Friday, 3 April 2026

The Old man in the metro - Fiction - Don't judge a book by its cover

 

illustration by Carole Declerck


The old man entered the metro carriage with his cane. It was not very crowded at the moment, so he easily found a seat. Gilbert was now 81 years old. He had been lucky that all the escalators and lifts had worked as he made his way to the platform at the Gribaumont stop in Brussels. Sometimes they did not work, and then it was hard to get from point A to point B in the labyrinth of the Brussels metro’s underground network.

He always carried his cane when he decided to take public transport these days. Sometimes even the sidewalks were hard work. Now he found himself wondering whether he had switched off the gas in his apartment. He snapped out of that thought, knowing it would lead to other hypothetical worries. That would be a waste of time, he decided. So he brought his attention back to the people around him in the carriage.

It was funny, he thought as he looked around, no one looked at anyone anymore. Everyone was riveted to their telephones. During his youth, public transport had been full of people talking as they travelled. Now, the only people who spoke were the beggars who always seemed to be present whenever he travelled.

As he sat contemplating and looking around, the Indian woman in her forties sitting opposite him was watching him. She thought how admirable it was that this older gentleman was still moving about on public transport. She wondered if he lived alone, how he managed, and how in her home country older people usually had help to get things done. She looked at Gilbert again and was about to drift into thoughts about how sad and lonely his life might be when she suddenly saw him get up from his seat with surprising agility and move to his right, using his cane.

No one else had noticed, but a young boy with a school bag seemed to be choking. He had begun making strange sounds, and most people remained unaware. Nearly everyone on the metro had their earphones plugged in and were engrossed in their music or videos.

As the Indian woman began to panic on seeing the boy grow paler, she also noticed the older gentleman position himself behind the boy. He had actually registered the danger the moment the lollipop slipped off its stick and the boy swallowed it inadvertently. She had no idea that the man she had quietly pitied would be trained in first aid. He wrapped his arms around the boy’s waist, tipped him forward slightly, and performed the Heimlich maneuver, making a fist and using both arms to dislodge the piece of candy. It fell onto the floor near the feet of other passengers. That was when most people noticed that something had happened.

The boy, shaken, turned to look at his saviour. Just as the Indian woman, the boy, and a few others were about to speak to him, the old man picked up his cane from the floor and moved toward the door as the train pulled into the next station. He kept glancing back to make sure the boy was all right. There was a silent acknowledgment between them as he nodded gently and stepped out.


You can hear me hear this story on my podcast channel 'Lekha writes, then reads' on Apple or Spotify. 

https://open.spotify.com/episode/5TRLuPjYIPpQZ9FTEq1IqT?si=_nLn-SrQSIaXceINTLUBXA

#fiction #shortstories #antiageism #ageism 

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Wednesday, 1 April 2026

Pois et Blanche main …petite histoire de Nathalie Andrews - guest post


 

Bientôt dans le train, direction la Corrèze pour une quinzaine tranquille, loin du boulot, des jérémiades de mes parents, bref loin de tout ça !!

Je sortais du Vieux Campeur, portant une doudoune jaune citron (de quoi filer la jaunisse aux chasseurs locaux) et des grosses chaussures de marche direction la gare d’Austerlitz…quand retentit une voix grave qui appelait « Hélène, hou hou ». Celle de Pierre-Yves Gustin, surnommé « Pois ». En me retournant, je le vis un peu essoufflé mais souriant comme dans mon souvenir.

« Hélène, mais quelle surprise, ça fait combien d’années ? »

« Heu…30 ans, depuis notre terminale, quand mon père a été muté à Paris, et toi qu’es-tu devenu ? »

« Moi, j’ai repris les conserves Gustin, les carottes, petits pois & C°, à défaut de l’épanouir ça nourrit son homme. Et toi, Blanche main, pédiatre comme prévu ? »

« Non, Pois, avec ma main artificielle, il m’a gentiment été dit que je ferai peur aux enfants, alors je suis gériatre. Les vieux ont la vue basse ou comprennent mieux les blessures des autres ! »

« Dur, dur, dit Pierre-Yves, quelle saleté cet accident avec le hachoir de ton grand-père charcutier »


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Lire aussi en français ici


Légère sur ses appuis, portant le poids de ses rêves – Kayla Houari


ou 

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They say don't cry over spilled milk, yet I did - Chapter 15 - The Chronicles of the Youngest Child

 




In India, boiling milk is a routine task, often entrusted to whoever is at home. As a child, it feels like an easy responsibility, until you learn how quickly inattention can turn into an unforgettable mistake.  

