Minakhi Misra

Author: Minakhi Misra

  • The wrong lesson from the Boy Who Cried Wolf

     

    Mrs. Malik was 71 when she learned how to recognise the signs and symptoms of a stroke. She learned this from a series of pictures on a local hospital’s information leaflet. On the top banner, in blazing red ink, was the hospital’s emergency number that could be called if one were convinced that they were having a stroke. “Don’t hesitate,” it said. “Just call. We’ll be there in 10 minutes.”

    Mrs. Malik carefully folded the paper till it showed just the emergency number and taped this to the landline phone set she used. She further wrote the number down in her personal phone diary, and made a mental note to ask someone to save the number in her cell phone.

    Two days later, the ambulance was at her doorstep.

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  • Stuck on the wrong escalator?

     

    stuck-on-the-wrong-escalator_minakhimisra

    A few months ago, a video went viral in India. It showed a man trying, very patiently, to climb an escalator that was actually coming down. The video runs for about twenty seconds and for the whole duration that man is just putting one step in front of another, comfortably unaware of what is happening.

    Here, watch it yourself: (more…)

  • How I learned to read stories. On a rickshaw.

    Nine-year-old Zeenat likes sitting with her father on the driver’s seat of their battery-operated rickshaw. Every evening from four to six, she is a companion to her Abba, who plies his vehicle between Bada Chauraha and Phoolbagh in Kanpur.

    Abba is happy that he gets these precious two hours to spend with his noorain — the light of his eyes — as he hardly gets time after work to talk with any of his children.

    One Friday, when I was the only passenger they could find for the trip, Zeenat asked me if I was a student.

    “I am a writer,” I said. “I write stories.”

    “Really?” she turned towards me beaming. “Then you must know how to write.”

    “Haha, yes and no. I can write, but I am still learning how to write better.”

    “Then why did you lie?” she frowned.

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  • Wrote my One Millionth Word today!

    If you are wondering what one million words look like, consider this: the seven books in the Harry Potter series amount to 1,084,170 words. Now the second book in the series, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, is about 85,000 words. So, if we take the Harry Potter Box Set and pull out the second book, whatever is left is a very good picture of how many words I have written.

    And this journey of a million words started with counting the fourteen in this line: “No matter how I start my career, I will retire only as a writer.”

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  • Little Birds

    Before I am awakened by the demands of the day,
    Someone releases a flock of birds from its cage
    In all directions, each heading its separate way
    Securing in their bosoms their mistress’ message.
    When I check, on waking up, my cellular device,
    To see what the little bird has to say this morn,
    Oft times I find a joke awaiting, seldom advice
    On things too abstract for the bird to have borne.
    I draft my response and confide it with the little bird,
    In hope that my words would reach her soon,
    Who every morn, sings her feelings to be heard
    By all she loves, expecting their replies by noon.
    Designed for use by every man, every day in excess,
    This flock of little birds calls itself, the SMS.

    Originally shared with a friend in the Winter of 2016

  • The Silence of Our Actions

    I bought a copy of  The Silence of Our Friends yesterday at Comic Con, Bangalore. It took me two pages of browsing through at the counter to know that this is a graphic novel I will enjoy reading and will cherish for a long time. And that is exactly how things seem to be turning out. I read the book today, all in one sitting, and kept going back to several of the conversations between the important characters and the oh-so-subtle imageries in the backdrop of the artwork. And it was in these revisits that I had the Aha! moment about this book.

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  • Pride and Potpourri

    “We should do this more often,” I told my friend.

    I was with her at Urban Solace, Bangalore, in a room where a bunch of people had been cheering, clapping and high-fiving one another every two minutes. We had been playing Potpourri for almost an hour and a half and I had ended up laughing more than I had laughed in the whole week. I hadn’t realised I missed word games so much. Dumb charades, Pictionary, 20 Questions – I loved it. I had made new friends there too. And met an old one I hadn’t talked to in over six months. To top it all, I had gotten myself a free copy of Bhaavna Arora’s new book, a glass of green tea on the house and so many thoughts to munch over.

    “Yes, we should,” she replied. “They have events like these every weekend before the parade.”

    “Chalo chalo.”

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  • Beating the Bell Curse

    beating-the-bell-curse

  • Hacking the Bridge…

    “You remind me of the other men.”

    Komal had not talked for a very long time. And for a very long time I had been trying to make her talk. It was painful to see an almost-eight-year-old girl always balled up in a corner, away from the other kids, beating herself up for faults that were not hers.

    I had smiled, had joked, had played the clown, had even taken her to a very good ice cream place. But she had refused to talk. Until the day I almost gave up, cried, told her a bit about the sadness I carry in my heart, showed her a bit of the burden I carry on my shoulders and implored her to help me out. (more…)

  • “Aren’t you worried about the money?”

    Almost everyone asks me this question. And it is a fair question too. My answer is, “Yes. I worry about it all the time.”

    But you might not agree with how I look at money or how I worry about it.

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