Selected poems on the links below
| Poetry | Short Story | Prose 500 | |
| Indrani Chowdhury | Aishwarya Vedula | Ali Ashhar |
Saturday, 1 November 2025
Short Story 2025 Longlist
Selected stories on the links below.
| Poetry | Short Story | Prose 500 | |
Prose 2025 Longlist
Selected poems on the links below
| Poetry | Short Story | Prose 500 | |
Short Story 2025 Featured Writer, R H Nicholson
Beads of Courage
Naman flipped the blinds in his bedroom window, his beaded leather wristband jangling, and peeped outside for the first time in days, fluttering his bloodshot eyes against the bright light of the September day. He watched through long, stringy hair that hung down like a waterfall across his pimpled face as heavy graphite clouds rolled over the neighborhood, a violent downpour drenching the trees, the flowers, the lake and nearby bench, and the rooftops of nearby houses. He felt the encroaching darkness envelope the world like a maw. Yet his neighbors outside sported sunglasses, shorts and tee shirts, jogged or walked along the shoreline, played, fished, mowed their lawns, and gardened without concern, a community of fit, tan people drinking in the warmth and glory of a late summer afternoon. He heard angry thunder roll in the distance as a light breeze followed youngsters on their bicycles cruising with delight, their shadows alive in the tilting sun. He turned away and recognized a ripe odor that he understood was himself, unbathed for some time he suddenly realized, his clothes dull and mildewed. He plopped onto a mattress on the floor. He couldn’t quite remember what had happened to his bed frame, the head and foot boards. Had he smashed them during one of his episodes? Why were there Sharpie doodles on the wall, ripped-up papers on the floor, assorted wrappers overflowing the waste basket and piled on the floor like a landfill? What time was it? What day was it? Why was he so thirsty? He’d lost his television privileges, his Switch, PS3, the Wii and MacBook, been grounded, forfeited his car keys, and ditched by his girlfriend Ivy. As such, there was no point to anything, really. So, he sat ad infinitum on the mattress, thoughts alternating between racing and empty, angry and numb, stewing and disconnected, and guzzled another Monster energy drink.
Suddenly, his stepmother pounded on his bedroom door and spewed words he thought sounded like venom: “Naman, honey, please come to dinner. I’m so worried you’re not eating.” When she received no reply Naman heard her turn and cry, in his mind like a scold, “I don’t know what to do to help him.”
His father, the Regent of Rules, Mr. Have Some Dignity, the Little Dictator, then banged on the door like a vice cop, “Naman, buddy, open up. Are you okay? We need to see that you’re okay. You can’t stay in your room forever, it’s not healthy. Please talk to me.”
Naman knew the drill, the routine. He would open the door and be interrogated like a criminal. “Why are you failing all of your classes? Have you been cutting yourself again? Are you taking your medication?”
He ignored his parents’ pleas, pressed his buds into each ear, and tapped his phone to bring up something mellow, meaningless, vacant, something that would evaporate their annoying voices. But the sensation didn’t diminish, the feeling his bones might break through his skin, as if an alien was attempting to punch its way out of his gut. He rested his hand on his chest to track the wild, arhythmic flutter, the pounding, the thumping of a malfunctioning machine. Was he having a heart attack? Was he, maybe, okay with that in some sick, twisted way? He attempted to steady his breathing with a technique he’d learned in a yoga workshop at school during Mental Health Awareness Week. He fumbled for one of the translucent orange bottles on his nightstand, shook out another capsule, and chased it with a gulp of Monster. He waited for calmness to spread like warm honey, to ooze through his body. But nothing happened, so he downed another little white log of Xanax. He let himself be swallowed by the music as it ushered him out to sea, floating him in a cozy embrace of oblivion, undulating away from life. To augment this feeling of release he opened another bottle and ingested some round blue capsules, then some of the tiny pink pills that looked like candy. After a while he thought he heard a sound, another voice maybe, familiar yet distant. He opened his eyes and looked across the room. The two Ninja action figures atop his dresser seemed to wink at him like giant eyes. The third drawer opened like a magic trick and began to speak. He sat up and leaned next to a small indentation he had punched in the drywall and a poster of the Joker in all his Joquin Phoenix unhingedness. The voice seemed far off like an echo, certainly not his father or stepmother, who stood in the hallway like stooges vexing over their next move. He recognized the soft warble of the words floating from the dresser’s mouth but could not understand them, almost as if they uttered a foreign language, but he believed them to be his mother’s voice from beyond the grave. He remembered it from his childhood, the way she pronounced his name Nay-Man, unlike anyone else. He believed she was perhaps singing a lullaby, his favorite one, about a mockingbird. Incrementally, the song faded.
He woke slowly, like in a movie flashback, at first colorless, then sepia, then blurred. He lifted his head, which throbbed like a kettle drum, and surveyed the pale green walls, a trio of small, high-up, rectangular windows that almost touched the ceiling, and a small white dresser made of plastic, maybe, or rubber. Pure, unadulterated sunshine poured into the room filling it with promise and hope. He noticed a ceiling camera mounted in the corner nearest the door just as a nurse swept in. “Mornin’ my man!” a voice called out in a smooth baritone. The nurse was a tall man, built like a footballer with broad shoulders, a robust chest, and thick thighs barely constrained by his navy scrubs. His hair was military short, but he sported a ridiculous, untamed beard. His beefy left arm was engulfed in a sleeve tattoo woven with artistic swirls and tribal patterns, religious and Norse imagery. “I’m Clay. How do ya feel, dude?” He busied himself with a clipboard chart, positioned a paper cup of water on the nightstand, and stood, massive arms crossed, at the bedside and awaited Naman’s response.
“Where?”
“You’re at SCC, St. Cyril Center,” he anticipated the question. “Psych hold, duration unspecified. Settle in, pilgrim, you’re here with me for a while.”
“What happened?” Naman tried to formulate a coherent train of thought.
“All will be revealed. You know, we usually confiscate all jewelry,” Clay nodded at Naman’s left wrist, “but the only option for that was to cut if off, and that seemed mean and unnecessary.”
“Oh, that. Thanks.”
“I’m guessing it has sentimental value?”
“Not really.” Naman toyed with it, fondled the beads, twisted around the knotted leather string. “They gave it to me the first time I was in the hospital. After the voices started. I was ten. They’re called Beads of Courage. I got one every time they thought I did something brave. I have no idea why I’ve never taken it off.”
“I think that rocks!” Clay stood at the foot of the bed. “The doctor is anxious to see you, so let’s get you in some decent clothes, your parents have sent some sweats and slip-on tennies, and get you downstairs for some answers.”
Naman stood up slowly, unsteady as a new fawn, but then found his footing. Clay asked if he had any special requests for lunch, and, in fact, he realized he was hungry, an unfamiliar sensation of late. He requested Tylenol and egg rolls. Clay tossed the sweatpants and a tee shirt at Naman like a coach in a television commercial telling a new player to suit up. “I’ll wait right outside the door, which stays open, okay?”
As Naman shuffled down the empty, sterile hallway, he attempted to focus, to recollect what had happened to him, how he had come to be here, how much time had passed since he had last touched base with reality. Clay chatted away about sports and video games as if they were buddies walking the halls at school. After they had descended the stairs and passed through a waiting room, Clay sat Naman down in a chair next to a door and stood over him until the door opened and a voice called out, “Send him in, Clay. Thank you.”
Dr. Aramita surprised Naman. He was a wisp of a man who looked maybe twenty-five but was certainly much older than he appeared, his hair perfectly gelled, his pink button down accented by a sophisticated scarf. He wore crisp, creased jeans and canvas slip on shoes, rainbow socks, several bracelets, and a sports watch around his left wrist. He darted around the desk to greet Naman and the two sat on a pair of club chairs in the middle of the room. Naman braced himself for the inquisition, the plethora of questions, the judgy comments, the glib suggestions, maybe a self-help book or a pretty trifold with a chart for recording his thoughts, his fears, his hopes. He had seen this movie before. He had learned to meditate, envision a better life, journal, make lists, control his breathing. He had tried to play the game, follow the experts, channel his anxiety, his angst, his fury, his confusion. He had talked ad nauseum out his feelings of abandonment, distrust, inferiority, the overwhelming ideation that life was a shit show, a cruel joke, a meaningless wander through a desert. He had faced his sense of dread, isolation, nihilism, the belief that the world was closing in on him like a swarm of locusts and that he did not care to stick around to see how it ended. He was not suicidal, per se, not actively seeking to end his life, that all seemed so messy, so dramatic, but rather he was inclined to welcome death as it bore down on him like a drill.
