Four Clover Life- By Namrata Shailendra Singh

"Could you open the gate for me?" Naina looked at the Yellow Cab taxi driver, his eyes complaining of poor sleep. The February chill accompanied by a moonless sky made her shiver as she stood with a Kohl’s poly-bag, trying to balance the ‘things’ inside with one hand and her little baby boy sleeping on her shoulder with another. “Of course.” The driver spoke in a fake fruity voice, bending backward and opening the rear seat door for her. “Hi, I can place this bag on the seat, or do you want me to place it in the trunk?” Click on  Homeless to Homeless  to read the story. Image courtesy-Pixabay

..because I was tired of lying to my 4-year-old son. Lying every day. Lying whenever he asked me the question . I felt like a cheat and the biggest hypocrite. I feel like a living example of an OXYMORON- A meat-eating sensitive person. LOOKING BACK. I am 35 now, and it's not the first time it has struck me. But I ate, ate heartily, applauding praises to the chef or to mum, whoever cooked those tender, spicy, delicious sumptuous chicken delicacies or mutton varieties. I was a slave to my palate and traded guilt for taste and hit it under the cover of ‘everybody else is doing it. I alone can't do anything about it.’ Point taken. Traded. Done. Leg piece of chicken goes down the throat with delight. Yummy!!! Somewhere around 9 years of age, the first time I actually went to the chicken shop with my father and saw the entire episode. I was aghast. I was pained. I came back home shocked. Two hours later, I had traded ….my palette a slave …I pretended to repress what I had se...