Pot Pourri-Short Stories

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It started off with a short story contest hosted by my publishers Notion Press. I went and wrote one on my childhood days and promptly sent my entry across. Using the medium of a social network, I let more than a hundred odd friends know about my story. Most of them knew that I have a passion for writing as this was not the first time I’d written anyway, but their reactions were hilarious. Many of them congratulated me for my second book and some of them even asked me in person, ‘what’s your latest book about?’ For God’s sake, it had only taken me a few hours of writing and it was just a short story. That’s all! On the flip side, those that did spare time liked what they read. Inspired by the fact that my story was liked, I went ahead and wrote another seventeen chapters and completed this book but as far as many of my friends were and are still concerned, I am supposed to have already written it.

‘Pot Pourri’ is a narration of real life incidents that I recall from as early as my childhood days up to as recently as the last decade. Albeit in installments, this book is based on true facts. That it is stewed a bit is only to make it that much spicier. Must admit that life is essentially the way we make it out to be and when we see the funny and lighter side of it, it's easier to enjoy ourselves. Keep smiling and enjoy the read...

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Booze, Babes And Bread

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While Marley sung, the Rastafarians wondered when life would ever be like a chess -board where the blacks and whites played as equals. It wasn’t fair that the whites had used the might of the horses in history and the guile of their wizards in recent times to conquer them blacks and then juggled them around like pawns.

THE SHOW: The white and the black, the have and the have not, the local and the foreigner, and the buffalo soldiers all cheerfully danced in unison to 'The beat of Marley's spirit.'

THE SHOWMAN: A twenty five year old Rastafarian lad Gangadeen Moses. Ganga’ the name of the river Ganges; a symbol of purity in India; a name his mother might have so fondly kept thinking her son would grow up to become a delta of happiness. Not this one that was more like a river in spate; fast and furious eroding all ethics and morals in life just to get to life's greenest pastures taking the shortest and fastest route with it and meandering onto a street in the fast lane that called itself 3B. 'Booze, babes and bread.............'

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