“Call me Drew,” the doctor patted the arm of Naman’s chair. “Would you like some water?” he offered. Then he stared into Naman’s face, cocked his head just a tad, and asked, “Do you ever just want to hit somebody? Just punch someone, kick a guy in the balls, or strangle someone? You know, wrap your hands around their fucking neck and just squeeze with all your might? Of course, you can’t. That’s wrong. But wouldn’t it be a rush to do it, just once?” Naman couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This guy was psycho, he determined. How ironic. “I would punch my brother right in the nose. Break it if I could. Send his blood gushing. Listen to him cry out in pain. For all the times he tortured me when we were growing up. He was so cruel to me. Locked me in closets. Tried to drown me. Set me on fire once. Pushed me out of a goddammed moving car. Called me a fairy all the time.” Naman just stared at the doctor in disbelief. “Messed me up good.” Dr. Aramita paused, leaned forward, his hands on his knees. “Life can be a giant pile of shit, can’t it, Naman?”
“Yeah, the boy nodded.
“Well, I can’t fix that, okay? Nobody can. But I can help you navigate it. If you let me. If you trust me. I know I have to earn that trust and that takes time. This work takes time, sometimes years. But I promise you, I can help. My life was fucked up. Drugs, alcohol, sex, denial, self-loathing, you name it. I’ve been there. I’m not just some PhD. dickhead spewing psychobabble. I wanted to die. Thought about how to do it. Made plans. But I pulled through. I came out on the other side. You can too. We can do it together. What do you say?”
Naman pressed his hands in a tent and held them before his face, his leather bracelet sliding up his skinny wrist. He studied this graceful, willowy man, so confident yet so unafraid to be vulnerable. So candid. He looked genuine, honest. Naman took comfort from Dr. Aramita’s body language, the fact that he wore his sense of self like a tailored suit. The man’s eagerness, his energy was palpable. “Okay, I guess I can try,” Naman mumbled.
“Marvelous!” Dr. Aramita gushed. “This will take time. It will be rough sometimes, painful, uncomfortable. But let’s get started.”
Over the next few days, the two sorted and assembled, constructed and demolished together. Naman talked and cried, screamed and whispered, unspooling his story as best he could. He growled through gritted teeth, reflected with glassy eyes, sometimes lying on the floor, sometimes leaning against the wall on his haunches, sometimes gazing out of Dr. Aramita’s office window at the undulating green knolls, the line of white pine trees along the front of the property, the railroad tracks in the near distance, heavily trafficked State Highway 41 beyond that.
The next day Naman joined a group session. He sat silent as a mute, his hair in a man bun, his eyes visible for the first time since his arrival. That night he ate dinner, a cheeseburger, French fries, and a cookie. On Thursday Dr. Aramita adjusted Naman’s medication, which backfired and had to be recalculated. On Saturday, Naman spoke up in group for the first time. The leader, Jodi, thought she saw him sprout a smile as he glanced at Pheobe, a shy goth girl in her second tour at SCC. Jodi reported Naman and Pheobe had begun to sit together in the dining hall. His morning sessions with Dr. Aramita became the lynchpin of his days, of his life, this safe space where he truly could say anything and not be judged, where he could feel comfortable spouting off ridiculousness en route to helpful, productive progress. Often patient and doctor played chess. One day they held a wastebasket basketball tourney with wadded up pages from Naman’s records (or so Dr. Aramita claimed). They sometimes veered off into political discussions,, one day they focused on the Holocaust and modern-day antisemitism. They ruminated over the Kennedy assassination, which fascinated Naman for some reason as did Big Foot and the Loch Ness Monster. They debated plot holes in superhero movies and discussed Catcher in the Rye, which Naman had found in the St. Cyril Library.
One day Dr. Aramita (Naman never once called him Drew) pointed at the leather bracelet, its twelve verily colored beads rolling around his wrist. “Tell me about the beads.” Naman explained their history. “They mean a lot to you?”
“No, I mean, I guess so. I’ve never taken it off, I don’t know why. I guess I just like it,” Namana stumbled around a coherent answer.
“Do the beads give you comfort?”
“I guess I do look at them or feel them when I’m stressed and they calm me down, take my mind off things. It’s kind of stupid, babyish.”
“Not at all. Whatever works. Symbols can be quite powerful in our lives. They connect the concrete to the abstract, short of like a lifeline when we can’t make the connections ourselves.” They sat in silence for several moments, then Dr. Aramita leaned forward to examine the leather strap more closely. “Our society often misunderstands courage. We associate it with physical strength, stoicism, bravado. But it dwells deep inside people. I think it manifests itself as much in what we don’t do as in what we do. How we control ourselves, refrain, avoid, overcome, stand our moral ground.” Naman leaned back and clasped his hands in contemplation. “I think you’re very brave.” Naman laughed nervously. “No, I mean it. You could just give up. Others do. But you’re here, doing the work, putting yourself out there, taking risks with your emotions, trusting me. That’s courage, my friend.” He rose, opened his mini-fridge, and handed Naman a contraband soda.
Then, with seamless genius, Dr. Aramita steered his patient into the darkness toward memories of his dead mother, of times she placed him in frightening and dangerous situations to satisfy her cravings, leaving him with strangers, allowing him to cook his own meals or swim in the neighbors’ pool all alone. He finally opened his mouth and let fall out the story about that last day, the day she took him to the local park, then left him, hopping on the back of a strange man’s motorcycle, cooing, “I’ll be back in a few minutes, sweetheart. You just play with the other kids. I’ll be back before you know it.” But, of course, she did not return and as afternoon morphed into evening and the sun began to set, he used his eight-year-old reasoning and followed along Memorial Parkway toward home. He still remembered vividly how the traffic zoomed past him with big whooshes of hot air, sometimes almost toppling him. He remembered crying but then convincing himself tears were useless. Finally, a patrol car stopped. He was scooped into the backseat and, eventually, his father claimed him. He remembered leaping into those strong arms and squeezing with his total might.
On Monday, Dr. Aramita invited Naman to sit at the big desk and write a letter to his mother. “Say everything you feel?” the doctor urged. “Tell her about your pain, your grief, your anger, your worry. All of it. Spare nothing. I’m right here if you need me.” Then the doctor opened a book and sat reading on the far sofa. When Naman had scrawled his final thought, when the maelstrom of emotions had wrung itself like a wet washcloth onto the paper, Dr. Aramita said, “Now, place it in this envelope and follow me.” They walked out of the office, down the hallway, into the reception area, and out the front door, the doctor swiping his badge to activate the always locked doors. Naman clasped the letter like a talisman. Dr. Aramita carried a small metal box that Naman thought looked like the cash boxes used at small-time events. They walked through the parking lot, past the pine tree grove, and toward the woods that buffered the hospital from a set of railroad tracks and the roaring Highway 41. At the edge of the woods, Dr. Aramita stopped before a small fire pit surrounded by stones, heaped ashes, black burn marks.
“I want you to burn the letter,” Dr. Aramita said.
“What? Why?”
“All these problems, these horrors, these unspeakable memories are no longer yours. You have discharged them into that letter. They are no longer your mysteries to solve, your demons to banish. Burning the letter will set you free.”
“I don’t think it’s that simple.”
“Sure, it is. We can make it so.” He pulled a lighter from the box and held it out. “Here, light it.” Naman thrust the letter forward, it ignited, and he dropped it into the firepit where, apparently, many other such letters had burned before. Naman wrestled with his feelings. Was he relieved, sad, confused? Did he, in fact, feel different in any way?
“Now,” Dr. Aramita instructed, “Let’s bury this nightmare for good.” He walked over to a nearby tree and grasped a rusty shovel he apparently housed there for this very purpose. “Go on,” he urged, and the youth began to dig a hole next to the tree and several small mounds of dirt where other nightmares had been entombed like something from a Poe story.
“Now, scoop the ashes into this box and bury it.” Naman was dubious. He hesitated, felt silly.
“I’m serious. Go on.”
Like a pirate stashing his booty, Naman covered over the secured letter, his strong words, his loving words, his brokenhearted sentiments, everything he wanted to say to his mother. And they were gone.