One day when I was around 11 years old, my mother put the milk in a vessel to boil. It was time for her to leave with my father on her daily evening routine and did not want to wait till the milk had boiled. So she walked down from the third floor to the second in our building and met me at my friend's apartment and asked me to watch over the flame. I had an extra set of keys, and she told me she had set the burner on a very low flame and I would have to go and switch off the gas in about 15 minutes.

I was surprised that my Amma gave me those instructions because she usually never did such things. She was a fiercely independent woman and didn't like me touching much in her kitchen. I was happy that she actually gave me a task like that and promised to go home in 15 minutes. I got back to doing or playing whatever it was that I was doing just before she came and spoke to me. Obviously what shouldn't have happened did. I completely forgot that I was supposed to go home and switch off the gas. About more than an hour later, I suddenly remembered what I had promised to do. I felt physically sick, as I was very afraid of what my mother would do to me if she knew I had forgotten. But I had to give up that frightful thought with the next one that was equally horrifying. I needed to go upstairs and see what had happened to the milk. 

When I reached my home, the living room was filled with smoke. There was a horrible smell that filled my lungs as I rushed through the living room through the corridor and the inner room and finally reached the converted balcony kitchen and stared at the stove. There stood a black vessel because all the milk had evaporated and what remained was a black mess. I switched off the gas and stood there in petrified terror, thinking how and what I would do to rectify the problem. There were a lot of dark images, as dark as that pot that flashed through my head. My first instinct was to clean the pot. Luckily, I didn't go and pick it up with my hands. I somehow knew I would have to wait for it to cool down before trying to wash it.

Sometimes in life, we have these tiny moments of long thought that last a few seconds and these long minutes of time in which no thought seems to make any sense. They both exist at the same moment of time.  I remember waiting anxiously for the pot to cool, the dread of my Amma’s inevitable return bubbling in my mind. Just as the dark bubbles in the simmering pot continued.

#childhoodstories #childhoodmemories #childrensbooks #kidslife #memories #lifememories

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Browse through the previous ones in The Chronicles of the Youngest Child here





The pen is mightier than a sword -Chapter 14 - The Chronicles of the Youngest Child


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Tuesday, 31 March 2026

The pen is mightier than a sword -Chapter 14 - The Chronicles of the Youngest Child

 




My father had a little steel box filled with pens. I never knew why he kept those pens, because most of them did not have refills in them and could not be used. Also, even though we were not in the internet era and everyone used a pen or pencil to write, the number of pens in that box felt disproportionate to the needs of our family.

I must admit that the variety of pens made me go and open that box regularly. There were all kinds of pens, from ball pens to fountain pens that needed ink to be poured into them, and of all sizes. I think there was also a pen with refills of four colours that is still popular today. I found myself playing with them, examining them and finding new ways to entertain myself using them. I had many actual toys, unlike my older siblings when they were children, so I could not say I was short on playthings. However, I was so fascinated by these pens in a box that I invented a fun game to play with them.

I would go into the converted balcony room we had at home with the box. This room was adjacent to the living room and was now a closed space. A steel cupboard was here, and so was a door on which hung a leather blackboard. It was a supple kind of board that could be rolled away when unused.

I removed all the pens from the box, and they stepped out like students getting out of a school bus. The fountain pens looked solid and smart, and they had the allure of men wearing suits, so they became the boys in my class. The ball pens, when held backwards, looked like they had long, straight ponytails and, being smaller than the fountain pens, became the girls in my class.

I would position each student on a tile in the room. There was enough floor space to have one or two students on a tile. Once they all settled in, I became the teacher and spent the afternoon giving them lessons from my school books. Sometimes I even got my homework done while I played with the pens.

