So many people moan and complain about today's youth: they are selfish and irresponsible, they have no values or ideals, they are lazy, they are materialistic, they have unspeakably horrible taste in music and clothes....To them, I say, bah! I have met so many youngsters, and have enjoyed talking to them and hearing their views. They are bright, motivated, opinionated, confused, angry, idealistic, rebellious, disillusioned, great believers in dreams and following them - in short, everything they should be at their age, at any age, in order to be fully and truly alive. I always come away with a great sense of hope and conviction that our future could not be in better minds and hands. This story is dedicated to them, and to anyone who is young at heart!
When the phone rang in the afternoon, Subadra was fast
asleep, having spiraled deep into a sweaty, zombie-like dream world induced by
the intense April heat. Groaning, she got up, wincing at the catch in her back
as she staggered hurriedly to answer the shrill call. At forty-two she was quite striking looking,
although she was hardly pretty in the traditional Indian sense. She was too dark-skinned, for one, and her
arms, neck and ears were bare of any jewelry, unusual for an Indian woman. Those who looked beyond these trivialities
marveled at the luminosity of her skin, her smile, which was warm and
unrestrained, her glossy hair, and most of all, at her eyes. They were huge and
lined with kohl, her only concession to make-up. Shy eyes, but if you looked
closely, there was real kindness in them, and intelligence and humor, too. Now,
however, rudely roused from her afternoon slumber, she looked a mess. Her sari and blouse clung to her back and
legs in sweaty, crumpled patches and she had black, raccoon-like rings under
her eyes where her kohl had smudged. She
got to the phone on the fifth ring, ready to snap at whoever was stupid enough
to call at this hour.