“Now, we start to rebuild your life,” Dr. Aramita put his arm on Naman’s shoulder, and they began to walk back to the building. “A whole new life. It starts today!”
That night Naman slept peacefully. He drifted off in a miasma of new sensations that might have included hope or a longing for the future. This might be, he considered, what wholeness feels like. He let himself contemplate graduation from high school, college even, maybe a career, someone to share his life with. The notion of having a life was somewhat foreign to him, but he enjoyed wondering about it as he drifted off in tranquility he had perhaps never felt before.
He woke the next morning to Clay’s booming voice. “Get up, you ruffian, early session with Aramita today!”
“Not ‘til ten,” Naman rose and stretched, anxious to begin the new day.
“Not today!’ Let’s go.”
Naman dressed, slid on his ridiculous stringless tennis shoes, and the two strolled down the institutionally drab hallway. “What about breakfast?” Naman wondered.
“I was told to have you at the doc’s office first thing. Don’t ask me, I just work here,” he chuckled.
Dr. Aramita’s office door was open, which was unusual, and he stood in the threshold, his face bordering on a scowl. “Come in, Naman,” he said, and the boy was startled by the figure of his father standing by the window.
“Hello, son.” Naman grew queasy, his knees gave a bit.
“What’s going on?” Naman wondered.
“You’re going home. Isn’t that great?” his father exclaimed but in a tone that betrayed his words, like when Naman was ten and his father tried to convince him a tonsillectomy wouldn’t be traumatic, that the post-op ice cream would make the experience an adventure.
Dr. Aramita sat behind his desk, something he never did during therapy sessions, looking like a deflated balloon. “I have always been honest with you, Naman, and I’m not going to start lying to you now. Your dad’s health insurance carrier has determined, for some reason I cannot comprehend, that you are better, and they have determined you can go home, back to your life.”
“You mean, you’re done with me? Just like that?” Naman was confused.
“Not at all. I mean, I don’t want to be. I fought this like hell, but I lost. But I’ve arranged for you to see a colleague who’s very good. As an outpatient. You’ll like him. Twice a week. I’m doing the best I can here,” the doctor seemed on the verge of breaking down.
“Look, Naman, nobody wants this. I know you and Dr. Aramita are making great progress, I can see it. I’ve never been more hopeful. But insurance will no longer cover your treatment here and I can’t begin to afford to pay for it myself. There’s nothing we can do.” He wrapped his hand around Naman’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
“Clay has collected your things and will escort you out of the building,” Dr. Aramita struggled to regain his professional poise and demeanor. “Please, keep moving forward, Naman, always forward. You’re done with the past. Only the future matters. Only the future will serve you now. Courage.”
They all shook hands like polite gentlemen, like upstanding members of a civilized society where people are healthy and strong and invincible and have no need of mental health treatments. Clay met them and walked with them to the front doors, chatting as always, painting a bright, cheery picture of the situation. He carried a large Ziplock baggy of medications and instructions and handed Naman’s dad a gym bag. He swiped his badge and turned to bid Naman farewell and good luck. But Naman ducked as if avoiding a thrown fist and turned to flee. Clay dropped the giant baggy and grabbed Naman’s wrist. The teen squirmed out of Clay’s hold. His leather bracelet snapped, the beads splattering to the ground as if shot from a BB gun. Naman dashed outside, sprinted through the parking lot, and cut through the pine tree hills and dales. “Oh, shit!” Clay mumbled as he gave chase. Naman’s father downed the gym bag and scrambled in pursuit. Naman sped toward the railroad tracks, his arms pumping, his legs wheeling, his long hair flagging behind him so that he looked like a doomed hero in Greek mythology, his lungs burning, his eyes stinging, his throat parched. He ran in the hope his skin would peel off, that his bones would drop to the ground, that his head would twist off like a lid, that his heart would explode. He ran until Highway 41 came into focus. And just kept running.
Short Story 2025 Shortlist, Ashish Kolarkar
Love That Spoke in Silence
The train screeched to a halt at the small village station, its whistle cutting through the quiet afternoon. Meera stepped out, her crisp paithani saree, a testament to decades of hard work and perseverance. She looked around as staff members of her office, eagerly waited with garlands in their hands, gathered to welcome her. After all, she was coming there as head of an important department. The familiar sights of her uncle’s village brought back memories she had buried long ago. This was no ordinary visit—it was an official tour. But fate had other plans.
Thirty years earlier, Meera had arrived at this very village, fresh out of college and unsure of her future. Her uncle, a respected professor, had offered her a place to stay for the summer. It was meant to be a time of relaxation, but life had other intentions.
One evening, while helping her uncle with his lectures, she met Arjun—a tall, fair student with a commanding presence and eloquence that could captivate any audience. Arjun wasn’t just another student; he was brilliant, ambitious, and deeply focused on his studies. For Meera, it was admiration at first sight, which soon blossomed into something deeper.
Their interactions were brief but impactful. Arjun’s passion for learning and his ability to articulate ideas mesmerized Meera. She found herself drawn to him in ways she couldn’t explain. But while her heart raced with every meeting, Arjun remained distant—polite but detached.
Meera’s feelings grew stronger with time. She mustered the courage to confess her affection, hoping against hope that he might feel the same. But Arjun’s response shattered her world.
“You have so much potential,” he said gently but firmly. “This is the time to focus on your career, not love. You should aim for something greater—perhaps the Civil Services. Love can wait; your dreams cannot.”
Before she could process his words, he vanished from the village without a trace. No goodbyes, no explanations—just silence. Meera felt betrayed and humiliated. Her uncle tried to console her, but the wound ran deep.
Heartbroken but determined not to let rejection define her, Meera returned home with a singular goal: to prove Arjun wrong. If he believed she was capable of greatness, she would show him just how far she could go.
The journey wasn’t easy. Sleepless nights spent poring over books and countless sacrifices marked her path to success. But years later, when she finally donned the uniform of a State Civil Services officer, she felt a sense of triumph—not just over the grueling exams but over her own insecurities.
She married a kind man who supported her ambitions and built a life filled with purpose and fulfillment. Yet, in quiet moments, memories of Arjun lingered like an unfinished chapter in her story.
Now standing in the village hall decades later, Meera scanned the room during an official meeting with local residents. Her eyes stopped at a familiar figure seated in the middle row—a man in his fifties with streaks of gray in his hair but the same commanding presence she remembered.
It was Arjun.
Her heart skipped a beat as emotions flooded back—anger, gratitude, nostalgia—all tangled together. After the meeting concluded, she requested a private audience with him.
When they met face-to-face, neither spoke for several moments. Finally, Meera broke the silence.
“You’re still the same,” she said with a faint smile. “Do you remember me?”
Arjun nodded slowly, his eyes glistening with recognition and regret.
“You told me to focus on my career,” she continued, her voice trembling slightly. “And I did. I became everything you believed I could be—and more.”
Tears welled up in both their eyes as they shared a moment of unspoken understanding. For Meera, it wasn’t about rekindling old feelings; it was about closure and gratitude for the man who had unknowingly shaped her destiny.
As they parted ways that evening under the fading sunlight, Meera felt lighter than she had in years. Life had come full circle—not as she had once imagined it but in a way that brought peace to her restless heart.
Arjun watched her walk away with pride and perhaps a tinge of regret for what could have been. But he knew deep down that he had made the right choice all those years ago—not just for himself but for Meera too.
Some love stories don’t end with togetherness; they end with growth—and sometimes, that’s enough.
The train screeched to a halt at the small village station, its whistle cutting through the quiet afternoon. Meera stepped out, her crisp paithani saree, a testament to decades of hard work and perseverance. She looked around as staff members of her office, eagerly waited with garlands in their hands, gathered to welcome her. After all, she was coming there as head of an important department. The familiar sights of her uncle’s village brought back memories she had buried long ago. This was no ordinary visit—it was an official tour. But fate had other plans.
Thirty years earlier, Meera had arrived at this very village, fresh out of college and unsure of her future. Her uncle, a respected professor, had offered her a place to stay for the summer. It was meant to be a time of relaxation, but life had other intentions.
One evening, while helping her uncle with his lectures, she met Arjun—a tall, fair student with a commanding presence and eloquence that could captivate any audience. Arjun wasn’t just another student; he was brilliant, ambitious, and deeply focused on his studies. For Meera, it was admiration at first sight, which soon blossomed into something deeper.
