Four Clover Life- By Namrata Shailendra Singh

How I talk to my child is different from how my father spoke to me. Am I glad that I am doing things differently? Yes. Is there a guarantee that this is the best way to talk? Is there a safety net? No. Because there is no safety net in the world for anything. Question- Can I watch TV? Now that's a deal with the devil, right? My parents- 'NO. Go and do your homework. Watching TV will not help you.' :( And all the while the TV show went on, I stared blankly at my book. I was distracted. Me to my son- 'Yes, you can, after you are done with your homework.' The addictive, immersive world of screen is no stranger. However, my constant NO's only made him immune to this word. So what message do I want to send across? Can I reword my answer and ensure that it's positive and takes care of both our interests? Besides, it also inculcates task orientation in children. Just be sure that asking your children to monitor their screen time while

“Google throws about 794,000,000 results in 0.56 seconds when asked- How to make a marriage work and about 192,000,000 results in 0.55 seconds when asked- Tips for a happy marriage. Clearly, people are more interested in making it work somehow than seeking happiness in it. Wait. What kind of an inane hypothesis is this? Never mind. Let’s move on. To read the full article on Medium click on  Is it just ME or MARRIAGE? Image courtesy-Pixabay

  " That is the long and short of all that I got that day- An old bedsheet, few words, me and memories of cut pieces of her petticoat, Baba’s vests, pajamas hanging in some obscure corner of the terrace, close to the water tank, smelling of rin soap and stale blood. Maa needs to get me sanitary pads, the ones many of my friends use or another king-size bedsheet, maybe." Read the full  Story  here.  Image courtesy-Pixabay

...because there are different tracks in life  ...because not everyone wants to be part of the race "That’s how I feel. Not sure of the implementation part. In all possibility, I would chicken out. After all, I am ‘THE IZZAT-The honor of the family. Is this for real in the year 2020? Huh! As real as the virus. " To read the full article, please click on No Thanks, I don't want a career . This article has featured on the Momspresso platform under the title- Papa, I am 25, even I have needs. Image courtesy-Pixabay

She stares idly into the distance, an empty ceramic tumbler in front of her. “The beach there is different…in my country.” She says, lost in the reverie of the waves.  Did she say bitch to me? No, No, it’s the beach, the beach of Mexico. I remind myself of the Mexican Spanish accent. People’s vowels and consonants, my own diction, is my Achilles heel even after years of mac and cheese.  Why would she call her life coach a bitch? Calming my heart, I try to concentrate. Usually, I am the focussed type; I can come to the point quickly. As a seasoned counselor,  I can anticipate the story which has got the weary heart to my doorsteps in the first five minutes. To read the full story- Click on - The Part-Time Indian  on Kitaab International.  Image courtesy-Pixabay. 

Literature, on its own, I wonder, can change anything? The qwerty key could be mightier than the virus( isn’t that the most potent weapon available) but words alone don’t bring change. People do. Hence I write. Though, as I write, the word ‘change’ rushes adrenaline into my system so fast that I am ready to vomit. Click on the link  I feel lonely with the Virus  to read the full story on Medium.  Image credit-Pixabay

The clouds were full of ink, and the beach was dead silent except for the gentle waves, which didn't seem to care much. The shower came almost in a hurry, rain falling in wild anarchy, the gusting wind carrying them in wild swirls one moment, a straight downpour in another, and diagonal slaps the very next. I deserved it. Every bit. He was disappointed in me...I had failed him. The mist created by the downpour and the ocean stood between us. I had found him quite by chance that day near the Scripps Pier in San Diego, watching the neon bioluminescent waves, the air smelling of sulfur. He wore a long robe the color of ash. Intermittent sparks of lightning illuminated his face and the long flowing hair and beard, the color of a pearl.  “Shosroddho Pronam Kobiguru.” I tried hard. He was startled by the name, then let a smile unravel, the most tender, like dew on a maple leaf. “You are right; I was remembering you for a long.  This is my fifteenth year teaching- Where the mind is with