Saturday, 14 December 2013

The Lunchbox

“Twenty seven years is a long time,” she said to herself as she marked her forehead with a red bindi. The water was still dripping from her wet hair when she heard a grumble come from the bed. She could see the reflection of her husband turning in bed, and sighed.

Savita was only twenty-two when she got married. Her marriage was a dark cloud– childless and the death of her dreams. She wanted to know the ways of the world,travel,and know unknown souls. Though when she met Aravind, she bequeathed her devotion to him. His ways were harsh, and at times he would appear to be on his own. The recent years surfaced the cracks in the foundation of their marriage. Age was catching up to them, and she could sometimes take no more.

She stared at Aravind while he pushed away the breakfast and lost himself in the newspaper. The steam rising from the untouched plates and him sipping the tea were the only movements in the room.
“I will be late today,” he said as he got up to leave.

“When are you not?” she replied. He looked at her, amazed; she was not the kind to talk back.
The door slammed shut and she was alone to reflect on what had escaped her lips. If it had been years ago, she would repent. But at that moment she felt different- as if a sense of freedom had taken over her. She walked to the kitchen sink and looked out the window.

He was still standing there.

She did not know who he was, or if she had ever known him. He just stood there- at the crossroad next to the light and gazed into her window. It had been a few weeks but she had never inquired about him. A heartlost stranger for all she knew.

She would usually look away from him, paying no heed. But today she looked at him for a while, possibly a minute, before she pulled away and shut the window.

How long is long enough?

Savita is at the crossroads of her life. To choose between a loveless constraining marriage and lifelong dream to be free.

Read it here: The Lunchbox

Monday, 18 November 2013


Remember the last time we were here?

I was overlooking the river, the gray clouds reflecting on its surface. The cold wintry chill made it seem exactly how it was on that day. I woke up today with a strange sense of energy compelling me to walk past those places where he and I once were. Not in concrete times, but flawed moments that I would go on to remember forever, even if they were just moments in time.

You wore your ill-fitting white shirt, and it was the only day I did not ask you to fix your tie. I let it hang loose on you, watching you walk past with my thoughts in your mind. 

Remember the noise in the corridors? The crowd in the room? And the clock exactly at nine-twenty? And how it all seemed to revolve around you and me, without ever actually affecting our own broken conversations?

I then drove to our old school football field. The lush greens were now a dead brown decay, the bleachers a crumbling mess and our tiny little spot still in existence. I walked across the field, the dust kicking up with every step, and to our place where I sat down.

Remember when we were here? The day was almost ending. I sat next to you, while you said you’d miss me for the next six days. Later I’d tell you that I battled the urge to kiss you, and you’d try to turn away and hide your inevitable smile. It was a beautiful day. And watching myself walk away from you was a memory I knew would always remain.

The high-school had now been shut for years. So I was basically trespassing, but I hardly cared. Because it seemed at the time, just a thing I had to do. Being there was, in essence, the same. Same feelings, same place. Just parallel existences.

The hurt. And the memories. Exemplified.

Read it here: Endings

Friday, 15 November 2013

Remember This

“One lives in the hope of becoming a memory.”

The noise in my head was deafening. It was like a static white noise that would just not quit. I could swear that I’d live with it, only that I could remember myself promising myself to break this.

I was walking to work when my eyes caught a bunch of white chrysanthemums. I really wished I didn’t have, but my mind was soon filled with the memories of my mother’s funeral.

It was 12th August, 1995. It was a rainy Saturday and the band was playing incorrectly a rendition of Beethoven’s ninth. The third violinist from the left was a note too low all the while. I could still recall the scent of the embalming emanating from the casket. My mother still wore her pearls, and the forty-six guests noticed that too. The priest started the note with an extract from the Bible, Ecclesiastes 3:1-2:  For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted. 

The bitter aftertaste of peppermint still persisted in my mouth, cumbered by my uneasy tongue. Uncle Wainwright sat six chairs to my left, and wept unabashedly. I remember him whisper goodbye into my ear, the whiskey clearly noticeable in his breath, before he drove back home, where he died exactly nine weeks and six days later, on 20th of October.

I had now reached the qualms of reality, trying ever so hard to decide whether at that moment, as I stared into my office building, was the past or the present. If man had problems in life, mine was a perpetual one. I had the ability to recall everything since I was eight. Doctors call it names; people God’s gift. And I could only call it noise.

