Prose 500 2018 Winners & Featured Writers

Prose 500 Longlist
First Prize – Vaidyanathapuram Shankar
Second Prize – Shivani Dua
Third Prize – Sohini Ghosh      
  
Featured Writers
Swatilekha Roy     Bindu Saxena        

First Prize – The Unreserved Compartment By Vaidyanathapuram Shankar
It was almost midnight as the train to Cochin approached a station somewhere near Salem.
The three-tier unreserved compartment in which teenage brothers Sam and Jose were travelling was crowded as usual, except somehow one small area or cubicle in front of the boys.
“Do you know why that area is empty always?” whispered Sam to Jose. Before Jose could answer, their mom hushed them up and asked them to go to sleep. At the same time, the train chugged to a halt at the small unassuming station.
***
Arun was perspiring hard as he was running alongside the train looking for a seat in the crowded unreserved compartments. The halt time available was very short as it was a very minor station. Just as Arun was giving up in frustration, he saw the empty area in the compartment and got in happily.

As the train moved out, Arun made preparations to lie down, thankful for this oasis of emptiness among the crowd. Though his part of the coach was dark due to malfunctioning lights, he was happy to rest his tired body after a hard day at work.

Just as he was about to close his eyes, he was startled to find a pair of eyes staring at him in the darkness from the seat opposite him. Though it was quite darkish, he could see the pair of eyes quite clearly. Though he found it eerie and a bit disconcerting in the general darkness, he said, “Hi!”

A voice emanated from the other side as the ‘eyes’ responded, “Going far, huh?”
“No, I need to get down at Erode,” said Arun.
“Don’t worry, doze off sir, I will wake you since it’s still more than a couple of hours away. Anyway I don’t intend to sleep.”

Though Arun was usually very wary of such assurances from strangers, he was overpowered by sleep and dozed off. Suddenly, he was woken up very rudely by his fellow traveler, “Wake up, wake up, no time to lose, sir! The train is about to leave your destination.”

Arun looked outside but it was total darkness and could see nothing at all.
Erode station without power! Quite unbelievable, but there was no time to wonder about this.
“Quick sir, the train has already started!”

If time had permitted, Arun would have noticed an eagerness and strange excitement in his co-traveler’s voice. But he had sadly no time to even think. The train had started moving slowly.
As Arun stepped out over the small bridge in total darkness, right into the gushing waters of a small canal, he heard raucous and almost violent laughter from his fellow traveler.

***
Next morning, Sam started telling Jose, “They say a guy once jumped out of this train somewhere near Erode, from the area next to us; that’s why people avoid that part of the compartment.”
Before he could explain further, mom shouted, “Don’t scare the young boy with all stupid tales…”

Second Prize – The Mermaid By Shivani Dua
A streak of light was sneaking through the window of my room. I peeped through the window and saw a mermaid down the street. She was walking gracefully, carrying a plethora of colours spread on her palette. My eyes followed her majestic gait which had left me spell bound and fascinated. I felt blessed for being considered worthy to behold this fantasy. I closed my eyes and thanked the streak of light for making me meet my muse. 

I exclaimed,’ Oh! A lovely feast to the eyes. How has this lovely mermaid come here? Has she lost her way?’ I was suddenly jerked out of my reverie by my sister,’ ‘Hey! What’s up?’ she asked. I replied,’ Oh dear! Nothing special.’ ‘But you were mumbling something, why were you speaking to yourself?’ she enquired. I just smiled as my reply to her query. How could I reply when I myself was not in a position to explain what I was going through? She glanced at my face, looked down and again looked at me. She failed to decipher anything. Her suspicious glance had put me in a fix. Thankfully, she was called by mother. 

She went down leaving me again with my mermaid and my train of thoughts. I looked down. The mermaid was still there but what I failed to notice earlier was her bare, soiled feet moving on the rough road in the scorching sun and her tattered dress (that flowing long skirt which bestowed on her that perfect mermaid look) showing her poverty peeping from various spots of her body. The plethora of colours were actually the colourful balloons to lure the kids so that they could persuade their parents to buy them one and the mermaid could get something to eat with the money received. I ran down to meet her. 

