Commenting Basics, Day Two: Share a Personal Story

Day Two: Share a Personal Story: Since I didn’t find any blog where I could leave ‘My Personal Story,’ I’m using the space in my blog to write my personal story.

This is a story of a nine year old kid(it’s me), how I spent my days. I woke up every morning @ 3 am, you might wonder why so early, it was the only time I was able to spend time with my mother in the kitchen. My mom had to invent different types of breakfast to satisfy my dad. If God forbid my mom repeated it. I was called by my dad to ask mom if the price of that particular breakfast food was cheaper. I’d run along and inquire, ‘Mom is the food price cheaper or else why would you give dad the same food two days in a row.’

Hey remember I said,”I was nine years old, how was I supposed to know the difference, of ordinary words and sarcasm?”

I thought it was a game, when my mom looked at me with killer eyes, I figured it was no game, but it was a way of my dad sending a message to my mom.

By 6 am I had to be ready to catch the bus to school, I did not have to walk very far, just a few yards to reach the gate of my house. I’d go to school without eating breakfast, refused to take lunch with me, but mom would make me take it. There were a few times I’d open my lunch box to eat, then I felt the whole school was staring at me. I’d close it and bring it home after school, I’d give to my younger siblings to eat it and not tattle mom about this. They were wonderful siblings who did not want to see me in trouble.

I came home at 4 pm hungry and tired, by then there was food left for me, mom was away from the kitchen, praying or resting. I couldn’t tell. The servant whose name was Bari was given the responsibility of warming up the food, he didn’t, he dished out cold food, I was unhappy, I began to cry, my dad was always interested to know what was going on, he heard me crying.

His immediate question was, ‘Why is Ranu crying?’

No one was paying attention even though there were no shortage of humans in our house, we were twelve kids, which leaves eleven to know someone is crying.

Dad calls me, “Ranu Ma what’s the matter?”

The soft voice of dad made me cry louder, I said,’Dad every day Bari gives me cold food to eat.’

Well Dad called in his thunderous voice, ‘Bari come here, you gave my daughter cold food?’ Bari stayed quiet, he continued, if you ever give her cold food again, I will send you home!’

After this incident my food was never cold.

There are more stories, maybe some other time if I’m asked to write a personal story. What I wrote is most probably different from others,rather than bore them by using a space in their blog. I used mine, if the bloggers stop by to read it and write a short comment, I’d be more than grateful.

I know I get a lot of likes for my posts, I’m never sure why they like it. I love comments. Robert my dear online course mate and blogger friend never fails to write a comment.

Sorry for this long story!

…………………………………. πŸ™‚

6 thoughts on “Commenting Basics, Day Two: Share a Personal Story

  1. Dear Ranu,

    I *always* like reading about your father! πŸ™‚

    A strong, loving feeling is evoked by your sentence: Dad calls me, β€œRanu Ma what’s the matter?”

    All good wishes,


    • Thank you, dear Robert. Yes my dad was always unhappy to hear me cry,although I had older sibling my parents would call me if they needed something. πŸ™‚

  2. This is a good story, more so because it’s from your life. The details really draw the reader (this reader) in. Especially when narrating what happened at three, then six, then lunch time, then afterward back at home. I’ve no doubt you have a longer story to tell in this way. I hope you keep developing your life-narrative.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.