Tom remembers everything and every day of his life since he was eight. He suffers from hyperthymesia, a disease that creates unforgettable memories of one's life. And then he saw Beth. So began his fight with himself and his own disease: the only that holds him back from creating stories of hurt that he'll never forget.
So will he or won't he?

Read it here: Remember This

Monday, 4 November 2013


I was staring into nothing.

The breeze kissed my face and I felt at peace. I was far away from home and I felt at peace, finally. The chaos at home was driving me insane, and I could not recall any day I did not feel frustrated and angry. Her behaviour was erratic and at times, it was as if I did not even know who she was anymore. She would get angry, throw things at me, cry and then hide in a corner. Some days she would speak things I did not know she had the knowledge of. But I finally know that I don’t know who she is. I thought she was the woman I loved, but maybe I was just dreaming things.

It all started a few months ago, when I was piled underneath work that I began to feel the distances between us widen themselves. We stopped talking about our feelings, and our marriage began to fall through the cracks within our own lives. And the fights and arguments, and the feelings of loneliness blended themselves into our everyday. All communication between us dissolved and there were days when I only saw myself leaving.

Sometimes I sat in my car as I drove in, just so I could prepare myself for what was to come. I was afraid I might say something to hurt her and cause her more pain, because I would never know what she felt within. I could sometimes hear the thump of my anxious heart as I sat in the silent garage, mustering courage to step inside our house.

I entered the house, tired.

The house looked tragic, with everything lying here and there. The floor was a mess, just like the kitchen and the rest of the house. Even as I walked across the hall, my feet hit things on the ground. I started to pick up one by one. I resisted the urge to go into the bedroom, knowing very well that I might be greeted with a chair to my face.

I was clearing up the last of the living room mess when I came across a piece of paper. It read:
‘Oh Lord, I think I am falling in love with him! Carl is such a great guy!'

I was confused what it might have meant. But then again, I knew nothing nowadays.

What do you do when you wake up and realize that things changed before your eyes and you don't even know how? Sunset is a story that brings the protagonist to life to a world where the woman he loves is not her anymore. A different story than one you might've read somewhere.
Read the whole thing here: Sunset

Thursday, 31 October 2013

Despair For Delivery

I am almost always working. Though in this line of work, most days are not predictable. All except Valentine’s Day. I had just starting working for a florist because according to my mother, ‘summer must not be wasted’. And the job wasn’t really that deplorable. My boss was a good enough man, Mr Roberts, aging man with a strange affinity for yellow roses and purple orchids.

It was the night before V-Day and we were setting up plans on how to get things right. On that day especially, men wanted their things done right and in time, and women expected them to pay up and surprise. And we were the sneaky middlemen– passing off the flowers to wives, girlfriends, and to both for some eccentric fellows. We had received a landslide of orders, almost all for blood-red roses and heart-shaped boxes of chocolates. Mr Roberts loved this day more than anyone else. He got a great commission, and a chance to make his wife happy too from a business she always belittled.

We laid out the receipts on the table and sorted according to addresses, so that we could do the deliveries on time. I got a rather tough lot, but I wasn’t complaining. It might sound sad and pathetic, but I was working on V-Day, with a girl possibly lurking in the shadows, or a cat.

The next day started early and we were jumping from the moment it all  started. I drove my mother’s car, (because I didn’t have one) and also because Mr Roberts had only one truck that the other guys were using. And also, since I was the little guy around, I probably had no chance of winning an argument.

A very short story about a delivery boy, and the emotions of Valentine's Day. 

To Mary Undelivered

There was too much pink for one place at one time. Dress, ribbons, even handkerchief– all were laden with a fluorescent shade of rose. And if you could notice close enough, it was even a shade of it for the synesthetics.

Life in here could be called as some sort of a challenge, because between here and the playground, all that mattered was lasting in here. Without being influenced. By them.

I was sitting exactly three chairs down from where she was. Mary McShane. She was playing with the tower, with what I wanted to play with. Her hair was one high ponytail, and all her friends were sitting next to her, admiring her. I winced at the thought of being close to her. I mean, not that I thought what it could be like or anything. But it’s just that she is a girl, and well, girls are… girls.

I didn’t understand how people could be close to girls and stuff. They always nagged and cried and wanted things. They cried shrilly, stomped their feet and how my father always said, “Son, never get married.” They wanted the same things, over and over again, much like my mother when described by my father. And oh my mother! What could you say about her? She was very much like a girl– dressing up and always in front of the mirror. Ugh, make-up. How women could spend literally hours putting it on, was way beyond what I could understand.

