The President is Dead
They announced. On National Radio. The President is dead. No one wept. It was late afternoon. Two periods to go. A holiday was declared. Once back at hostel. News came. No, the President is not dead. But very sick. We rejoiced. In hope of another holiday. He died soon thereafter. And we had another holiday. This time full day. Many thanked the President. For a bonus holiday.
The Goddess is Weeping
A devotee had noticed. Tears in her eyes. The idol’s. And news spread. Like wildfire. Mother Goddess cries. Devotees thronged from far and wide. To see tears in Mother’s eyes. An idol. Of mud and clay. And they said. Mother is unhappy. To be separated from her children. And they constructed. A temple. On a prime land in the City. Where she is worshipped till day. She has never ever cried.
Whose meat is it anyway
They stopped the cart. Because they were vigilant. And the driver looked suspicious. Yes. There was a bag. Yes. There was meat in the bag. They stayed a little away. They did not touch the bag. They were strictly vegetarian. Some of them looked at the meat. They nodded. The stench. The redness. The size. They knew it was what they suspected. The cart driver denied. It is goat meat. He said. But thee vigilantes knew. The stench. The colour. The redness. They began slapping the cart driver. Then someone hurled a shoe. Then a fist. Then a kick. Then blows. At last the sticks. The rods. Were displayed. The driver died. On his way. To hospital. Escorted by police. The crowd. Cursed. They wanted to finish the job. They had started. They were vegetarian. Nevertheless.