FORMIC ACID.

The army was marching in gay abandon. The foot soldiers were carrying their necessary rations in an orderly line. They would then stock it up in their secret bunkers. A small sugar crystal, a small bit of a leaf and a teeny weeny food morsel were enough for them to survive for days. Some heavy ration was carried in groups. They all looked happy.
We were small kids then and we were taught that the red army was a dangerous one and needed to be promptly dealt with in the fiercest manner, possible. We were armed with deadly insecticide sprays and using them like bazooka guns,we promptly sprayed them on the red ant army. The ants were taken aback by this guerrilla attack and froze in their foot steps. They never moved later. They were swept with a broom and disposed off.
We were victory drenched.
The red ants never stung anyone without provocation. The Formic Acid used to raise a small wheal and cause painful itching.
The black ant army was always treated with respect. They were meek and signified peace, wealth and good luck. They never stung anyone. They were left undisturbed. Sugar crystals were laced along their trails.
As I grew up, I realised the lessons of prejudice in life.
A rich lady was accidentally brushed by a car at a very low speed, She hardly got hurt. A crowd gathered in no time like ants pouring on a sugar cube. They were sympathetic and offered help which was not needed at all. Had she been a poor lady, the consequences would have been disastrous for her, She would have bled to death in full glory in presence of the impotent by standers. Such is life.
May be the poor people are perceived as the red ants by the populace, but the scientists haven't yet discovered any traces of Formic Acid in them. Yet, they are treated with disdain and undeserved contempt.
I have mercifully grown up and treat everyone like the black ant army, I try to infuse happiness and warmth in their lives. I go out of the way at times, just to make them feel being cared for.
I lace them with sugary words and try to sweeten their lives.
I never discriminate on lines of wealth, caste or creed.
I address them with respect.
But still at times, people hurt me with their misplaced words.
The cruel words spray out of their mouths like a deadly insecticide.
The words sting like Formic Acid,I die then, a small death.
I freeze like a red ant.
The high mighty heels crush me.
Little do they know, My spirit is indomitable.
I live on.

THE CARDBOARD BOX.

The diminutive maid easily slid inside the dark attic for the customary pre festive cleaning of our house. It was a scene common in all households when the house wives would wake up from their slumber to clean up the accumulated clutter, gathered around the entire last year.
I was supervising the cleaning operation this time and the maid after cleaning the attic spic-span drew my attention to a small cardboard box with a cloth bag lying in one corner.
It was a sturdy rectangular cotton bag with two handles on the top.
A symbol of our middle class.
The cloth bag would be used by each and everyone of us for multiple purposes. A hand without the bag would aimlessly fidget around, as if the bag had become an extension of the hand.
I rummaged through the bag and found a few now,vestigial articles inside.
It contained a copper bowl, a snuff box, a betel nut box and a pair of broken high myopic spectacles.
My paternal granny, Dadi used the copper bowl to massage her soles all the time. It was her favourite pastime. A little dab of coconut oil on the soles and the vigorous rubbing would begin in all possible directions. She was sure that the copper would get imbibed in her feet and keep her strong and sturdy. We never questioned her senile judgment. We sometimes tried to massage our soles but the heat generated by the friction used to put us off. It was meant for the senior populace and rightly we never meddled with it.
My maternal grand uncle, Mota Bhai was a much respected man in our community. A snuff box with the finest of Afghani snuff was always his companion. Sometimes we as kids would sneak up during his siesta hours and inhale the snuff with a small pinch of our fingers. The barrage of ensuing sneezes would send the elders in our joint family into raptures of laughter. We would be too, rolling in the aisles then.
My paternal uncle, Madhu Kaka was a maverick who revelled in singing songs of yesteryears. He was a music aficionado who knew the lyrics of almost all the songs of the early 60s. He could sing well. A betel nut cracker, lime and tobacco were alwas carried by him in a small aluminium box. We as kids would at times steal the betel leaves and eat them with sugar and aniseeds. Our red mouths would inevitably lead him to us but he would just smile at us forgivingly.
My maternal grandfather, Nana was a portly jolly person and was our favourite. His face radiated love and warmth. We would eagerly wait for him to take us out in vacations. He loved us a lot and lived only for us. His fulfilled dream of making me a doctor made him completely satisfied in life. He was contended. He was a man of no vices and lived a simple life. He was a perfect gentleman. In early 90s decade, as he was walking down from his house, he suffered a massive cerebral stroke and collapsed on the floor. A stream of blood from his ear trickled onto the spectacles leaving a smudge. He embraced death with a smile on his face.
The cloth bag was exclusively used by him to bring us fire crackers during Diwali. Me and my brother then would carefully divide the crackers amongst us. As we blasted them, My Nana would clap and cheer us. We used to be overjoyed in his divine presence.

All the above mentioned members of our family are no longer with us.
Their memories remain.
I carefully put the cloth bag along with flowers in a small cardboard box.
A few stray tear drops fell into the box.
Someday, my memories also would be cherished by my descendants in a cardboard box.