Another for the Love Letter Contest. 
This is one of the funny ones. About a young boy battling his feelings for a 'girl'. It is hard for him, because he thinks it is 'beneath' him to fall for a girl. Well, does he confess?


Springtime always reminded me of lost opportunities and sad woeful times. The new leaves birthing onto the branches, the birds finding their voices again, and the scent of new beginnings were overwhelming. And it was only by coincidence that the letter should have arrived that day.
I was going out for a walk when I saw the postman closing in. I thought of letting him leave the letters at the door, like always, but something in me wanted me to take those letters and read them– rather than let them sit collecting dust by the door.

“Hello,” I said to him.

The postman smiled and handed me the letter, something very different about him.

“Have a good day, ma’am,” he said and jogged away.

The letters were of the usual– magazine subscriptions, charity, old age homes and discount coupons. But at the end of the sundry pile was an unrecognizable letter. It was stamped and the address on it was handwritten– quite different from the recent computer-generated stickers. And I felt quite happy seeing that. Almost as if someone was trying to keep the love in letters alive with splattered ink.

And then I noticed the way the ‘A’s were written– slightly curved as they began– bringing to mind something I’d thought I’d put away forever.

Dear you,

I know I must now be a speck of dust in your mindful of memories, but please hear me out. It must be coming to you, hopefully, not as a surprise. From the bottom of my heart, I hope I was still alive in you.

I realize I must sound absolutely pathetic when I tell you that it has been exactly two thousand eight hundred and seventy five days, about four hundred and eleven weeks since you left. Pitiful me, I know. I myself cannot understand why I kept counting the days– maybe because the sun seemed to shine a little less and a little of me began to die since then. But that’s only two ways of putting it.

An entry for the Love Letter Contest at yourstoryclub. 
Writing love letters was never my forte, the only good one coming out was In Letters. Well anyway, one for the contest. 

A story of unrequited love. 

Read here: Springtime

Perfect Bubble

The dishes on the counter that day were not that dirty, nor were the clothes that many to put out the dry and the weather that day was very pleasing.

It was a pleasant day in November– the skies seemed clearer than the previous day and the storm had subsided. She was in the bedroom, cleaning the house for her husband was to come home that day from a business trip. In the process, she came across an old box swept and hidden away cleanly under the bed. It took her a while to realize what it was and then when she did, she decided it was too painful a thing to do.

It was a box of old keepsakes and photographs of her childhood. She disliked the thought of it; she did not spend it in happiness. She remembered quite well, the haunt of her cold bedroom and the noise of her parents fighting in the night. She was twelve when her father left and sixteen when her elder brother too, left in pursuit of a life he knew he could never live. She hasn’t heard from him since. She lived off the few pieces of her life untainted by sorrow. It was only recently that she got a letter letting her know of her mother’s illness.

She was in her thoughts when the telephone rang.

A short story about God and His wills, and the life of a young woman, borne of sadness and grief.

Read it here: Perfect Bubble

Grey Wisteria

“How long before I begin to chase you again?” She just looked at me, always the coy expression on her face. I stood there, the cold November wind blowing the shiver into me and the hair across her face.
She walked away from me, like always.
And I watched her.
Like always.
“So will you at least ca–”

I awoke.

The alarm had been beeping for half an hour now, and I felt it ring harder in my head. I twisted about in the bed, my hand searching the other side. It was empty, it was cold. She always woke up earlier than me and disappeared into the walls of the house. Before, I would call out to her, and maybe search for her. But not anymore. It annoys her more if I do, than if I don’t. If I do, I am annoying her, and if I don’t, I’m just an indifferent pig.

I pulled the sheet over my face and just lay there for a while, hearing the voice of the morning slowly turn into the unsympathetic noise of everyday, like a prologue to story I already know the ending of. I heard a door open and shut. If it had been like before, I would usually run to see where she might be going, but not so much. I got out of bed and into the shower.

There are times when you stare at the showerhead, not remembering how long you’d been staring at it, and run past the things you’d planned for the day, only to arrive at a moment where you tell yourself to stop. This isn’t real, and watch it dissolve into the many other things you’ve lost the feeling to do.

This story is about a man, and his life in reality and the parallel dreamland. His life was once happy and has been slowly worn away by time-- both his love and his happiness. He lives in the duality of his own melancholia, and subconscious bliss.
Read it here: Grey Wisteria


There was something about him that made me want to embrace him enticingly in my arms– my bound arms.

