To paraphrase a Victor Hugo, nothing can stop an idea whose time has come. Farmfrnd is just that – an idea most pertinent to our times. ‘The app seeks to network the farmers with local shopkeepers and end-customers by avoiding middlemen who typically hinder fair trading.’ (The Hindu, Oct 30, 2020). From ideation to fruition, the application took almost two years. I know, it doesn’t take that long but the trip was memorable, a humungous learning. And hopefully only the beginning. Tapioca in the trunk ‘If it weren’t for the
Willys meant cops. So when the jeep stopped outside her house the new bride peered outside the window a lot anxious. The big burly with twirled moustache and rolled up shirt sleeves sat with one leg out on the footboard so he could jump out even before the vehicle came to a complete stop and take off after the criminal – at least that was the image enforced in her mind by the movies. A muscled man with neatly parted hair and curled up sleeves sat at the driver’s seat,
Everyone thanked the sand mafia. They said it was their tireless digging up of the riverbed which enhanced its water-holding capacity which in turn enabled additional water from the dams to flow on without incident. Thank you marauders of the earth! They were joking, alright. These jokes, these badly articulated relief sighs, came wrapped in uneasy icons: shit-colour heads that smiled or winked unconvincingly. I too laughed for two reasons. One was from remembering a recidivist friend from my teenage years. Between bails the only work he’d engage in was
The buzz you feel about a place is a collective one – it comes from within the heads of those around. Including your own. The shop had buzz. Talking buzz, loitering buzz, peeing buzz, wide-eyed, quiet, staring buzz, snacking, sneaking, ogling buzz, people-watching, jiggery-pokery, horny buzz. Violent buzz. I loved the buzz, I was the buzz. It was a mom-and-pop shop but a sexy mom-and-pop: a couple in their early 40s, good-looking, garrulous, perfumed, twinkle in the eyes, with a hot daughter. The sari hung to the missus reluctantly but
There was more to it, and she was trying to get it talked out. After a time, she quit trying. Why don’t you dance?, Raymond Carver. For most part of the wedding ceremony, the bride was missing from the altar. She was puking her guts out because of all the spice she ate. She was also six months pregnant. “My mother told everyone it was gas from eating too much spice,” Jimmy told me with a straight face. I looked at him sideways but did not detect any mirth. It was
