| Below,
the valley holds mist like a bowl of cotton; Mingma needs some to
nurse the untraceable wounds of his life. He breaths aloud for a few
minutes, tries to sit up on the promontory, but the land crashes like a
soft anthill. Nervous, Mingma calls out his grandmother only to
realize that he has missed her breath by half a minute. A cold flash
stitches his muscles inside. His face, a decapitated glow-worm… |
| Linda Ashok |
|
For the third
time in 6 months, I spent several sleepless nights tending to his high
fever, bodyache, nausea and other Malaria symptoms last week. All
because of the promise I gave to his dying mother: I will always be
there for him, in sickness or in health.
Today he and his girl-friend fought in muffled voices in
the corridor. He came back to class, visibly disturbed. Ushering me
to a corner, he whispered, “From today, please do not come to my house
to while away your time. My girl-friend disapproves of it. I hope you
understand”. |
| - Aditi Sahu |
|
The water hyacinth was a perfect swing for white Flamingos.
My eyes were stationed precise and deliberate. Without a single flick, these watched them dance as couples.
The Kettuvallam houseboats cruised forward making the cerulean waters
so jubilant that it gushed to reach us - seemingly to plead with us not
to leave…
These kept gliding with humility and esteem even though the sunset stippled them with shades of grey.
Somewhere inside my head, I made an unwritten contract with this place
for enduring visits. To repay my debts to this refueling base, I penned
one drabble and bade adieu. |
| - Bindu Saxena |
|
Nancy was just about to doze off when she heard her daughter crying on the baby monitor. She groaned.
"I just put her to sleep," she said not wanting to get out of her cozy bed.
"Do you want me to go check on her?" asked Steve.
Nancy smiled, "When have you ever been able to put her to sleep? No, I'll do it."
She put away the baby monitor and walked to the baby's
room. Oddly enough, she couldn't hear her crying anymore. Puzzled she
opened the door.
The cradle was already rocking and little Beth was fast asleep.
- Neha Malude |
|
There was a bottle; a broken one. Two wine glasses; unbroken.
He sat there on the chair staring at the ticking of the clock.
The constant ticking of the clock held back the room to reach hundred per cent silence.
On the spur of the moment it was accompanied by a knock on the door. He
rushed to open the door. But much to his dismay there was no one.
He drank another then another. More bottles followed. More knocks followed.
And no one opened the door ever since.
She felt sorry for playing pranks on him that night. |
| - Amen Benjamin |
|
| She writes
clandestinely when he is not around. Freedom, love, hopes, passion and
ambition is what she writes about. The words are fiercely sharp
slicing through the reader’s heart. There are deep yearnings in her
writings. A pen name accompanies all her works. No one knows about
this other side of the meek woman. Tattooed on her wrist is a bleeding
pen and on her shoulder, a swallow in flight. One day she
“accidentally” drops her wedding band in the toilet and it gets
flushed away. From then on her ring finger bears a white mark at that
place. |
| - Yesha Shah |
|
|
|
|
Wake up . A morning. Greyish, depressed and personal, with the clouds almost dripping from the sky; the city’s chaos utterly muted.
News and tea, black and white, and grey and grey and grey and ashen
grey. Sips of prodigal warmth, shield against the wet wind.
Life bound in mundane routines. Seems unbearable, until a sharp stab of pain at the edge of the lower lip.
Bitten, with love.
Nothing changed.
Only, I smiled... |
| - Shakya Bose |
|
| She taught
different classes in the light of the day and in the dark of the
night, with the same name. Strict in generous measure, the cane was
used with equal deft and skill in the classroom as it was in the
bedroom. She had no pupils in common between the two classes as the
petite, bespectacled, soft-spoken and loving yet firm, pig-tailed high
school teacher in the morning let her hair loose at night and indulged
in her fetish. Both classes fell silent at the echoes of her
approaching stilettos. They both called her the Mistress of Coorg. |
| Arjun Shetty |
|
| Anticipating an evident
accident, a lady on Honda Dio managed to chase the Honda City at 80
kmph and shouted, "Your car's rear, left tyre is swinging loose!" to
the lady on wheels. The 'City' girl pulled down the car and realised
it to be true and called her mechanic in a panicked tone. She hugged
her saviour and bid goodbye. Having nothing else to do, in the
meanwhile, she informed her dad, brother and husband about the
incident, in detail. The mechanic came in half an hour and like a
skilled professional, smiled and changed the rear right tyre. |
| - Piyush Kumar. |
|
| The house was
empty. Like her mind. Hollow echoes of silence drifted down the
corridors, trying to find companions. They reverberated from wall to
wall, feeling claustrophobic, struggling to find a gap in the walls to
escape. She stirred in her sleep, and a small breach appeared in a
lonely wall. The echoes wasted no time – they susurrated out of the
mind-house in a jiffy. The gap dragged in random wisps of memories into
her mind, and created vivid images on the walls of the house. She
shifted gently from deep sleep to dreamland, a smile budding on her
lips. |
| - Namitha Varma-Rajesh |
|
| He abandoned all
things to travel the world in search of home. He scaled mountains,
rode the waves, worked in wineries and restaurants, danced with men
and women, and lived in many houses and buildings. None of them became
home. Decades later, sitting in a make-do hospital of Africa,
surrounded by unfed children and bloody civil war, he felt longing for
the mother he had never seen, the father who was now dead, and a
brother he hardly knew anymore. On his deathbed, the traveler
discovered Home- it was where lived his people: some of them
countries, others were islands. |
| - Arka Datta |
|
| She walks from one room
to the other; cosmetics, jewelry and clothes spilling from both arms.
She wants to know which of them looks the best. The black blouse with
the off-white saree? Should she accessorize with oxidized jewelry?
Should her hair be tied in a bun? Or just a few strands that are
allowed to arrange themselves of their own accord? Is she overdressed?
I’m not allowed to answer any of these questions. So I just nod my
head and watch her play out her monologue. |
| - Shloka Shankar |
|
| Time passes languidly
seconds to minutes, minutes to hour’s lastly devouring the luminous
hues welcoming eventide. I wait, night after night idly perched on the
chilled window seating gazing ahead with longing filled eyes. You
don't arrive and I turn on my left to see the brilliant moon shining
all radiant and bright. And hoping, just hoping you were like that
astronomic sky enveloping me in its warm black inky blanket. But with a
sigh I realize you are but a star, looking fragile yet blindingly
intense and I am a mere moon silently lonely yet solely surrounded by
you. |
| - Fatima Hasan |
|
She’d promised
that she’d come at the appointed time. There’s almost nothing for me
to ponder about. After all the nights lying awake like an insomniac, I
feel a dread gnawing deep within. She, my fiancée, is a reputed
person and I am an ordinary mortal, eking out a living by dent of hard
work.
I saw her crossing the street. I waved. She too
waved in return. But it was to another man standing just next to me at
the cafe entrance. The smile that spread over his countenance bespoke
of time spent together, without me.
|
| - Haimanti Dutta Ray |
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