking aloud. Let me start writing and may be some day a definition would emerge. Or should I even worry about a definition? If people like the stories, who cares about a definition?