Their interactions were brief but impactful. Arjun’s passion for learning and his ability to articulate ideas mesmerized Meera. She found herself drawn to him in ways she couldn’t explain. But while her heart raced with every meeting, Arjun remained distant—polite but detached.
Meera’s feelings grew stronger with time. She mustered the courage to confess her affection, hoping against hope that he might feel the same. But Arjun’s response shattered her world.
“You have so much potential,” he said gently but firmly. “This is the time to focus on your career, not love. You should aim for something greater—perhaps the Civil Services. Love can wait; your dreams cannot.”
Before she could process his words, he vanished from the village without a trace. No goodbyes, no explanations—just silence. Meera felt betrayed and humiliated. Her uncle tried to console her, but the wound ran deep.
Heartbroken but determined not to let rejection define her, Meera returned home with a singular goal: to prove Arjun wrong. If he believed she was capable of greatness, she would show him just how far she could go.
The journey wasn’t easy. Sleepless nights spent poring over books and countless sacrifices marked her path to success. But years later, when she finally donned the uniform of a State Civil Services officer, she felt a sense of triumph—not just over the grueling exams but over her own insecurities.
She married a kind man who supported her ambitions and built a life filled with purpose and fulfillment. Yet, in quiet moments, memories of Arjun lingered like an unfinished chapter in her story.
Now standing in the village hall decades later, Meera scanned the room during an official meeting with local residents. Her eyes stopped at a familiar figure seated in the middle row—a man in his fifties with streaks of gray in his hair but the same commanding presence she remembered.
It was Arjun.
Her heart skipped a beat as emotions flooded back—anger, gratitude, nostalgia—all tangled together. After the meeting concluded, she requested a private audience with him.
When they met face-to-face, neither spoke for several moments. Finally, Meera broke the silence.
“You’re still the same,” she said with a faint smile. “Do you remember me?”
Arjun nodded slowly, his eyes glistening with recognition and regret.
“You told me to focus on my career,” she continued, her voice trembling slightly. “And I did. I became everything you believed I could be—and more.”
Tears welled up in both their eyes as they shared a moment of unspoken understanding. For Meera, it wasn’t about rekindling old feelings; it was about closure and gratitude for the man who had unknowingly shaped her destiny.
As they parted ways that evening under the fading sunlight, Meera felt lighter than she had in years. Life had come full circle—not as she had once imagined it but in a way that brought peace to her restless heart.
Arjun watched her walk away with pride and perhaps a tinge of regret for what could have been. But he knew deep down that he had made the right choice all those years ago—not just for himself but for Meera too.
Some love stories don’t end with togetherness; they end with growth—and sometimes, that’s enough.
Short Story 2025 Shortlist, Pritesh Chakraborty
Rainy Day
It was getting late enough to be worried. I once again stepped onto the balcony and looked down. Except for a drenched street dog that was lying down miserably near the gate, there was not a soul to be seen anywhere. Rain water had puddled under the lamp post. A breeze ruffled the mango tree in the courtyard and a few twigs fell down and broke. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Did I hear a soft knock at the door? I turned back and while I was going towards the door I found that it was only the breeze that disturbed the mango tree that had played a little trick on me as well. Just as an empty brain is a devil's workshop, an anxious heart is an industry of false alarms and spurious hopes. We try to find solace in things that we make up. A truant dough of a wind made me hope for the arrival of my beloved.
The clock on the wall ticked restlessly as if it was one with me in my eager wait. Did the breeze speed up its hands? Strangely when we are short of time or our time seems to become heavier with boredom, we look at the clock time and again. It is the clock that makes us anxious by letting us know about the slipping of time and yet like a spurned lover still hopeful of a change in the heart of his beloved keeps looking at it. Does anxiety ignite poetry? It seems to be doing to me. I am used to being anxious waiting for Anuradha but not too much. She is quite punctual. I mean she is quite punctual in checking my Whatsapp, Facebook, and other messages for any interesting conversations I had in her absence. The word absence brings me back to the present situation. The clouds have been mercilessly beating down on the hapless city for the last three days. Situations were turning grim day by day. Many places were already flooded and the river was passing a little over the danger mark. The only bridge that connects our area with the rest of the city was in danger of getting inundated. I didn’t want Anuradha to go to work today but she is punctual and never misses her school. I argued that the toddlers whom she loves so much (sometimes I am jealous of them since I feel that she loves them more than she loves me) might not turn up and it could be a ‘rainy day’. Ah! ‘Rainy day’, what every child in every school dreams. Once or twice a year this unscheduled holiday always cheered me up as a child. It was only later that I realised that it was more to do with a technical issue in schools than a natural response to the beautiful weather.
Anuradha called me up in the morning and said that she is not going to have a rainy day today. It disappointed me. It had been long since we two sat together over a cup of coffee on a rainy morning to discuss every possible issue under the sun or the cloud! She should however, have been home a long time ago and she didn’t call either if she was going to be late. I keep calling her from my cell but there is no response from the other end. I tried to see if I had her school’s number but I understood that I never cared to have it. She was the one to take care of these things, not me. I thought of calling a few of her friends but I didn’t think that I would wait a little longer. I waited and then I called.
“Hello Indu... this is Pritesh...” All I could hear was static. Different numbers yielded the same results. Now was the time to panic. I tried to see if any of the neighbours were around but to my dismay none were there. What had happened to the world suddenly? While I was depressing myself over the situation the depression over our city deepened further and the distant rumbles came nearer and nearer making me almost deaf. I thought that I should watch T.V. to see what had gone wrong with the world outside. T.V. was also a static. It was time that I would go out and see for myself. I went out to the balcony one last time to see if any hope was on the horizon but even the dog near the gate had vanished without a trace. Did it forebode any terrible calamity? No, no I can’t be superstitious. Another long ominous rumble across the sky confirmed my misgivings. I wore my mackintosh, took my umbrella and after locking the door went out into the deluge. I thought that if I could easily get a bus or auto rickshaw from the ‘main’ road. It was a walk of about 10 excruciating minutes. The street was water logged and the water level kept rising now from the knee to the waist as I progressed further. I shifted the cell from the trousers to the shirt pocket.
The rising waters and the incessant drops which seem to increase with every minute didn’t stop me from reaching the bus stand. I thought my struggles were at an end and I would soon get something to ferry me to her school and then I would twist her ears for letting me be so anxious. I started waiting for the headlights of a bus or auto rickshaw for what seems to be an hour. Nothing passed, not even from the other side. The fruit vendor who was a landmark to the bus stand was not to be seen either. Where have all the people gone? Is there a flood in the city? Is everybody dead? Drowned? If that is true then how come I am left alive? Did I sleep through hell? No, I wasn’t asleep for that long.
Anuradha’s school was around eight kilometres away from where I stood. I mulled over walking. On second thoughts I realised that what if while I am going to look for her, she reaches home and worries herself sick? She would have a bad time that way. I looked at my cell and to my horror I found that it was switched off. I remember there hadn’t been any electricity from the previous night but then how could I switch on the T.V. today?
“Oh, shit! I never checked if the connection came back or not. Damn it!”
I was so engrossed with Anuradha not being home yet. It was perhaps three hours from her usual time of coming back. Where was she? I decided to walk towards the school. The rains were in no mood to stop. I looked up and found that the clouds were darker than I had ever remembered seeing them. My heart kept misgiving me. I went forth mustering courage. All the shops in the street were closed. I thought to myself that it was not normal for the shops to be closed, even the medicine shops! Al last I reached the bridge and my heart sank. It was not to be seen at all. It had completely gone under the raging river. But no it was not washed away. I could still make out the lamp posts that I had missed first. I could walk over the bridge if I can manage to stay near the parapet of the bridge. I waited for a few breathless moments and then throwing my caution into the raging waters I took my first step into the current. A huge lightening struck from the sky and the noise was like a prophecy heralding death and disaster. If my hands slip I could be washed away. I would never see Anuradha again. I shuddered in fear. Yet if she was in trouble then I have to help her, it is my duty. But who will help me? I am a poor swimmer. Anyway no amount of swimming would be able to tide over this river in its ferocious condition. I mustered all the courage I had left and took my steps cautiously.
