Red Alert.

The little kid was locked in a room. 

A dark and waterlogged room. 

A pungent smell was suffocating him. 

He wanted to run but his legs turned numb.  

There were tremors; then a sharp whistle. 

Was he in a train? Where were they taking him? 

He felt his eyes closing; his tears merging with his sweat. 

Suddenly there was light. 

The last thing he remembered was falling down a pink tunnel.

Is the taste fine, Madam?

Taste of Memory.

By eight I was a betel leaf (paan) lover. One afternoon I came to my grandmother. Smiling, she took a piece of paan, poured fennel and sugar in it, gave it an expert twist and put it in my mouth. Soon, my mother came to ask for her paan. She replied, "The leaves are over". Heartbroken that I couldn’t get a second helping, I got up to go, but she stopped me. Opening her silver paan box she took out something. Putting the treasure in my palm, my grandmother said, "Don’t tell anyone. I saved the last one for you."

In the lap of love.

This is post is written for the 100-word Saturday prompt at Write Tribe: "My grandmother/grandfather said.."