Tag: Short Story

Hari, Krishna and the Magic Pot – Short Story by Anita Bacha


Once there was a little boy who lived with his poor, widowed mother in a far away village.

His name was Hari. During school holidays he had no friend with whom to play. His mother was a loving woman and played with him when she was not busy with her household chores. One day, however, she fell ill and Hari became very lonely. His mother consoled him and told him to go out and play with Krishna.

‘Who is Krishna?’ Hari asked his mother.

‘Krishna is the friend of all!’

Hari rushed out eagerly calling ‘Krishna! Krishna!’

‘Hello!’ said a cow herd boy coming from behind a tree ‘why are you calling my name?’

“Let’s play!’ Hari uttered with joy.

They played together during the school holidays.

Back to school, Hari told the school master about his new friend, Krishna. The school master listened to his story but did not believe a word of it.

Soon it was the birthday of the school master. Hari became very sad; he had no money to buy him a birthday present. His mother then reminded him of his friend Krishna.

‘Go and talk to your friend Krishna’ she told Hari, ‘he will surely help you!’

Hari did as he was told and Krishna gave him a pot of butter milk.

‘Here! This is a birthday present for your school master!’ 

Unfortunately, the school master was not happy with the present. He scorned at it and asked his servant to throw the milk curd away. The servant complied but amazingly, the pot was filled with milk curd again. After several attempts to empty the pot, he ran to the school master to tell him about the incredible happening.

‘What!’ the school master exclaimed ‘it must be a magic pot!’ He immediately summoned Hari and asked him about the source of the pot.

When Hari replied that his friend Krishna gave it to him, the school master asked him to take him to Krishna immediately.

‘I want to see your friend!’ he exclaimed.

 The school master followed Hari to the place where he met Krishna. At the top of his voice, Hari called for his friend but Krishna did not appear. Then from behind a tree, they heard another voice:

‘Why are you calling me Hari ?’

Hari recognized the voice of his friend Krishna. He replied:

‘My school master wants to see you.’

‘The school master cannot see me, Hari because no one can see me unless he believes in me!’ said the voice gently but firmly.

The school master was bowled over. He returned to the school with his tail between his legs.

Anita Bacha

This short story is about faith and belief, my dear friends. I first heard it when I was a kid and,from my mom, a great devotee of the Indian God Lord Krishna. As a matter of fact, HARI is another name of Lord KRISHNA but my mom was very smart at story telling. Only later in life I found out her ingenuity in teaching me the use of words.

Anita Bacha

Image source Pinterest, short story cc. Anita Bacha

Seasons Flow – Haibun by Anita Bacha

The cruel wind blows,

Cold feet in thick woolen socks,

We lit the fireplace.



A slice of sun glides,

Under closed window curtains,

A cockerel crows.



Breakfast at the farm,

Fried eggs, bacon, and baked beans,

Tea with fresh cow’s milk.



Poppies in the field,

Glossy red under the sun,

Dancing in the breeze.



Barefoot on the grass,

Along rows of wildflowers,

We run happily.



Cut fragrant lilacs,

We borrow our neighbor’s vase,

Living room looks cute.



In the back garden,

Cheerful songs on drying line,

Birds poop on washing.



Under the plum tree,

Drinking home-made lemonade,

We sit side by side.



The sun is going down,

Grey clouds gather in the sky,

Quickly we move in.



Snuggly in our bed,

In the darkness of the night,

We hear the rainfalls.











Good morning,dear friends.

Thank you for viewing and reading my haibun. Hope you enjoyed it.

Anita Bacha.

Marrons Glacés 🌰

The woody scent of roast chestnuts fills my whole being again, after decades and so far away from Europe; I am at One Utama shopping mall in Kuala Lumpur; memories of my student days flashed back in front of my open eyes like a collage of eventful occurrences.

It was my first winter in London.

In those times,the days were extremely short and cold.Snow piled up in heaps on both sides of the roads as my friend,Baba, and I struggled to pave our way to Holborn tube station.
Curbed into two,shivering under my winter coat, a whiff of browning nuts made me jerk. I turned to my friend and asked –
” What’s the scent?’
“Roasting chestnuts” he replied, as he gestured with his chin at a black silhouette in the corner of the street.
I could vaguely make out,in the distance,whether it was a man or a woman, shabbily dressed, occupied in front of a stove of burning charcoals.A light smoke raised as a cloudy mist around the stove, danced playfully in the icy air.
We crossed the road.
The alluring scent of roast chestnuts swelled my nostrils.
Baba bought a small paper bag of piping hot chestnuts and ceremoniously offered it to me.
I tasted the first roast chestnut of my life and I spontaneously became fond of this soft and delightful delicacy.

Baba took up a job at Knightsbridge for end of term and Christmas vacation.
Among other lovely Christmas gifts, which he offered to me,I found a luxuriously wrapped box of ‘marrons glacés’ from Harrods.

After our law studies, we parted. We did not keep in touch but I still love chestnuts,roasted,candied or steamed.

It’s amazing how the sound of music or the whiff of a scent can bring to our mind souvenirs of cherished instances that we carry inside us and which,possibly none of us actually knows is there.

Anita Bacha

Marrons Glacés