With every step I entered deeper into the river. With every step I thought I was done for. I prayed for the rains to stop. But it wasn’t a day for prayers to be answered. The gods also had gone deaf from the crashing thunder. I kept inching towards the other end. The current was pulling my legs constantly. I was right in the middle of the bridge when my hands slipped and I was thrown to the other end of the railing but wasn’t thrown out of the bridge. Tears welled up in my eyes and I thought that this was the end of my life. What I regretted was that I could not see Anu for the last time. My hands were tired from the exhaustion and I could barely feel my legs. If only I had waited for the rains to stop. It was so foolish of me to jump into the bridge like this. I brightened up at the thought that if I die trying to reach her then I would be known in the world for my dedication to my love. Another Ranjha perhaps! Foolish thoughts. I brushed them away and went further and after what seemed an eternity I reached the other end. I was out of danger! I smiled at my own luck and felt brave.
“Hell, I did it.”
It was still another two kilometres to her school. But my body was exhausted. I remembered that I didn’t have lunch today. I felt more exhausted. I knew no help would come from the other side of the bridge but I hoped that someone would come from this side of the city. Out of exhaustion I sat under a sign board which ironically was of an umbrella. I thought of crawling on all fours but I was too exhausted even to do that. I waited for my body to take a little rest. By now it was already twilight though it made little difference but it made me all the more desperate to find Anuradha. I gathered my remaining strength and went ahead. I thanked my lucky stars when I found I was looking at the headlights of an auto rickshaw. I waved frantically at it but it didn’t stop. I screamed obscenities at it for not stopping and then when it did stop a few meters away I thought I was up for a beating but no one came out from the vehicle and I was more content that it did not stop.
Ultimately I reached the school only to find that there was no one in it, not even the guard to tell me as to where everybody could be. I pondered over the next course of action and by now I was sure that Anuradha was in some kind of trouble. All I could see was water everywhere. I thought of the worst. She couldn’t swim and as I crossed the river to come to her perhaps she too tried to do the same and washed away. There was hardly any energy left in my body to do anything else than to sit down but there was no place to sit. Then I thought of one last thing before I went to the police. Her friend lives nearby and I had gone to his place once. If I could put a little pressure on my groggy head I could try to find his place and maybe just find her as well. It was a race against time and my poor memory let alone my deteriorating glucose levels. If the water might not kill me this exhaustion is sure to do that.
After a lot of confusing meanderings in known and unknown streets I could finally make up my mind about the house. I approached the same with a thumping heart. As I was about to knock at the door I was thrilled by the recognition of the familiar shrill voice of Anuradha. She was laughing. Oh what relief came over me to find her safe and sound. There were other voices too. Everybody seemed to be in a cheerful mood.
“ It was simply great to have a day off like this, though at first seeing the kids in the school we thought that it would be a normal day. I called Pritesh and told him so and thank god that I did otherwise he would have been worried sick and I had to return but soon it was declared a rainy day. Thanks to our sweet princi! ” Anuradha chirped.
“Yeah but I heard that the bridge was inundated.” An anxious voice could also be heard. It was her friend. She was right. Only I could know that; up close and personal. I kept listening to them.
“I am worried about Pritesh. It’s late as it is almost eight. He must be worried sick. I couldn’t contact him over the phone since morning. ” Anuradha said.
“Don’t worry. He will patiently wait for you at your house.” Consoled a voice.
“What else could he have done? Wade through this water? He is not that brave or energetic.” Another voice confirmed.
“We had a pretty jolly day today. I wish I could call over Pritesh but I couldn’t get through. Anyway you couldn’t have been across in this rain. Now that the rains have stopped I will take my SUV and drop you at your place. Don’t worry.” Anuradha’s colleague put her doubts to rest.
They were having a good time. She was safe. That’s all I wanted to be sure about. It was natural that I should have knocked and got in and should have returned to the house in her friend’s SUV but something inside me told me not to. I did not know what to do. I waited for sometime near the door then turned away. I did not want to ruin a perfect rainy day.
Short Story 2025 Featured Writer, Nadia Johnson
Neptune Diamonds
As the distant glow of Earth faded to a speck, Commander Ethan Pierce couldn't help but feel a surge of adrenaline course through his veins. Piercing the infinity of space aboard the spacecraft Celestia 7, he and his crew set out on a mission that had captured the imagination of civilizations across the galaxy: harvesting diamonds from Neptune.
The mission was commissioned by Fox Stone, a legendary jeweler whose gem-encrusted creations were adored by the world's elite. His success began in earnest 24 years ago when he unearthed Neptune's hidden treasures. Already fabulously wealthy, Stone's monopoly on Neptune Diamonds had elevated him to the status of legend.
Every twelve years, like clockwork, Stone's insatiable quest for more diamonds sent brave souls hurtling across the cosmos. This cycle was a tradition and a testament to human tenacity, pushing the boundaries of technology and endurance.
The crew was a melting pot of skills and experience, a handpicked eight that included astrophysicists, engineers, geologists, and even a psychologist. Each member brought something invaluable, as the mission required precision, strategy, and seamless cooperation.
Dr. Lia Chen, an aspiring astrophysicist with an intrinsic fascination for celestial phenomena, was selected for her unparalleled analytical mind. Joining her was Alex Rivers, an ingenious engineer whose mechanical brilliance knew no bounds.
Janus Veldt, the geologist with a sixth sense for Earth’s treasures, had spent a lifetime immersed in the secrets of the terrestrial world. Tony Smith, the operations officer, had guided more rocket launches than anyone else on Earth.
Captain Rhea Larkin's unmatched expertise in space navigation complemented Mateo "Matt" Sanders's humor and resilience, which lit up the crew and lifted spirits in their darkest hours.
The ship's heartbeat was Miel Torres, the psychologist, a steadfast presence who balanced the emotional tumult that inevitably arose in their insulated environment. Lastly, there was Kai Yukimura, a communications expert who ensured that their voices roamed the stars, ever reaching back to Earth.
As Celestia 7 journeyed more profoundly into the solar system, the specter of Neptune drew closer, its azure mystery shimmering against the endless black. The anticipation and nervous energy pulsing through the spacecraft invigorated the crew.
Ethan addressed the crew in a calm voice, conveying the gravitas and danger of the task ahead. They were explorers and prospectors in equal measure, sent to a remote, inhospitable world where formidable challenges awaited them.
The mission’s goal, Scylla's Braids, was a mysterious formation believed to contain the diamond caches. These were trails of swirling clouds and gases wielding tectonic forces that seemed more a part of myth than reality.
Caution was engrained in their approach. A single miscalculation could result in disaster, a cautionary tale whispered through the corridors of subsequent missions should they fail to return.
Fox Stone had spared no expense. Celestia 7 was equipped with state-of-the-art technology, including high-capacity diamond-harvesting drones and shielding against Neptune’s fierce atmospheric elements.
Every day, as they inched toward their target, each crew member fell into their routine, mentally and physically preparing for the harvest. Verbal affirmations and tactful conversation became their currency of support.
Lia and Janus spent hours examining spectral data, cross-referencing decades-old projections with live readings. After all, their very survival hinged on the accuracy of their assessments.
Finally, the suspiring winds of Neptune sang their haunting song as Celestia 7 descended into the planet's vibrant atmosphere. The strategy turned to action, fueled by nerves and a collective vision.
Alex and Tony adeptly maneuvered their machines, enabling a stable orbit above the Braids. In tandem with the ship's navigation system, Rhea's astute calculations ensured their faultless trajectory.
The diamond-harvesting drones launched from their pods, programmed to withstand the hostile elements of Neptune's capricious skies. They were the vessel's hands, reaching toward valuable stones cocooned in the void.
Neptune was unlike anything they had imagined. It was a breathtaking tapestry of shimmering blues and deep shadows, as turbulent as it was beautiful. Each swirl of clouds seemed to guard the diamonds jealously.
Once the diamonds were detected, the drones clamped onto them with triumphant precision. It was a painstaking process to extract and secure each glittering prize without triggering a planet-wide tempest.
Everything they had trained for—the hours of simulations, the flight rehearsals, and the diamond modeling techniques—had come to fruition. The drones succeeded, payload by payload, seemingly against all odds.
Time was a finite commodity on Neptune. Gleaning what profits they could, they worked methodically, with impressive swiftness and little room for error. Every second mattered, and no opportunity could be lost.
As with any celestial mission, the risk was ever-present. The drones were programmed to self-destruct should they drift uncontrollably, an unwelcome sacrifice of lifeless machinery for the option of crew preservation.
Internally, Kai maintained steady communications with Earth, meticulously documenting their triumphs and obstacles. The world watched with bated breath, enthralled by news from the celestial frontier.