I slept in a dark room, with a window sealed shut. I could sometimes hear the chirping of birds, or a car briefly passing by through the barred pane. There was only a faint light entering the room all day, and at night, in the absolute darkness, I could hear him break bottle after bottle– still trying to find the answer at the bottom of it. I did not even know his name, yet I knew he was someone I loved.

I did not know how long I had been here, but I cannot remember hating it for a while now. He could come into my room only once or twice a day to feed me and sometimes now and then to touch my skin with his leather belt. I would cry in pain, and then look up to him– his face barely visible in the darkness. I would sometimes creep across the room when he’d get tired and sit down. And it was the only time I felt my hands feel across the curves of his face, picturing in my mind what he looked like. Both of us let it seep in for a moment, before he threw me sliding across the floor.

I was listening to the rain with my eyes shut. It hardly made a difference; keeping them open or shut. It was all the same. The pitter of the rain monotonously barraged on the window, and I followed it till it fell into a dissipated silence. Then suddenly, light cut into my dilated eye. For a split second, there was a bright light. It was a warm sensation, and I began to think I was finally dead. But heaven was still far away; I could hear sobbing.

A psychological love story, based on a disease, whose name if I reveal, will ruin the whole story.

Just know it's love. Manic love.

Read it here: Hazel

Sunday, 27 October 2013

Grey Wisteria

“How long before I begin to chase you again?”

She just looked at me, always the coy expression on her face.

I stood there, the cold November wind blowing the shiver into me and the hair across her face. 

She walked away from me, like always.

And I watched her.
Like always.
“So will you at least ca–”

I awoke.

The alarm had been beeping for half an hour now, and I felt it ring harder in my head. I twisted about in the bed, my hand searching the other side. It was empty, it was cold. She always woke up earlier than me and disappeared into the walls of the house. Before, I would call out to her, and maybe search for her. But not anymore. It annoys her more if I do, than if I don’t. If I do, I am annoying her, and if I don’t, I’m just an indifferent pig.

I pulled the sheet over my face and just lay there for a while, hearing the voice of the morning slowly turn into the unsympathetic noise of everyday, like a prologue to story I already know the ending of. I heard a door open and shut. If it had been like before, I would usually run to see where she might be going, but not so much. I got out of bed and into the shower.

There are times when you stare at the showerhead, not remembering how long you’d been staring at it, and run past the things you’d planned for the day, only to arrive at a moment where you tell yourself to stop. This isn’t real, and watch it dissolve into the many other things you’ve lost the feeling to do.

Grey Wisteria is a story with an unusual narrative: life and dreamland. What do you do when the latter becomes the one you want forever?
A story about love, and the reality of it. 

Read the whole thing here: Grey Wisteria

Thursday, 27 June 2013


“How has she been?”
“I honestly don’t know. I never know nowadays.”
I smiled to my sister-in-law. We have had a lot of visits in the past few weeks, mostly ineffectual. They would come and say sweet-nothings; I really hated those visits.

“Life is funny, you know. It’s all fun and games till you find yourself standing in the corner of the room, alone in the dark with a weight on your chest. It’s like crying profusely, and not knowing why.”

Words of wisdom, you might say, or just cheap philosophy. But to me, those were the words which made me realize that I wasn’t really living my life. And two months later, I was chasing down boutiques, trying to find a stone the size of her fist. She was the most amazing person I’d ever met. Full of life and loves, amazingly illusionary and such optimism on the surface.

Bright intelligent eyes, perfect arch of a smile but a soul of melancholy blue.

Loss is one of the most common themes in my stories. Somone always dies, or somebody always leaves. Something like that. But what if you are breathing, yet still dead inside? Being physically present doesn't always mean being there.

This story is about a man, supporting his wife and his baby. Too simple? I won't say anymore.

Read it here: Lifeboat

The Accident


The shop wasn’t half as full as the previous, yet I knew I could not stand another second at its doorway. My heart was palpitating but I really needed that cigarette. I took a step inside the shop when I heard the sound of the crash.

Everyone was running out towards the road. Two mangled cars were setting off smoke and shrieked onlookers were too stunned to do anything.

“Move aside, I know CPR,” said someone in the distance.

While everyone rushed towards the accident, I was standing still. I was petrified, actually. My anthrophobia prevented me from taking another step. I wanted to, I wanted to help. But my feet would not move.


“You can take this too. It is just the same as the previous one, honey,” I said to my wife. She and I were out on a shopping spree after my I ‘wronged’ my wife in an argument. She and I were always on the edge these days. Just making each day pass itself, without doing much. We were falling out of love, maybe. And I was too tired to try.