When she saw me gazing at her, she asked, ‘Do you want to buy one?’ Her sweet voice had a velvety touch. I fumbled for words and just gave a nod. I gave her all the money I had in my pocket. She was shocked, may be she thought I was an eccentric. She returned me the balance amount which I refused to take. To this she reacted rather sternly, “I will charge the exact amount not more not less. I hate sympathy,”  she said. This time I could not refuse and took the money back. She looked at me and said, ‘Whatever I earn I do that with my hard work and will continue doing that no matter come what may.’ 

She took her colourful palette and went away, leaving me speechless. My whole world of colours and illusions came shattering down as I was smitten with reality. Despite being bare footed, she had a firm foothold on reality. It wasn’t she who had lost her way (as I had thought earlier). Rather it was me who was groping in dark and needed guidance. I went back to my room. The streak of light was gone perhaps finding some other window to sneak in.

The Missing Pensioner By Sohini Ghosh
When I couldn’t find Mrs. Sen in the queue of pensioners for the third consecutive month, I was disappointed. She was a jovial old woman who treated us bank staff like her children. The sombre mood of the office would light up every time the youthful old lady would enter. Her son, Prabhat, started coming instead, carrying the required documents with his mother’s thumbprints. On asking him, I learnt that she had fallen ill and had been advised bed rest. I sighed. Old age was finally catching up on her.

One evening, I happened to be in the same area in which Mrs. Sen resided. I thought of visiting her and asking about her health.
I bought a bouquet from a local florist and asked him her house number. He pointed behind him towards a pale green apartment with identical windows and said, “The one with the freezer.” That was a weird identifier, I thought as I moved towards it. As I came closer to the apartment, I indeed saw a freezer on one of the windows. Without giving much thought, I entered the building and took an elevator to the second floor.

A young woman answered the door. She said she was the senior Mr. Sen’s nurse and asked me to wait on enquiring about Prabhat and Mrs. Sen.

When I was left alone I went to the bedroom hoping to find Mrs. Sen there. But it was empty. I went to the other room though I never expected her there as that was the room with the freezer.
To my amazement, there was not one freezer but two freezers kept next to each other. They were huge in size and were continuously making a buzzing sound lending an eerie and uncomfortable feel to the otherwise quiet house. I checked behind me. There was nobody. I tiptoed to the first freezer and held its handle. My heart was pounding as I pulled it open.
I took a deep breath. It was empty.

I then turned towards the other freezer. I felt like a burglar but I had to check inside. Praying to God, I opened the door. I almost shrieked when I saw what was inside.
The naked and yellow body of Mrs. Sen was seated inside the freezer.

My head was spinning. I wanted to vomit. I somehow pulled myself and shut close the freezer.
I ran towards the door when something stopped me. There was something about the body. Something weird. Something different.

I turned back. I opened the freezer again. I raised the lifeless arm of Mrs. Sen and saw her fingers. Her thumb had a blue ink stain. I heard the nurse returning with Prabhat. I closed the freezer again and ran out of the house wondering why the second freezer was kept.

Without waiting for the elevator, I sprinted down the stairs. Just as I was about to hail a taxi, I bumped into the senior Mr. Sen.

FEATURED WRITERS

A Mountain Wish by Swatilekha Roy
Mountains, blue skies, silk clouds and herds of conifers swishing with the breeze – Kashmir has it all, and we were here to see it. Vipul was the one sponsoring this trip, as he had gotten his dream job abroad last year; I had started pursuing a degree in Marine Biology in the Nicobar Islands. Neha, my eldest cousin, had divorced her drunk, know-it-all husband just a month ago, and we couldn’t be prouder of her. This trip had been our childhood dream, and we were overwhelmed!