Just when the crew began to fathom victory, a storm loomed—a formidable surge, unprecedented in its sheer ferocity. This tempest was an edict from the planet itself, a display of resentment toward the interlopers.
In the chaos, the crew's cohesion was tested to the brink. Storm protocols kicked in, but fear and nature's wrath threatened to sever the tether of human ingenuity at any penultimate moment.
Yet, there was no room for dismay. The crew worked with synchrony honed from practice, and the trust cemented through shared trials, mindful that each heartbeat echoed the Neptune winds outside.
Alex's engineering acumen guided the drones back to safety while Rhea and Tony delicately adjusted their orbits to minimize the storm’s effect. The team's resolve began to shine brighter than any stone.
Miel played a pivotal role, verbalizing calm where silence shadowed uncertainty, her assurance a ballast amid the vertiginous world they floated above.
A final salvaging surge secured what diamonds they could still reach at the storm's crescendo. Neptune both yielded and retained its treasures, offering a grudging salute to the tenacity of explorers willing to dance upon its winds.
With the precious harvest now on board, Ethan and his crew charted their course homeward bound across the silent seas of the great void. Neptune dwindled to the faintest blue orb behind them.
Success was bittersweet, yet the promise of returning to Earth with Neptune Diamonds validated every sacrifice. For Fox Stone, more jewels would be crafted, fueling the allure and lore of stones from Neptune.
In their hearts, the crew carried more than diamonds. They held the chronicles of their celestial odyssey—a beacon of human aspiration that would kindle inspiration for generations of adventurers yet unborn.
Safely sequestered back on Earth, their stories unfolded like a mesmerizing tapestry woven with courage, collaboration, and the indomitable spirit that defines the essence of exploration.
As the crew celebrated their triumph, they silently wondered who would answer the cosmic call next. They ventured to Neptune under the profound canopy of stars—a journey to harvest its diamonds anew.
Short Story 2025 Featured Writer, Proma Bhattacharjee
The Choice
The Dream
“Are you sure?” The Goddess’s cheeks dimpled in barely concealed laughter. Meera felt her face flame—if such a thing were even possible in a dream.
“Do you find my wish amusing?” Meera could not keep the bite out of her voice.
The Goddess’s smile faded, her eyes turning unreadable. “Amusing? No. A little unusual, maybe. I just thought you would ask for something more… tangible, like a big house, money, or eternal youth. This—this is a little unexpected. Are you truly certain you don’t want something else? You could live the rest of your life in total luxury.”
Meera shook her head adamantly.
“Material things can make one happy temporarily. Once I get used to them, I might become miserable again. So, all I want is a choice. I should be the one to decide when my life ends. I don’t want to keep living a purposeless life, being a burden on anybody.”
The Goddess smiled. A little sadly.
“Ok, Meera, if that’s what you want. But remember, choice is a dangerous gift. There will be several moments in your life when you will not want to go on. All humans experience this. But they do not choose the hour of their death, and most are grateful for that mercy. You must think a hundred times over before manifesting your wish. Because you won’t get a do-over.”
Tendrils of doubt began creeping into Meera’s mind. What have I done? Am I playing with fire? Should I take it back, ask for something else? But she quashed the doubts before they took any firmer hold.
“I understand.”
“Your wish is granted. Tathastu.” The Goddess disappeared before she could ask anything else.
TRINNNNNGGGGGGGGG
Meera jolted awake at the alarm.
5:30 AM, Wednesday, July 26.
She sat up on her bed. The memory of her dream still vivid.
Did that happen? The dream felt so real, just like the last time when the Goddess had first appeared in her dreams a month back.
“What are you doing, Meera? Get up and get the children ready.” Sameer’s irritated voice broke her reverie.
The clock said 5:45 AM.
Oh shit. Today was a school day. The children will be late. She had been sitting on her bed for 15 minutes. She dashed out, her dream temporarily forgotten.
Sameer had already gone back to sleep.
She woke her 8-year-old son and 6-year-old daughter, who decided to be extra difficult that day.
She would never know how she managed to make breakfast and get the kids into their uniforms by the time their school bus arrived at 6:30 AM.
She was already exhausted, and the day had barely begun.
Sameer had just woken up, brushing his teeth near the washbasin, still relaxed, untouched by the weight of the day that was already pressing down on her.
“Pack a nice lunch for me today, maybe some biriyani. That asshat Abhishek keeps bragging about how his wife packs the best lunches for him every day.”
“Sameer, please, not today. Biriyani will take time, and I am already running behind today. I'll give it to you some other day. I promise.”
“You always have excuses ready. You have time to sit and daydream in the morning, but not cook something nice for your husband.”
Meera felt the fight coming up, just like it did almost every day. In recent years, it seemed like the smallest things could set her husband off, and she always bore the brunt of his mood swings.
He would launch into a tirade about how difficult life was for him and how hard he worked to keep his family comfortable, insisting Meera had it easy, simply managing the kids and the house.
The familiar throb of her ever-present migraine began to stir again, like an unwelcome guest that never truly left.
As usual, she ignored all the alarm bells in her head that told her this wasn’t normal; this wasn't what it should be like. She knew she had to go on. For the sake of her kids. At least until they grow up.
The balcony was Meera’s favorite place in the house. It was small, bordering on tiny, but she loved the freedom it offered. Unlike the rest of the house, which always reminded her of a dungeon, the balcony was open and gave her an uninterrupted view of the city skyline.
She had planted small flowering shrubs in little pots, caring for them like her children. Each new colorful blossom gave her as much delight as her own kids’ school achievements.
Meera had always loved sunflowers—their bold yellow faces, always turned toward the light, filled her with an inexplicable euphoria. But Sameer had dismissed the idea, saying they would take up too much space and require too much care. So she had tucked the longing away, like so many others, with a promise to herself: Someday.
And so, her balcony remained empty of the one thing she yearned for most. It was a quiet absence, invisible to everyone else but her. The sunflowers never came.
Sameer had left for the office. She had an hour to herself before starting lunch preparations.
As she watched a common myna flutter around the nearby tree, the memory of her dream surged back in full force.
Then again, surely that was nonsense. Goddesses don’t go around granting wishes to ordinary mortals like her.
They don’t.
Right?
And yet, dreams aren’t supposed to have sequels.
But this one did.
The First Visit
She remembered the first time the Goddess had come to her. It was about a month ago, after a particularly nasty fight with Sameer. The kind of fight where everything in her head spun and the ceiling fan had started to look dangerously inviting.
That night, she dreamt of her.
The Goddess looked impossibly young, perhaps even younger than Meera herself. She stood resplendent in a pool of moonlight. But today was amavasya, Meera’s brain remembered the pointless information even in her sleep. There shouldn’t be any moonlight tonight.
She looked young, probably younger than Meera herself. She dressed like women from Meera’s mother’s youth: a crisp cotton sari, hair tied back, gold bangles that chimed softly when she moved, like wind against old temple bells. But it was her face that held Meera’s attention. There was something resplendent about it, something that no human could possibly carry. Even in the haze of sleep, Meera knew she was not looking at a person.
“Who are you?” Meera had asked timidly.
“You can call me whatever you want,” the woman said. “Your scriptures have different names for me. It doesn’t matter.”
Meera began to think of her as the Goddess.
“What do you want?” Meera asked, half curious, half afraid.
“It’s more like—what do you want, Meera?”
“I beg your pardon?”
The Goddess sighed. “Everyone wants something, Meera. You’ve shed more tears over the years than you’ve smiled. You don’t even pray much, so I can’t tell what’s on your mind. But you’re a good person. I want to help you.”
Meera was stumped. “But aren’t you omniscient? You’re supposed to know everything.”
“Well, technically yes,” the Goddess shrugged, “but it’s exhausting. Eight billion people, constantly keeping track of everyone’s thoughts? No, thank you. I mostly listen when people pray. That makes it easier to know what they want.”
Meera had said nothing. She had stopped praying long ago.
She thought hard. There were so many things she needed. Money, jewels, a bigger house, another shot at love, a good life for her children. Maybe a new life, an opportunity to start again. She could not decide. Nothing seemed right.
“You don’t have to decide right away,” said the Goddess as if sensing her dilemma.
Her voice was gentle, almost kind.
“I will come again.”