“It is not as nice as the one before. Or the one before that was better? Dear, what about this?” she asked me; I was too distracted.

Suddenly, I heard a screech of brakes and a crash.

I was dashing across the street, towards the victim. I pulled him out- his face was charred.

“Move aside, I know CPR,” said someone and pushed me aside.

“But what about the other car?” I yelled to the guy; he wasn’t listening. I ran towards the other end, looking at the mangled mess of metal. The smoke was thick but I saw through a hand. I pulled at it and I felt it squeeze my hand.

“I need some help here!” I yelled.


I guess this was it. My life, just over. For all I know, I can say that I saw this coming. It wasn’t just waking up one night realizing that my life right now wasn’t just a dress rehearsal for something bigger. I knew it all along. Whatever I’d done did not matter, whatever I was going to won’t ever. I wasn’t going anywhere and I guess my depression could swallow me whole.

I felt the breeze as I sat on the bridge. This was it.

I had attempted suicide before and as you know it, I failed. A blade, pills, bathtub. But now I was really sad. Because I was a failure even at dying. So this was it; to end it all.

I took a deep breath. And then I heard a violent crash.

I turned around and I saw an accident take place. Without knowing what came over me, I started to run towards it.

There were bystanders and I was one of them. Two men were working on both sides, and I was standing with nothing to do. And then I noticed something strange. I, somehow beyond the wreckage, could recognize the pearl gray paint of the car. It was familiar. Horrified for what was to come, I slowly crept across the crowd towards the car, searching. Searching for a snowglobe on the dashboard, with hope that I don’t find it.

Closer, closer.

I saw a face. I screamed.

This story follows multiple narratives.It revolves around three characters- X, Y, and Z, and what they feel as they are brought together by an accident.

Three people, three emotions– triumph, experience, and loss.

Read it here:The Accident

Falling Short

Could you at least pretend to feel my pain?

Her thoughts pranced upon my hazy inebriated mind. The last glass of scotch went down difficultly but it did, warming up the rest of my cold body. It was raining outside, going on like some endless September nonsense. Nonsense! I hated the rains. I did ,I guess. I hailed the bartender to pour me another, and he just smirked his face and poured down some more in my glass.

“You should definitely slow down,” said a woman from across the bar.
I turned to look at her in the dim light; she was a beautiful woman or so my drunken eyes said. She was dressed in a sultry orange: who even wears orange? I thought. She walked from the distance between the two of us in the most obsessive way– obsessive meaning that I had too much attention on her.

“What is that you’ve been drinking? Seems to be some good stuff,” she said, taking the seat next to me.
“Hmm,” I grunted; I had nothing to say.
“How long have you been here? You are sulking onto the chair,” she said.
“A woman of questions aren’t you?” I asked, “My wife sent you?”
She was not the least bit stirred by the word ‘wife’, the intense emotion of her eyes maintained their helm on me.
“I hope not,” she said and smiled.

I was driven towards her by some vague desire to lurch onto something. I know my wife was somewhere now, in some hospital, giving birth to my child, but I just could not bring myself to care. I guess I was afraid or just devoid of any emotion.

This story was inspired by a John Mayer song, which just me laugh myself stupid.

A drunken man, married, in a bar with a beautiful woman. His wife is somewhere, having his child. There is this beautiful woman, buying him a drink. Will he realize what marriage means to him before too late?

Read it here: Falling Short

The Art Of Dying

“Please take unto you, your child. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

The casket lowered into the ground, the crowd dissipated and the crying faces turned away.

“Father John, thank you for a wonderful service,” the crying wife said to me. I blessed her and prayed for her strength.

I had been working as a priest for more than two and a half decades. In all those times I had faced many a situation of sadness and grief. I never thought of acting as a minister in weddings– a fact I was yet to find an answer to myself.

It was the third funeral service I was performing that week and I was not surprised. Death was everywhere, and it was inevitable. God was always calling upon people– at the end of their time. Not an end, but the beginning of another adventure. The dark, mysterious, sneak-upon, the dreadful– I was witness to it. It was my duty to pass them on, safely to the other side.

This story is about penance and the ways things turn out later in life. You may never know what you say now will affect someone else in the future. You may never know that what you do to somone now will make you feel later. You never know.

A priest is called for a funeral. He thinks it is just another day, another blessing. But he never knew who he might be encountering.

