Little Angel

That afternoon when little Anna gave a primrose, Ravi was happy to receive it. It could bring you good luck, her sister Clara smiled as she handed it to Ravi, in her tiny steps. Ravi was a neighborhood volunteer in their weekly meetings at Homeowner's Association.

Ravi thanked as he was getting late, smiled and said, I am in need of lot of luck, and hurried to the airport.

Fortunately, for Ravi and passengers, it was a danger that was averted, although no one knew. There were some forces working towards causing chaos, in different places at different times, it would appear like someone walking past a person throwing away their luggage on their eagerness to catch flight or someone playing their podcasts too loud etc.

However, Ravi was unaware of any of these. He was enjoying his journey until London.

At London, Heathrow, airport was busy as ever.

Ravi got down, and was going towards connecting airline terminal.

The flight was waiting for the fellow passengers from different cities or countries so they can be transferred back to the Motherland safely.

Just then it was time to leave. Ravi was walking hurriedly and was getting

To catch his flight.

“Ravi!” someone called, sounding very familiar.

It was the neighborhood friend from Hyderabad, from JNTU, they grew up with.

“Shankar! What a surprise!” exclaimed Ravi.

“Yea, if you say so!” laughed Shankar.

“I am coming from Chicago.” He was also with his wife and kids following him a few feet ahead, as he was also bringing the baggage that he needed to add from the carry-on baggage for all three of them plus himself.

“We are catching the next flight to Bombay, er… Mumbai,” he said.

“I like it that you are travelling with your entire family, Shankar!”

Ravi himself is still a bachelor, but his fiancée is also going with him to meet his family.

However, as Ravi and Shankar were chatting and walking along to catch their flight, suddenly they heard a chaotic noise and people running around helter-skelter.

“Whatever happened?” asked Ravi.

He saw that there were a group of people who were pushed away by some vague person with some kind of weapon in his hand and was threatening them if his demands are not met, holding a little kid’s head.

Without waiting a moment, Ravi, to rescue his friend’s son, gave one blow in the neck of the guy, being rowdyish..

One Karate chop, from the black belt holder, was enough to bring silence, with the sudden turn of events. Airport Officer James, was right there putting handcuffs to the mischief monger and thanked Ravi. Something that could have been dangerous, returned to balance, thanks to the innocent little girl who blessed with a primrose! They needed it, indeed. In Ravi's thoughts, Anna was smiling, dainty as a Daisy, as he just remembered her wishes, that morning.

Swamy The Sonahar

Swamy once a very young boy, learning his craft from his grand father, was fixing the rare jewelry his grand father made for a rich family, Irony is that he is asking his grandson to watch him now.

Back then, women would be more social than what they are today, with stunning jewelry and shining silk robes. As and how the country is rolling into twenty first century, all the crafts of erstwhile Raj stand obsolete or neglected and it is not everyday one looks for such jewelry.  

Prashanti didn’t know what to do with her highly valuable jewelry, she inherited from her great grandmother. 

Fortunately they are not pure gold, but alloy. In those days the jewelry made from some cities in Maharashtra unlike Rajasthan, were accessible to not so rich people, so every father can see his daughter off in expensive and valuable jewelry. 

The value was more of the gem setting and workmanship, rather than the weight of gold. 

Swamy held the old Kolhapuri necklace up to the light, turning it slowly between his fingers. The stones still caught the sun in a soft, sparkling shimmer, though the metal had not really lost its original lustre. Time had not destroyed it- only mellowed it.

“These are not meant to be worn every day,” he said softly with a sigh, almost to himself. “They were meant to be remembered.”

Prashanti watching uneasily, the way the jewelry was assessed felt it heavier than its actual weight. It was not just metal and stones—it carried stories she had never been told fully, stories of women whose names were fading from family memory.

Her great-grandmother had lived in a different world. Jewelry then was not merely ornamentation but identity, social language, and security all at once. In certain regions of Maharashtra, unlike the heavily gold-dependent traditions of Rajasthan, artisans had developed intricate alloy-based designs that were more accessible to families who were wealthy in dignity but modest in coin. The beauty lay less in pure gold weight and more in craftsmanship—stone setting, filigree patterns, and what elders called “chekanam”, a refined form of hand detailing that made each piece unmistakenly alive.

Prashanti nodded, though her thoughts were unpresent. “So what do I do with it now? It feels wrong to lock it away, but it also feels… out of place.”

Swamy placed the necklace back into the velvet box. “That is the question every inherited object asks its next owner.”

For a moment, neither spoke. Outside, modern life indeed moved quickly—chaos and noise, taking away the humming, and rhythm of a century that no longer exists, transforms culture, as if they were remnants of museum exhibits. Yet inside the quiet room, the past still persists.

Swamy said finally, though his tone did not encourage it. “if you sell it, you will be only trading mounted metal and stones. What you truly have is design heritage. That cannot be replaced.”

“What do you advise, kaka?” Prashanti was asking with hesitant tone. 

Swamy smiled faintly. “It is not who gets to buy, for what price; these brilliant stones are an artisan’s fine example of craftwork, teams toiling through red hot fire in sultry workshop, in the hottest weather, reflecting in the sheen, we will preserve for future generation, changing it’s mode”

Prashanti said, very pleasantly, ” much obliged kaka, we will work on this together, creating and transforming , preserving and practicing, not just preaching. “

Prashanti knew, what assignment she was going to give her Sociology and arts students, in the next hour.

Govind Gopala

Govind, where are you? Mom Yashoda was looking for Govind, but he was nowhere close by.

The eastern winds were growing strong, with clouds as dark as the Vindhya mountains. The cowherds returned the cattle early, so they could have a play date with the young gopi girls, assisting their elders in the kitchen.

“Guys, have you seen Kandha..?” Yashoda mom was asking with a doubt in her voice.

“No ma’am, not since evening.”

Yashoda was concerned, but it was still not too dark outside. Govind may have gone out with  friends, for a swim in the river Yamuna, mom was contemplating.

“Mother Yashoda,” one gopi came, “your Govind is stealing butter,” she complained. She came with whole team of gopi mothers supporting her.

“You know, the other day I was sleeping near the verandah, waiting to catch Govind in action. God knows where he and the friends crept in from—all the butter on the hanging shelves in the foyer was gone, the pots destroyed, and on his way back, he even applied the butter to my face and that of my daughter-in-law.”

“Not just that, Yashoda Maiyya, he untied the calves and left the doors ajar. The cows had a field day feeding their calves, and there was abundant hay and water too.”

“No, my Kanha is too young. Where is he?”

Govind was still not found anywhere.

“Alright, Gopi ladies,” said Yashoda, “we have enough dairy to last a lifetime for entire Brindavan. Let me get you your containers.”

 Govind was seen playing his melodious Vamsi, as Yashoda opened the pantry doors, all flying grazing, leaping singing friends of all kinds, from forest were enjoying their meals.

“Oh Kandha!” Yashoda Maiyya was too happy to have found him, Kandha was in the walk-in pantry, sitting near the large window with all his forest mates.