Four Clover Life- By Namrata Shailendra Singh

I regret choosing love over my father’s dreams. Then what? During the first year of college, I met this amazing man and tossed my dreams like a paper ball out of the hostel room window, losing myself between the sheets. To read the winning blog  for #NoRegrets Blogathon presented by Harper Collins and Women's Web, click  I am Sorry But... Disclaimer- This story has a semb lance to people living or dead, but why should that matter. I met her on a train journey a few years back. I met her on Cathay Pacific airlines during a trip to Hong Kong. I met her during a cruise vacation to the Royal Caribbean. I met her on the road, in the parking lot, on the pathway. I met her yesterday; I met her 13 years back. She is here, and she is there, and she is nowhere, yet she is everywhere. Image Courtesy-Pixabay

Have you ever thought of escaping to Hawaii or the Bahamas in search of some peace, freedom, and fresh air and realize later, while lying on the golden sandy beach, that you have carried your miserable self along or the present is not delighting you the way you expected? I am not the exotic type; I have no big plans of traveling around the world, soaking on a beach in the Caribbean, hiking the world's most famous canyon, exploring ancient ruins, eating delicious cuisine, or learning more about a significant historical site. If I bump into them, I will pause, wonder, smile, and move on. If I don't, I am FINE. My biggest vacation is freedom from my mind and the voices it creates, a kind of freedom that turns my patio with five green plants into Hawaii. Do you believe that true freedom is freedom from oneself? I have realized that of many things that upset me, of many things that push and prick me, it is my own self that is the most bothersome. It is easy to deal with others,

My FIL knows I like wine, and had his health and family allowed him, I am sure he and I would be all ‘CHEERS.’ My husband’s family is a teetotaler except for my FIL.  He enjoys omelet treats with me on the terrace( that’s the only place we can cook the forbidden) and even secretly supplies me ‘ tangdi kebab ’ knowing very well that my ‘ tangdi ’ and his would be in trouble if ‘The House’ got to know about it. But he has me covered in his own unique way. Thank god for small mercies. Click on  My FIL's Kurta  to read the story.

“Oh! Such a tiring night. These Indian parties are backbreaking. Naina felt so exhausted holding me around. Phew! It is 11:00pm,” remarked the saree, disturbing the silent slumber of the closet. She carried an air of immutable superiority, stemming from her roots and did not miss an opportunity to assert it over to the ones she called ‘outsiders’. “And we have so much competition, I felt backseat with such long sleeves. They were going gaga over you though Sia.” The blouse let out a big groan that woke up most of the other dresses in the wide horizontal closet. Click on  The Riot  to read the full story. Image courtesy-Pixabay

"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

"When I was growing up, YOU had a problem with my gender, then my complexion, then the small size of my breast, then my height, later my puberty, then college choice, career choice, choice of friends, hair on my armpits, choice of what I wear, choice of what I don’t wear, choice of hair and habits, choice of the short skirt and stilettos, body-hugging tee, amount of words I spoke, hand gestures, loud voice, mannerisms, boldness, places I visited, the time I visited, why I visited and with whom, my red lipstick to my nose stud, my beer, and my sex on the beach, my religion, rituals I follow, fasting’s that I do not do, one leg anklet that I am in love with, the cuss words that I speak or do not speak…basically, my very existence." To read the full story, click on  the weight on my breasts!   This article was featured on Mompresso and widely read and appreciated.  Image courtesy-Pixabay

What happens when a series of burglary in your community leads you helpless and hapless? What happens when the apartment management does little and then moves on with life and rent?  What happens when all you can now do is WAIT FOR YOUR TURN, knowing very well that one day it could be your home, hoping the day never comes.     Dear Robber, Now that you have created the right amount of fear and panic in the community I live, the apartment I inhabit, I thought it was a good time to talk to you face to face. Oh! But where is the face? Huh! Who cares. I know you way too well. Robbers don’t have a face, they have deeds. What they rob is not as important as what they leave behind. So, what if I do not know the length of your nose, the light brown Mongolian spot on your neck, the color of your eyes but let me tell you, all robbers look the same and everything you did in my neighbor’s home when she off to Costco to buy milk and grocery for her family was callous and spiteful. So

The other day, the doctor ordered a stool test, then concluded that I have to give up the yogurt, lactose intolerance, or some shit like that to get the shit out of me. They say one way would be to throw the yogurt and start afresh. To read the full story click on  Motion-Emotion Image courtesy-Pixabay

While I walk back, I see people stand up, clapping, making way for me. I have seen Karan Johar refer to it as the standing ovation during many award functions.  Talking about him, I wonder if he will ever call me for Koffee with Karan? I love the couch, and now I am ready to sit on it too. Click on Dosa Batter Part II  to read the story.

Michelle Obama once said while addressing a group of young girls- "There is no boy, at this age, cute enough or interesting enough to stop you from getting an education," Obama added. “If I had worried about who liked me and who thought I was cute when I was your age, I wouldn’t be married to the President of the United States." To me, she made a very valid point that applies to both adolescent boys and girls. We(parents) call it a distraction, maybe the biggest, and they(our adolescents) call it LOVE...the truest. We dealt with sexuality and our child some time back( read http://www.fourcloverlife.com/2017/01/meaningful-parenting-guiding-adolescent.html ) and understood the havoc the hormones play at the time of puberty and continues to even at a later stage .  A lot of life then and onward has to do with LOVE, and this comes at the most unwanted time... a time when the adolescents are right in the middle of their EDUCATION, right in the midst of

When your maidservant's 12-year-old daughter tries to dream, aspires to rise above her class and become somebody like you, when she poses a threat to your own daughter and her talents, it is difficult not to remind the mother-daughter duo of their status----------------------MAIDSERVANT. To read the award-winning story, click on - The Green-Eyed Monster . Image courtesy-Pixabay

Does excess make you unhappy? How is it possible in a life where everyone seeks ABUNDANCE OF EVERYTHING? Excerpt-------- "I told you, I am not sure. I have been feeling trapped for some time now… trapped by this constant desire to compete, trying to prove, validate, to please, appease, pacify, to belong, to be accepted, to be liked, to be everywhere except with my own self. My fear is consuming me because I have so much to lose – name, fame, status, money and all that comes along with it." Click on the following link to read the story------------- JUST LIVING IS NOT ENOUGH

..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