Read it here: The Art Of Dying

Some Magic

The water was inviting. The noise still echoed in his ears; no, they were still arguing.

He shut his ears and focused on the patter of the rain and tried to ignore all that was happening. He wondered what made it pour so heavily.

Maybe the sky was laughing too hard.

He remembered the time his mother tickled him to the extent that tears started to pour and soon the fun turned to pain, which the mother didn’t realize.

The thought of paper boats and splashy puddles bubbled up more excitement in him. His little body began to shake like the fizz in a soft drink bottle. A smile lit his face. His breath fogged the glass; he was yearning too much. Too much, too hard.

The door was right there, staring at him, tempting him to break free of the bonds that held him in his solitary room.

Mother will be mad.

But the desire was a little too strong. He took his steps and advanced to the hall. The door was only a step or two away. Exhilaration palpitated his senses and the uncertainty of the adventure awaited him. The moment had come.

A door opened.

This is the first short story I'd ever written. I was amazed at the fact that I could. And this was the very beginning.

It is about a boy and his will to feel the rain pouring outside. He is constantly challenged by the obstacles in his way. But in the end, it is not just the rain he encounters but truths and life itself.

Read it here: Some Magic

The Patient

I have worked all my life in this business, and I won’t go ahead and tell you that none of it mattered to me– that would just make me seem like some emotionless cutter. But yes, none of it ever mattered to me. I never let any of it get to me– the pain, the horror, the stories and their aftermath.

It’s as though it was the years of silence that has made me callous. The usual nodding, pretentious eyes and handing over the box of tissues were good enough to those who came to me. I could pretend to be someone who gave a damn about their sob stories, but frankly, they came to me. They came to me to undo what they did, or set them free from the guilt train. I charged a fee and they asked me to clean up their mess.

Housekeeping for the guilty.

Twenty three years in this business, of cutting up the unborn and making unsure mothers happy, I can tell you, that this is not just an easy way out. I was finally retiring from the cumbersome routine of taking and giving lives. It was my last day at work and I could hardly get excited about the gap that was about to come.

This story is about an abortion doctor who is about to retire and the story he is bound to share forever. He never cares about his patients or the stories behind their choices. But this time, he listens. He listens to his last patient and feels in ways he never thought he could.

Read it here: The Patient

The Fix

I could not possibly describe the feeling of freedom. The air felt fresher and the colours seemed more vivid. There was nothing left to do– no orderlies, no lists, no chanting, no more useless therapy. No more of saying ‘positivity’ so many times it stops making sense. I was out and free. And I knew where to go.

“Meet me at my place in twenty, and bring your best stuff,” I said and cut the line. I had called up my buddies to tell them of the news that I was out and was in dire need to celebrate. Celebrate, if you know what I mean.

All the time that I had been ‘myself’ I knew one thing. It didn’t matter what your drug of choice is– cocaine, ex, glue, codeine, bitter alcohol– all that mattered was how hard you could try to get that one little fix in time. One hit to make sure you were still who you were, and how much you could push to get to the point.

This is a story about an addict and the choice she has to make in the end. An end, a beginning. The beginning of her end, the end of the past?

Read it here: The Fix


The clock strikes five and people being to leave. She looks at him from her desk, hoping he turns around to see her. Or she could say, notice her. They barely talked to each other in the past two weeks. She was very busy and he was away and both of them were somewhere, in the back of their minds, hoping that either of them could begin talking. In other words, let down the pride.

She saw him look at her, with some woeful glance for a second longer than he usually would, and left.

It was becoming harder by the minute to breathe. They were feeding off each other like parasites. Because somewhere, after a year and a half, it become a chore. At least for him, it becomes a chore. Or so she felt. And she could never have known, because in some weird twisted way, they thought communication could do more harm than good to them. She could feel the distances growing by the days and instead of trying to swim to the shore, they were only trying to find more sea to fill between them.

Just a story about heartbreak and how much being right on time really matters.

Read it here: Clarity

The Park Bench

I thought for a while and realised that I was going to get nowhere. I went away, assuring the man I would be back. I decided to take a walk. I would not be meeting with my wife for another hour or so. Today was special. It was our three-year anniversary, and I was knee-deep in useless ideas to please her. I always tried to hard, or a tad too less. But she always smiled. She laughed at my craziness and obsession with being perfect.

