Stories For Kids

  Pawata Beans Bhaji Recipe  The foggy cold mornings with those tiny droplets on the grass, the warm and pleasant sunrises, the weaving of sweaters in the afternoons, lots of fresh vegetables and fruits, a whole lot of recipes that mother made, early evenings, and the coziness of the hand made quilts was what winters were all about. I remember my mother making pickles of carrots, chilies, and even the one with mixed veggies like cauliflower, peas, carrots, chilies etc. During the monsoon, my father sowed seeds of a variety of vegetables which he could reap in the winter. Amongst these, the Lima Beans climber was his favorite. A whole white crowd of white flowers would bloom, popping their heads up with tiny bees hovering around. When the legumes formed, we'd pluck them in handwoven bamboo baskets and pod them for cooking. Some legumes would dry on the plant and and later podded to obtain dried beans. These would then be soaked overnight, peeled and cooked with jaggery and tamarind.

 The sun was ready to slide below the horizon and cooler air had begun to blow. Alejandra felt a little better. She had spent her seventh birthday on a trip she was overjoyed to take. She had jumped with joy when she learnt they were migrating  and had told everyone in San Antonio Secortez about the new life she and her father were going to live. Within days, she would go from an impoverished life where she’d never owned a toy — to one where she hoped she’d learn to read and write, and, eventually, join her father in making money to send to their family back home. She opened her eyes. Her father stood talking to a handful of migrants about the next move.  “Just one last stretch on foot along the dirt road through high desert” one of the migrant said, “And we would all cross into the United States. End of a 2,000 mile journey.” One of them looked at Alejandra and handed a bottle of clean water to Francisco. "Drink this Alec" he whispered. "Just a couple of hours after dar

  Caravan Alejandra's hands trembled. She pulled out a scrapped polyethylene cruet and held it by the mouth. Francisco snatched it and threw it on the sand.  "Don't drink that...I beg of you." He shrieked. She looked at him. Anxiety and suffering shown clearly in his slanted eyes. She closed hers. Drops of fluid fell onto the hot sand on which she lay lifeless. Her body burned with the heat of the sand, her eyes with the acrid tears and her throat with the intense thirst. She hadn't had pure drinking water for days. Only infected fluids that made her sick.  She thought of her village and her home, and the good days she'd spent. In the darkness of her closed eyes, she pictured the splendid beauty of the Lake Atitlan and the turquoise waterfalls tucked away in the densely forested mountains of Alta Verapaz that offered clean water. Two years ago, she had travelled the land on horse backs with her father and family! They had forged for grueling hours and had foun

They burst with a loud explosion! Manva got pusillanimous and kept her eyes closed. She felt something soft dropping on her head. Something from above touched her arms softly and dropped down. What was it she wondered. The laughter of her parents echoed in her ears. "Happy birthday my sweet little Pingu! " she heard her mother saying. "Open your eyes dear" her father said. "Look at the sprinkling glitter that's fallin" Manva showed reluctance. Opened a tiny slit of an eye. Sparking stars and colorful rounded bodies descended down till her tiny feet. She cupped her palms and they gathered in her handful. She looked up in curiosity. There were balloons ....pink, white and purple matte and shiny golden, silver and pink ....the same colors as she had asked. She could see some of them torn and hanging. But some were intact. She could play with them she thought and jumped to grab one. In the attempt she made to gravitate the sparking glitter and thermocol ba

                  The broad tyres bumped through the dusty roads. Dust clouds, yellow and brown, rose along green fields of pigeon pea, jawar & lentils. Where the road ended was a mud house with gable roof & clay tiles. The inside was cold and calm. There was only one house in the neighborhood amongst vast areas of farms and jungle. Thanks to Rushikesh who had made it worth living by festooning it with beautiful container gardens, colorful lanterns and light décor. The walls embellished with Warli Art had an enigmatic charm. Furniture minimal yet antique.    Exhausted, we sat on a mattress under an overarching neem tree. The breeze was pleasant and so was the experience. A couple of village guys served food on plastic plates. Hot & spicy karhi, relishing potato sabzi, chutney of mashed green chilies & garlic complemented with soft roties. Simple though, it had given fulfillment not only to our taste buds but also to our souls. Overloaded, I preferred to rest myself on