Meera did not remember waking up. There was no transition. Just the heavy silence of her room and the hum of the ceiling fan. But this had to have been a dream. She wasn’t even sure she still believed in a higher power, let alone that power’s ability to grant her anything she wanted.
What a weird dream that was.
But she still thought about it. What did she really want if she could have anything?
The Question That Lingered
A week had passed since the dream. But it stayed with Meera, lingering like a song she couldn't shake off.
The Goddess's words echoed in her mind: What do you want?
It was no longer about money or comfort. It was about relief. About escape. About control.
She knew what she wanted.
She could not live her life like her mother, who had spent her entire life raising her two children and caring for the family. She died at the ripe old age of 80, alone in her room. Her son, who lived in the US, did not bother to come for the last rites. Her daughter barely managed to do the needful alone, earning Sameer’s displeasure on the “ruined weekend.”
No, that would never be her life. She would have control.
The rational part of her brain argued that it was not real. This was her method of escape. Her brain was protecting her sanity by conjuring the supernatural.
Maybe so.
But a part of her waited for the Goddess to come back and grant her wish.
And she did.
The Night of Almost
That night, after the children had gone to sleep, Meera went to the balcony. A light breeze ruffled her hair. Meera’s heartbeat thundered in her ears. Should I do it now? Will it work? Who will find me? Sameer or the children?
She shivered at the thought of her children finding her. They are so young. They need me.
She sat still, listening to the quiet, to the breath of the house.
The choice still hovered in the air, possible, waiting. The escape remained within reach.
Not Yet.
Tomorrow, she thought, the choice might be easier—or harder.
Choosing Life
One year later.
The vacation turned out to be better than Meera had expected. Not perfect but gentler, warmer, almost like stepping into a version of her life she had once dreamed of.
She had begun to change, quietly but steadily. There was a new steadiness in her—an awareness that she was no longer captive to fate. She was not drifting anymore. She had made a choice, and that choice gave her power.
It wasn’t easy. There were no miracles, no sweeping transformations. But piece by piece, Meera began to gather the parts of herself that had been chipped away over the years. The parts that laughed easily, that hummed while cooking her family’s and her favorite dishes. The part that lingered in the mirror a few seconds longer to meet her own eyes.
She started caring for herself in small, deliberate ways—an extra spoonful of sugar in her tea, a stolen hour to read, an afternoon nap, a long spa day, a beautiful new saree. She took care of her balcony garden more tenderly than ever. And at last, the sunflowers bloomed—tall, unapologetic, golden, bathing the balcony in yellow warmth. Her someday had finally arrived.
The boulder that had sat on her chest for so long began to shrink. It didn’t vanish overnight, but it lightened.
Sameer noticed.
He was no longer quite so sharp with her. The irritation in his voice dulled. He looked at her longer. Spoke a little more gently. Sometimes, he even listened.
It was as if he had started to see her again—not just as the woman who packed the lunchboxes and kept the house from collapsing, but as the vibrant, thoughtful, curious young gitl he had fallen in love with and married.
Their marriage, worn and weary as it was, began to heal.
The family vacation, after five long years of broken promises, brought them all closer. There were fights, of course—tired children, long drives —but there was laughter too. Shared jokes. Photographs. A sense of something slowly stitching itself back together. She finally began to feel it, a sense of belonging.
That night, the Goddess visited her again. A knowing smile on her face.
"So, Meera. Have you decided?"
"I almost did," Meera admitted. "But my family needs me."
"Ah. Love holds you here."
"Yes. And something else. I think I—I think I want to choose life. I don't know for how long. But I want to see my children grow. I want to plant more flowers. I want to sing again. I want to find moments of peace. And I don’t want to be the victim anymore. Life is unpredictable, but I must do my part to the best of my ability. I have to be responsible for my own happiness.”
The Goddess nodded slowly. "The choice remains with you. Always. But perhaps you will find you no longer need it."
“Maybe,” Meera smiled.
"Will I see you again?"
"Perhaps. But I think you are ready to carry this alone."
When Meera woke, the house was quiet, the early morning sunlight filtering through the curtains.
She breathed in deeply.
The choice was still hers. But she chose to stay.
The Dream
“Are you sure?” The Goddess’s cheeks dimpled in barely concealed laughter. Meera felt her face flame—if such a thing were even possible in a dream.
“Do you find my wish amusing?” Meera could not keep the bite out of her voice.
The Goddess’s smile faded, her eyes turning unreadable. “Amusing? No. A little unusual, maybe. I just thought you would ask for something more… tangible, like a big house, money, or eternal youth. This—this is a little unexpected. Are you truly certain you don’t want something else? You could live the rest of your life in total luxury.”
Meera shook her head adamantly.
“Material things can make one happy temporarily. Once I get used to them, I might become miserable again. So, all I want is a choice. I should be the one to decide when my life ends. I don’t want to keep living a purposeless life, being a burden on anybody.”
The Goddess smiled. A little sadly.
“Ok, Meera, if that’s what you want. But remember, choice is a dangerous gift. There will be several moments in your life when you will not want to go on. All humans experience this. But they do not choose the hour of their death, and most are grateful for that mercy. You must think a hundred times over before manifesting your wish. Because you won’t get a do-over.”
Tendrils of doubt began creeping into Meera’s mind. What have I done? Am I playing with fire? Should I take it back, ask for something else? But she quashed the doubts before they took any firmer hold.
“I understand.”
“Your wish is granted. Tathastu.” The Goddess disappeared before she could ask anything else.
TRINNNNNGGGGGGGGG
Meera jolted awake at the alarm.
5:30 AM, Wednesday, July 26.
She sat up on her bed. The memory of her dream still vivid.
Did that happen? The dream felt so real, just like the last time when the Goddess had first appeared in her dreams a month back.
“What are you doing, Meera? Get up and get the children ready.” Sameer’s irritated voice broke her reverie.
The clock said 5:45 AM.
Oh shit. Today was a school day. The children will be late. She had been sitting on her bed for 15 minutes. She dashed out, her dream temporarily forgotten.
Sameer had already gone back to sleep.
She woke her 8-year-old son and 6-year-old daughter, who decided to be extra difficult that day.
She would never know how she managed to make breakfast and get the kids into their uniforms by the time their school bus arrived at 6:30 AM.
She was already exhausted, and the day had barely begun.
Sameer had just woken up, brushing his teeth near the washbasin, still relaxed, untouched by the weight of the day that was already pressing down on her.
“Pack a nice lunch for me today, maybe some biriyani. That asshat Abhishek keeps bragging about how his wife packs the best lunches for him every day.”
“Sameer, please, not today. Biriyani will take time, and I am already running behind today. I'll give it to you some other day. I promise.”
“You always have excuses ready. You have time to sit and daydream in the morning, but not cook something nice for your husband.”
Meera felt the fight coming up, just like it did almost every day. In recent years, it seemed like the smallest things could set her husband off, and she always bore the brunt of his mood swings.
He would launch into a tirade about how difficult life was for him and how hard he worked to keep his family comfortable, insisting Meera had it easy, simply managing the kids and the house.
The familiar throb of her ever-present migraine began to stir again, like an unwelcome guest that never truly left.
As usual, she ignored all the alarm bells in her head that told her this wasn’t normal; this wasn't what it should be like. She knew she had to go on. For the sake of her kids. At least until they grow up.
The balcony was Meera’s favorite place in the house. It was small, bordering on tiny, but she loved the freedom it offered. Unlike the rest of the house, which always reminded her of a dungeon, the balcony was open and gave her an uninterrupted view of the city skyline.
She had planted small flowering shrubs in little pots, caring for them like her children. Each new colorful blossom gave her as much delight as her own kids’ school achievements.
Meera had always loved sunflowers—their bold yellow faces, always turned toward the light, filled her with an inexplicable euphoria. But Sameer had dismissed the idea, saying they would take up too much space and require too much care. So she had tucked the longing away, like so many others, with a promise to herself: Someday.
And so, her balcony remained empty of the one thing she yearned for most. It was a quiet absence, invisible to everyone else but her. The sunflowers never came.
Sameer had left for the office. She had an hour to herself before starting lunch preparations.
As she watched a common myna flutter around the nearby tree, the memory of her dream surged back in full force.
Then again, surely that was nonsense. Goddesses don’t go around granting wishes to ordinary mortals like her.
They don’t.
Right?
And yet, dreams aren’t supposed to have sequels.
But this one did.