I smiled to myself. The walk took me to the park where I frequently found myself fascinating about life. That I would be happy someday, with a few children of my own, running around playing fetch with the family dog. And then I noticed an old couple. Cute as they were, I was jealous of them. They sat there, holding hands and laughing. I formed an image in my mind– they were here like everyday. Their children were now married and there were grandchildren on the way. They would go home and she would make him a cup of tea; he’d spill it and she would yell. And then he would tell her he was sorry and they would make up. That was their life– simple and cherished. They’ve lived their lives, together.

It's funny how things in life turn out. Even funnier than that is the fact that you find yourself still standing at the door long after she has asked you to 'get lost'. The point is, you don't know how long you were in for. How long you are going to wait. How long 'a bit' really means. How much you are willing to stay a second more and see what really lies behind the smoke.

And how much 'nothing' really means to you.

This story is about a man and his wife, as the latter is in another place. A story about eternal love, and stuff.

Read it here: The Park Bench


It was a pleasant day in June when people gathered around. It was a day meant to be enjoyed, thoroughly taken in, but despite, everyone gathered around.

There were hushed cries and muffled whispers. Some were pitying, some were emotionless. I silthered into the crowd, past the people to see for myself. They gathered around the corpse of a man unknown to anyone. In the crowd of twenty-six, none knew who this man was.

I looked at the person carefully– my eyes scanning his face, trying to match it with someone I might have known but I came up with nothing. I just stood there, a sundry body amongst many, thinking where he’d come from. I heard someone say he was pushed off the bridge. Others say he jumped off himself. The latter being for real. I just stood there, waiting for someone official to come. I wondered why no one was checking for breath or life. Maybe someone already did, I thought.

This story is about an unnamed man who took his own life. Whenever you might come across an event like this-- just a man, or just a woman, or just a stranger-- you won't ever know what you will hear. You might as well just walk away before anything happens. Because you don't know him, you don't know her either. Just some poor loser, right? But wait a second and see, he and you won't be as different as you think.

Read it here: Drown

Six Years Woven

His heart is beating fast.

Very fast.

There is chaos just about everywhere and nothing makes sense at all. He feels a hum and he stops. He puts his pen down and looks from his cubicle.


Business as usual.

He picks up his pen and starts to write again.

One of my first works that I wrote in present tense. It is about the things that are left behind even as some ties crumble, break and tear away. Like a pen, or a button. Or the scent of her hair and the touch of his skin. It's those that matter, it's those that linger.

Read it here: Six Years Woven

Red Sky

She shook her head and wanted me to mind my own business but in some sort of way, she wanted me to help her. She could not have been more than six years old and I was afraid she had lost her way.

“Are you lost? What is your name?” I asked and she didn’t answer.

She turned away and looked at the sky as if she had found what she was looking for. She started to follow it and I began to follow her. She was focused on a balloon that was floating in the wind. It wasn’t floating on its own but was being blown away by the force of the wind.

This is a story about a man and a young girl he tries to rescue one sundry day. How could he have known its the simple things that mar us for life?

Read it here: Red Sky

A Woman

Open, closed
Chained rather than step a foot outside the threshold
No, you shall not
You shall not speak, nor drink
The same water as the rest
You shall not take a step into the real
World, for it is ours and you are to blame
For all the deeds and all the scars you must bear

Mother, mother
You were once called as that
Limping and giggling, holding your the scarves of your strength
We learnt to walk, only to trample
On the grass you want to walk on

English poetry about life of a woman. Read it here: A Woman

Monday, 22 April 2013

In Letters

Dear you,

If I could tell you in person, if words can convey what I want you to know, this would be really, truly, amazingly easy. If I could stand in front of you, without my breath escaping me and my heart sinking, I could say it. I could tell you what I’ve been meaning to tell you for the past eight years.

I have known you for more than eight and half years and I am sure most of them have flown by in endless sleepless nights. The bags under my eyes, you are to blame for those. I don’t know why I must be telling you this, finally and in this obscure way, after all those years of manic silence. I don’t know what has caused me to suddenly awaken from my intricately woven strings of slumber and reach out to my desk to finally colour blank pages with blue ink– in a seemingly hopeless bid to express my feelings.

Another one of my old words. A letter too late.

The Face of War

f I tell you about my brother, you would laugh and tell me to stop joking that this idiot was out to fight the war.
My brother was a bag of bones returning from a fistfight. He was the tiny stick-like figure trying to push himself into family photographs. He wouldn’t stand two minutes in a five-round, for he’d be out in the first ten seconds. Weak in words and weaker in the bones, you could not put your finger on which way he’d go. You don’t know him as I do.

