Worrying Mindfully – a short, short story

I was just back from a ten-day meditation retreat.

Ten days of no talking, no contact with other humans. All that we had to do was concentrate on our breath.
It sounded simple in the brochures but turned out to be complicated stuff when put into practice.


Ten days later, I returned refreshed and recharged.
Before I could ring the bell, the door opened, and my wife rushed out.


“I have to go out to buy the groceries,” my wife said, managing a smile.


As I closed the door behind her, the bell rang.
It was the watchman with a hand full of bills.


I was checking them when my son opened the door of his room.


“The roof is leaking. I have moved my desktop for now. You need to get the waterproofing done.”


I was back in my world of mindfully worrying!

The Monk without a Ferrari -a short, short story

“Focus on your breath!”
The voice of the teacher cut through the silence in the room.
I shifted my attention from the aching ankle to my itching nose.


“Focus on the breath as it comes in.
Notice there is a brief pause.
Now focus on the breath as it flows back out!”


The instructions were clear.
My mind was not.
I had left my wife, son, a busy work schedule, hundreds of emails and bills for this ten-day meditation retreat.


I peeped at the others through half-closed eyes.
The hall was full of men in various shapes and sizes.
Most of them seemed to be in agony.


The instructor was looking at me, and I shut my eyes immediately.
It was day one.
There were nine more days of breathing to go.
In all this peace and meditation, I was missing the chaos of my world!

My Treasure Chest – a short, short story

The front door was stuck, and I had to push with both hands.
A cloud of dust descended upon me.
I had grown up in this house.
Rooms full of sheet-covered furniture, with tonnes of dust on them.
The last one was my old haunt.
It was empty except for a wooden box in a corner.

I remembered the box. I used to call it my ‘treasure chest’.
My heart missed a beat as I opened it.
All the trinkets I had gathered as a child were still there.

A broken wristwatch, a torn kite, spokes from the wheel of my cycle, iron nails and screws of all sizes and shapes, a hammerhead without a handle, they were all still there.
Each of them had a story to tell.
A story from the past.