The First Visit
She remembered the first time the Goddess had come to her. It was about a month ago, after a particularly nasty fight with Sameer. The kind of fight where everything in her head spun and the ceiling fan had started to look dangerously inviting.
That night, she dreamt of her.
The Goddess looked impossibly young, perhaps even younger than Meera herself. She stood resplendent in a pool of moonlight. But today was amavasya, Meera’s brain remembered the pointless information even in her sleep. There shouldn’t be any moonlight tonight.
She looked young, probably younger than Meera herself. She dressed like women from Meera’s mother’s youth: a crisp cotton sari, hair tied back, gold bangles that chimed softly when she moved, like wind against old temple bells. But it was her face that held Meera’s attention. There was something resplendent about it, something that no human could possibly carry. Even in the haze of sleep, Meera knew she was not looking at a person.
“Who are you?” Meera had asked timidly.
“You can call me whatever you want,” the woman said. “Your scriptures have different names for me. It doesn’t matter.”
Meera began to think of her as the Goddess.
“What do you want?” Meera asked, half curious, half afraid.
“It’s more like—what do you want, Meera?”
“I beg your pardon?”
The Goddess sighed. “Everyone wants something, Meera. You’ve shed more tears over the years than you’ve smiled. You don’t even pray much, so I can’t tell what’s on your mind. But you’re a good person. I want to help you.”
Meera was stumped. “But aren’t you omniscient? You’re supposed to know everything.”
“Well, technically yes,” the Goddess shrugged, “but it’s exhausting. Eight billion people, constantly keeping track of everyone’s thoughts? No, thank you. I mostly listen when people pray. That makes it easier to know what they want.”
Meera had said nothing. She had stopped praying long ago.
She thought hard. There were so many things she needed. Money, jewels, a bigger house, another shot at love, a good life for her children. Maybe a new life, an opportunity to start again. She could not decide. Nothing seemed right.
“You don’t have to decide right away,” said the Goddess as if sensing her dilemma.
Her voice was gentle, almost kind.
“I will come again.”
Meera did not remember waking up. There was no transition. Just the heavy silence of her room and the hum of the ceiling fan. But this had to have been a dream. She wasn’t even sure she still believed in a higher power, let alone that power’s ability to grant her anything she wanted.
What a weird dream that was.
But she still thought about it. What did she really want if she could have anything?
The Question That Lingered
A week had passed since the dream. But it stayed with Meera, lingering like a song she couldn't shake off.
The Goddess's words echoed in her mind: What do you want?
It was no longer about money or comfort. It was about relief. About escape. About control.
She knew what she wanted.
She could not live her life like her mother, who had spent her entire life raising her two children and caring for the family. She died at the ripe old age of 80, alone in her room. Her son, who lived in the US, did not bother to come for the last rites. Her daughter barely managed to do the needful alone, earning Sameer’s displeasure on the “ruined weekend.”
No, that would never be her life. She would have control.
The rational part of her brain argued that it was not real. This was her method of escape. Her brain was protecting her sanity by conjuring the supernatural.
Maybe so.
But a part of her waited for the Goddess to come back and grant her wish.
And she did.
The Night of Almost
That night, after the children had gone to sleep, Meera went to the balcony. A light breeze ruffled her hair. Meera’s heartbeat thundered in her ears. Should I do it now? Will it work? Who will find me? Sameer or the children?
She shivered at the thought of her children finding her. They are so young. They need me.
She sat still, listening to the quiet, to the breath of the house.
The choice still hovered in the air, possible, waiting. The escape remained within reach.
Not Yet.
Tomorrow, she thought, the choice might be easier—or harder.
Choosing Life
One year later.
The vacation turned out to be better than Meera had expected. Not perfect but gentler, warmer, almost like stepping into a version of her life she had once dreamed of.
She had begun to change, quietly but steadily. There was a new steadiness in her—an awareness that she was no longer captive to fate. She was not drifting anymore. She had made a choice, and that choice gave her power.
It wasn’t easy. There were no miracles, no sweeping transformations. But piece by piece, Meera began to gather the parts of herself that had been chipped away over the years. The parts that laughed easily, that hummed while cooking her family’s and her favorite dishes. The part that lingered in the mirror a few seconds longer to meet her own eyes.
She started caring for herself in small, deliberate ways—an extra spoonful of sugar in her tea, a stolen hour to read, an afternoon nap, a long spa day, a beautiful new saree. She took care of her balcony garden more tenderly than ever. And at last, the sunflowers bloomed—tall, unapologetic, golden, bathing the balcony in yellow warmth. Her someday had finally arrived.
The boulder that had sat on her chest for so long began to shrink. It didn’t vanish overnight, but it lightened.
Sameer noticed.
He was no longer quite so sharp with her. The irritation in his voice dulled. He looked at her longer. Spoke a little more gently. Sometimes, he even listened.
It was as if he had started to see her again—not just as the woman who packed the lunchboxes and kept the house from collapsing, but as the vibrant, thoughtful, curious young gitl he had fallen in love with and married.
Their marriage, worn and weary as it was, began to heal.
The family vacation, after five long years of broken promises, brought them all closer. There were fights, of course—tired children, long drives —but there was laughter too. Shared jokes. Photographs. A sense of something slowly stitching itself back together. She finally began to feel it, a sense of belonging.
That night, the Goddess visited her again. A knowing smile on her face.
"So, Meera. Have you decided?"
"I almost did," Meera admitted. "But my family needs me."
"Ah. Love holds you here."
"Yes. And something else. I think I—I think I want to choose life. I don't know for how long. But I want to see my children grow. I want to plant more flowers. I want to sing again. I want to find moments of peace. And I don’t want to be the victim anymore. Life is unpredictable, but I must do my part to the best of my ability. I have to be responsible for my own happiness.”
The Goddess nodded slowly. "The choice remains with you. Always. But perhaps you will find you no longer need it."
“Maybe,” Meera smiled.
"Will I see you again?"
"Perhaps. But I think you are ready to carry this alone."
When Meera woke, the house was quiet, the early morning sunlight filtering through the curtains.
She breathed in deeply.
The choice was still hers. But she chose to stay.
Poetry 2025 Third Prize, Hassan Muhammad
Birdsong Home-Made
Each morning, singing,
my mother scattered grains
on the ground for the homeless
birds.
As politicians horsewhipped tomorrow
like true bandits,
her pension—once a mountain—
crumbled to dust.
As you break bread
beside these destiny-eaters,
let your hands remember your brain,
frail mouths and humless birds.
Poetry 2025 Second Prize, S Abdulwasi'h Olaitan
manual of becoming
your forehead a smokescreen of curiosity /
vermillion full of questions /
this poem a manual /
making up my own religion / stringnzm /
cherry blossoms lose their flowers /
in the tender dance of growing /
from a distance heaven /
butterflies flutter & watch me play like string orchestra /
my mother perches on a subatomic chair /
with her òfii fabrics / her eyes / multicolor of orisons /
her smile / areola of things meant to blossom /
a woman perambulates /
a child clinging on her back /
as hope to her vertebral column /
she asks for a seat /
dad will not farm dissatisfaction this time /
some little boys in their teen /
vault over fences & blame a conductor for holding their change /
sun sets like bruise fading into night /
we watch grandmas stroll with their àpótí & àtùpà /
dust settles an eye level away /
like unspoken prayers in believer's chest waiting for amin /
police wallet
the song darting over the lawn /
wave their hands & /
pretend to have left /
a couple sit / so close
that it's hard for ant to butt in /
meek everywhere /
sign of angels among us /
i perform ablution /
inwardly /
i weave constellation into my hairs /
braiding stories incognito /
grievances are first
shapes i could mold with just a string /
the left curve of the string /
a memory held against the sky
of concealment /
the horizontal line in the left corner /
a garden / big enough to bivouac a little girl/
and her oversized griefs /
the horizontal line of the right corner /
depicts / her mother's prayers/
open up like delicate flowers /
searching for the first rays of dawn /
the right curve of the string /
are open wounds that do not paint a man of pride /
from the upper tooth of the first string /
the samaras in the mountain of sanctuary /
like gardens harboring hidden blades /
towards her mother/in the mouth of war /
the lower tooth of the string / returns her to her mother's bequest /
as though to say / child / never be cowered /
eventually dawn arrives / follows winter's breath /
follows flowers that sprout her mother's bequest /
from her chest /
and make them a survival wing
that reaches for starlight/
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