Well, it turns out my writing appetite cannot be satisfied by quitting so soon. So here is a short story I'd written a while earlier. I am just getting rid of some things written before. The story is about a man sending his brother off to war and the sad endings of the same.

Monday, 1 April 2013

The Beginning

Well, got good news for you. Today I received an e-mail stating that my story "Farewell" has been chosen as the Story of the Month at yourstoryclub!

As I await my first 'paycheck' I am so happy to finally receive something from the other end. You know, after so long I have heard from anyone and I am so willing to drive a bit further. Every appreciating word makes me feel as though I am not doing this for naught. 

It's been quite a while since I started writing on my Dad's old computer, and today I feel I have come a long significant way from there. 

So maybe there are some, new beginnings? 

Sunday, 3 March 2013


For all I know, I wasn’t drunk that night. Not that drunk.

I stumbled out of the building, angry and upset. It was too much. I had just lost my job and now my landlord was going to throw me out. There was some argument, some more of breaking things and a few papers on the floor. I might’ve been drinking some, yes, but I clearly was not blurred. Or was I?

My last story on yourstoryclub is done, finished and tagged with my fourth and last Editor's Choice. It is a story about the sad fact of realization and the weight of death, upon your head.

So, this is it. Farewell.

Read the whole thing here: Your Story Club: Farewell

Tuesday, 12 February 2013

Waiting and Watching

Well, I have an announcement to make. I am leaving yourstoryclub soon. To much despair, or not, of others, it is for a good cause. I want to compile it all and have it in a book that I could publish.
Talking about publishing, I am waiting for 'six to eight' weeks to end. I am waiting on answers from three publishing houses and with zero hopes. I remember very well my first rejection and I have learnt a lot from then. It is funny how things turn out. But I have got a good feeling this time.
And well, I just received my first fan mail today and I must say, I am very excited and happy. At least something has emerged from my dark, and twisted storytelling. And I am extremely bubbly about hearing some more.

Insane, In Love

They said love had no bounds, no walls, no boundaries it could be held behind. And yet, I lie here, untouched.
It was a cold autumn night when I first saw her. She was this beautiful illusion who had wings that could soar so high, it was impossible to scale. Rhea, was her name. She was an enigma who I could love only from afar. Afar, because she was shackled to someone else. Tied taut to a man who could only be called a monster. He had a scent of alcohol, a hoarsely voice and an arm of steel, who let it all out on the little bunny who nursed his pride and watched her life fall apart.
Now, I lay here on the cold and hard floor, waiting for someone to patter on my bars and tell me that I was free to go. Still waiting.
An excerpt from 'Insane, In Love' a psychological, dark tale about love, it's illusions and reality. It's funny how it actually went from being a sweet-cute story to the one that it is.
Read the whole thing here : Your Story Club : Insane, In Love

Thursday, 24 January 2013

Hole In Your Heart

She held her chest and
said she had a hole
in her heart
bleeding the life out of her
She had a hole
in her ever so fragile heart

It is a poem about life and a huge disappointment that is its very existance.

Read it here, Hole In Your Heart

Candlelit Cries

“I’m sorry.”

She mumbled as the inequality of the winter breeze grifted her. A car passed her by inches as she dragged her bag across the pavements. The thoughts in her mind did not concern her anymore- they were now set on her one and only, whom she had left with a cold cup of tea and a colder heart.

The story is about a girl who is losing it all. She is losing time, money and her heart to live. Yet, sometimes, an empty space is all you need, to think it all over.

Read it here, Your Story Club: Candlelit Cries

The End of My Story

I never thought I was going to say this.
But, I miss the feeling.
I miss the feeling of being loved. Of being adored like a gem. Of being kissed.
I miss it all.
And now I was standing here, facing the endless sea.

From the story 'The End of My Story'. About a dying woman and a chronological sequence to the point up till now. Read it when you are sorry about your life. You will definitely value it more.

Read it here, Your Story Club: The End of My Story

Strange Happiness

The ticking of the clock seemed endless. I tapped the table with my pen, swimming through the sea of endless thoughts in my mind.

Amidst all this, the question of the hour was nowhere near the importance the time required of me. The 12-point font words triggered what could be the story of my life in my mind- while already drowning in melancholia.

The most important things in life could be family, friends and at this age, the prospect of studies.

An excerpt from the story Strange Happiness. It was actually a story I'd written for one of my best friends. It is about life from the perception of him. It is all about school, life and the shit in between.

Read it here, Your Story Club: Strange Happiness