We reached Sonamarg in late afternoon. With countless flowers and spans of green grazed upon by wild ponies; the “Meadow of Gold” was no misnomer. We rented horses and started down the narrow dust road toward Thajiwas Glacier. The horsemen were friendly mountain boys, who told us about the weather and brown trout in the river in broken Hindi. They waited as we sledded and played in the snow like kids. To our surprise, one of them named Thimbu even invited us to spend the night with them. He offered us a cheaper rate than the nearby hotels, and despite Vipul’s protests, we agreed.

Thimbu’s humble house in the foothills, with Nallah Sindh gushing past it, was picturesque. Pashmina draped floors and the aroma of barbeque made it feel homey. His parents were overjoyed to have guests. Mani, his little sister, gave us tubs of warm water. After freshening, we helped Thimbu and his father, Kachum, collect firewood.

Over dinner of grilled cauliflower and barley bread, Kachum told us how they travel down to Srinagar during winter, when Sonamarg is covered in snow. We listened in awe. These mountain people lived without Internet access, room heaters, and other conveniences that we take for granted, yet they were so content. Sitting on the narrow terrace, we stared at innumerable stars studding the magnificent sky like bright denizens of an inky night. Nearby, Mani was munching the coffee bites we had given her.

Suddenly, our eyes fell on a shooting star in the north sky, and we exchanged our wishes. Thimbu blushed, saying that he wished to see the sea; Mani wished for more coffee bites. On coaxing, Neha revealed that she had imagined her ex-husband without his moustache. I wished that I would discover a new species of sea life sometime in the future. Ultimately, workaholic, Internet-loving Vipul’s answer surprised us the most. “I wished we could stay here forever!”

A PIE IN THE SKY by Bindu Saxena
It starts with me walking around to an award function. I was part of a strange crowd of people, pictures, frames and colours. I pass through a huge glass enclosure. I try to touch the mesmerizing curtains but these continue to elude me. Its prism-like effect stuns me.
The lights blink for a fraction. As the flashes return, my eyes see someone seated on an exquisite throne. The face was his. The eyes were his. The stance was his, and all that I saw belonged only to him. His eyes sparkled as always. His attire was one that he wore at Eliot Park – the place we met last.

I could see his right profile: A part of his glasses, the side of his shapely nose; the lips that I longed to kiss, and the cheek I wanted to touch softly. I wondered if he still has that prominent mole on his left cheek because that view was not in my vision territory. I had a quick peek at his hand that used to caress me. The cufflinks sent constant glitters and a portion of his favorite white shirt were all that I set my eyes on.
It felt like an Easter feast.

My heart raced. It was bubbling with constant desire. I was back in times when I fell in love with this erudite through an uncanny incident and our friendship elevated to a next level. Alas! It turned transcontinental and was left to open ending…
Oblivious of my presence, he sits with an undivided attention. This brilliant evening happens on a sky high terrace. The venue had richness in awesomeness with a complete out of the world experience!

Equipment and services were all under a remote control operation. The elevators would read your business card and decide if you were privileged to enter!
The evening ended with his introduction. Thunderous applause followed. Suddenly I hear my name being announced. My feet began to take off. I sensed I could fly. Amidst sparkles and illumination I fly like an American Goldfinch. I stand before him in complete amazement. It was a brilliance of panorama with my name emblazoned all around in air, flashing our puppy-love pictures.
Our teary eyes meet as he holds me in an inseparable hug. We become a couple. Walking in the aisle, there were showers of celebrations. Tulips and Red Roses wrapped us in. The gates to the glorious Presidential Suite open.
His scent waffles in the room and I try to find my feet…

Prose 300 2018 Winners & Featured Writers

Prose 300 Longlist
First Prize – Swatilekha Roy
Second Prize – Anila Mathew Vivek 
Third Prize – Shloka Shankar       

First Prize, Bitter By Swatilekha Roy
These unending fields of plenty speak nothing of the girl with that sparkle in her eyes.  This is Idukki district of Kerala, where dreams get crushed faster than the traditional coffee beans it’s renowned for. They do talk of the boy, with skin darker than chocolate, who got lost in the web of his expectations. ‘The boy who wandered,’ they call him.

To wander is to sway. To expect is to dare! Here, the world is oblivious of dares. The burden of an ancestral occupation sits heavy on its tilted back.