All the students in my class were happy and well behaved, and I noticed each one as I took attendance at the start of class.  After class, they got back onto the school bus, eager to return the next day. Who would say they were empty and void of life or use?

I often wonder about what we can learn from what we collect and hoard? What do these things tell us about ourselves or what we lack? I think my father’s life, shaped by giving up his education at 14 to support his large family, made him cherish those pens.They were perhaps symbols of hope for him, maybe he planned to use them and give them purpose someday. Or perhaps they could represent him trying to fill himself up and pouring his all into everyone else’s pages of life. They could also simply be him saving every potentially useful object for a rainy day.


My father did not collect many kinds of things, but he did collect those empty pens. His dream for an ideal future using them and my use of them while dreaming about my future coexisted in that little steel box. Those were our pens of hope.


You can hear me read this story on my podcast channel 'Lekha writes, then reads' on Apple or Spotify. 

https://open.spotify.com/episode/1OAlqgfHOh9mxJVKTxgJH8?si=G2UduatiTAWO-rnq4eaCtg

#hoarders #hoarding #uselessstuff #pencollection #

Like this story? You may like these from the earlier Chronicles




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Friday, 27 March 2026

Lekha - 6 months in - Chapter 3 - The Chronicles of the Youngest Child


 

The house is abuzz with excitement. It's my cousin Nirmala's wedding day. Nirmala or Nimi Chechi as we call her, has lived with us since sometime. Her mother is my father's sister.  It's early morning and the women present at home are all getting her ready.  Amma and Nimi Chechi's mother are busy doing her hair and my elder sister Latha is trying to get included in the bridal make-up troupe. Long strands of Mogra flowers are being pinned on Nimi's hair. The fragrance of the flowers is overpowering and it has filled the house.


Nimi Chechi finally steps out into the living room where I'm sitting on my brother Raj's lap. She is a very beautiful young lady and her bridal attire accentuates her beauty. I suspect that she's nervous, after all, it's her big day! Since she now has a government job in the Indian Railways, she has bought herself a really pretty saree. Her mother and my mother would probably have not spent that kind of money on a garment. But they were both women who had never had a job and so deep down they are proud that she is able to pamper herself. Even though it's just family members, the room is crowded. Everyone's restlessness seems to suggest that we must leave to reach the wedding hall soon. 


I'm now 6 months old. I've been growing slowly, but food is still not my friend. During her pregnancy my mother was unwell and I generally can't still keep food down. But even though I'm tiny, I can grip everything with both hands and have been given some sort of rattle to hold. I delightfully drop it to the floor again and again. That's just me keeping my brothers busy. We all go down to the bottom of the apartment building where a car has been arranged for the bride to be driven in. There is no decoration on the car and everyone who can fit in gets in without asking if they should or can. I find myself in the car and am in my Amma's arms. 


When we reach the wedding hall, I'm constantly carried. Like in all Indian weddings, everyone's worn their Sunday best. I know that because I get passed around into the arms of many people. I'm hardly able to keep track of what's going on. All this travel and movement between so many people have me exhausted and hungry. I'm quickly handed back to my Amma. She feeds me and holds me for sometime. I hear the 'kuravas' high-pitched, vibrating sounds made by the women during the 'muhurtam'(auspicious time) of the marriage. It's now official, my cousin is married. 


There is lunch after the wedding. It is a 'sadhya' or a feast, where several kinds of special foods are served to the guests on a banana leaf.  At this lunch, I get to be on the centre stage as my father places me on his lap and sits in front of a lighted lamp. He feeds me my first morsel of mashed rice mixed with ghee.This is my 'choru unnal', or rice-eating, where a baby is introduced to solid food, specifically rice, for the first time. Everyone gathers around to see me and bless me. I guess their blessings are what go on to keep me alive despite the months of weakness and not keeping down milk. From my little eyes, I find all this concern very amusing because unlike the grown ups around me, I know I'm here to stay. I can feel a sense of belonging in this large family who for some reason think of me as a special child. As the youngest chiId in my generation, I can tell that I am going to be the baby of the family for a long time to come.






Like this story?


You may like the first two chapters here or one completely unlike these


Lekha - Before I knew me - The Chronicles of the Youngest Child


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