Here are few articles published by Rachna Singh on Sakal Times
Those uber cool sports bikes that require the rider to lie down on the fuel tank while riding — sprawled over the tank, waist bent at 80 degrees, chin propped up — have always intrigued me. I would always wonder what the seating protocol for the pillion rider was. My mind would proffer several options, each one more bizarre and law-of-Physics-defying, till I actually saw a pillion rider on one such bike. She was sitting upright, her hands clutching the small, curved bar behind her. The rider’s supine position contrasted against her erect one offered a strange picture. (Click the picture above to read more...)
Don’t worry, only ant bite’, the dentist kept reassuring me.
I started whimpering. Owww. Owww. Eeee. She had not even removed the syringe from its pack yet. And, when she did poke, it was not that painful. Quite like an
If Caesar were betrayed in current times, it would have been via a tweet. And he would have responded by posting a quote on his Facebook wall: ‘It’s amazing how little you know those who you think you know best’. Or, ‘It’s hard to tell who has your back, from who has it long enough just to stab you in it’.
Random people would ‘like’ it, comment on it, without realising that it’s meant, solely, for the eyes of that one newly-turned enemy
The Flower Arrangement competition was announced, catching me off-guard. I must have been doodling the teacher’s face in a sunflower when the techniques were taught — I couldn’t recall any! But, I’ve always had the determination of a cactus. So, I started planning confidently. Err, ten minutes before the school bus arrived on the day of the competition.
‘Vase. Vase. Where are all the vases?’ (Click the picture above to read more...)
My friend was alone that weekend, so I decided to pay her a visit. She went to the kitchen to fix a cup of coffee for me. I was sitting on the sofa, soaking in the calming quietude of her beautiful living room, when a hushed, mysterious voice, from somewhere behind me, asked me a question in a softly lingering intonation. I froze. Who was this? She repeated the question and mumbled something else after that. Crumbling like those cakes I bake, I was about to get up to make a dash for the front door when this mystery woman suggested I listen to the song, Roop tera mastana. (Click the picture above to read more...)
Don’t get me wrong - I love old people. They are adorable. As long as they do age-appropriate stuff like praying, taking long walks, and eating mashed vegetables. I can even live with the early morning throat clearing, which sounds like a bugle call made entirely of phlegm. (Click the picture above to read more...)
I am turning the deodorant bottle round and round, trying to feel, with my fingertips, where the spray-spout is. That is, after I have bathed with the conditioner and brushed my teeth with hair-removing cream. The big question looms again (in font size 48, so that I can see it) — Do I need glasses? (Click the picture above to read more...)
I know you’ve been running, heaving, panting. Jingle Bells don’t go well with Jiggling Bellies, you and I have realised, earlier this month. We have been trying to get into shape to fit into the clothes purchased 12 months ago, at the last post-Christmas sale. (Click the picture above to read more...)
Bambie hated wearing clothes. She felt so trapped in that dumb velvet jacket. One day, while chasing a rat, her prayers were answered – the buttons got undone – she wriggled out of it and pushed it with her nose towards the neighbour’s fence. Who discovered it the next morning and shrieked, ‘Oh wow... a plush purple velvet damask-print top!’ (Click the picture above to read more...)
Saying it musically has almost always been a foolproof strategy. Whether it’s serenading a beloved, conveying a political agenda, or trying to communicate with aliens, music is the
While wading through waist-deep rainwater on a road or while being showered with toxic foam bubbling out of a nearby lake, and on seeing a bridge come crumbling like it
As soon the parting of my hair was secured with vermillion, my frequent flights to assorted feet began. It’s a touching story! Literally. All older folk in the family including those who claimed to be younger had to suck it up and fasten pyjama-belts for a bahu-landing. The bahu, in the meantime, had to practise the perfect landing and immediately thereafter, a successful retraction of all gear and preparation for next landing. (Click the picture above to read more...)
If you don’t know where you are going, any road will get you there, said Lewis Carol. Our family has taken this quote to the next level. Even when we know where we are going, we tend to take the wrong road. Why? That will need half some research costing half of the Modi-Choksi money, so let’s ignore that question. (Click the picture above to read more...)
I have a deep sense of compassion for most four-legged creatures, including the squashed frogs that I regularly spot in my community.
Especially, dogs: even a mention of one or a distant spotting makes me break into babyglese. I shower all my love and affection in language neither dog nor man follow. In fact, while growing up, we had a bark-load of dogs: the beautiful lady, the crack-pot terrier, the ever-smiling stray (or, was it just a jaw deformity?), the obese nutcase and, yes, that puppy we stole from our neighbours. (Click the picture above to read more...)
My daughter leaves for college next year. College = Boys. So, I have these long, imaginary interview sessions with imaginary college boys. I begin with pleasantries and polite inquiries. But, those don’t last. The phrases that get shortlisted for the actual conversation are, ‘I will kill you’ (number 1), ‘I will powder your bones’ (number 2) and ‘What’s your father’s number? (tied at number 2). (Click the picture above to read more...)
My eleven-year-old brat is a sportsman with a million dreams. The only problem is that he pursues one sport per dream. With that, we are running out of sports commonly known to mankind. (Click the picture above to read more...)
Since I had long fingers like my artist-uncle, I was proclaimed the artist of the family. That is when my torturous artistic journey began. As my co-bencher Poonam sketched plump, pretty lotuses, I produced ones that had rickets. Their stems looked like the tendons of unidentifiable road kill (Click the picture above to read more...)
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