‘The bitter, the better,' they prune leaves and sing in unison- men and women united by a common destiny. A destiny that sustains! Although, just. Now, it’s a disgrace that the girl, with kohl eyes and a spring to her walk, should think otherwise. Doesn’t she realize how shallow dreams are? Why does she ask them about the seven seas and poetry?

They listen as she sings off tune and whispers to the moon. “I’ll touch you. Someday.” The moon whispers back, when they aren’t peering. One day, just like the rest, her dreams will have blended with cold regret, as she keeps brewing endless warm pleasures for cocaine lovers over the world.

Second Prize , Grief-Relief By Anila Mathew Vivek
Raman waited for the crows to arrive. The family clapped their hands and soon crows did eat the sacrificial offering. All agreed that Dakshayini Amma’s soul was indeed at peace.
Her only son Raman had performed all his duties in a dignified way, while his wife had ministered to her mother-in-law satisfactorily. The two grandchildren and spouses duly arrived for the well-attended funeral. All the arrangements had befitted the status of the family.
Raman looked at a nephew who was leaving for office after the ceremonies. On the spur of the moment, Raman called out: “Hey! Wait up!”

He strode quickly while his wife looked inquiringly. Ignoring all questioning glances, Raman walked up panting to the young fellow, impatiently glancing at his mobile. “What is it Ramu ammava (uncle)? I am getting late for the office…”

“Can you take me back home?” asked the bereaved son. Taken aback, his nephew answered puzzled, “But right now? Aren’t you all returning together?”
“No!” came the vehement reply. “I want you to take me on this bike,” replied his uncle. Raman lovingly stroked the machine.

Ceding to the unusual demand, his nephew gave him the mandatory helmet. As the bewildered family watched, Raman rode pillion with an unfathomable expression. Raman savoured the breeze, the jerks of the ride and the feel of the helmet, still wearing the wet mundu.
The only child of his parents, the precious heir had been kept away from all things “risky”; no riding bikes, no working away from home, no playing sports, no travelling…
The burden of love had been lifted. Instead of crushing grief, there was a sense of relief.

Third Prize, Saturday (A haibun) by Shloka Shankar
For as long as I can remember, I’ve more often than not met those special to me on a Saturday. Maybe it’s the convenience of a weekend or maybe it’s how it’s meant to be. I’ve not analysed it to death. At least, not yet. But it makes you think, doesn’t it? You look forward to that moment when everything arranges itself as if by magic and time slips past you in liquid anticipation. The small talk closes in on you and you’re worried about what to say next. How do you make yourself sound larger than you are? And then you realize you don’t need to. Here, it’s okay to not think, to lower your guard, be whole, be vulnerable, to just breathe.
                                                        heart sutra        untying the fabric of my universe

Drabble Microfiction Winners & Featured Writers

Drabble Longlist

First Prize – Swatilekha Roy

Second Prize – Shobhana Kumar

Third Prize – Sudha Viswanathan

Featured Writers

Divya Garg        Gitanjali Maria        Shloka Shankar

Mauli Joshi        Rianne Samuel         Sohini Ghosh

First Prize, Burn by Swatilekha Roy
I had fished them out without conviction. Photographs of a stranger, posing with the sun in her hair, sea in her eyes, and the universe in her smile. Asha, who was scared of monsters.

“I love you, Asha,” I told the mirror with conviction.

My acid burns did what they always do: burn.

Second Prize, First class by Shobhana Kumar
She has survived, alright. Eight years, a hundred thousand miles and counting. Her seats hide a million memories—spilt coffee, profound conversations with fifteen-year-olds, drenched-in-sweat-evening trips from football, the anger of rejections, the blushes from crushes, long silences, one hell of a lot of swearing (alone, of course), notes to self and even some poetry.

Today, eyes well. For the first time her scars are visible. Depreciation, they call it.

Third Prize, The Proposal by Sudha Viswanathan
Unable to withstand the stampede in the crowded bus, the fragile strap of my sandals ripped apart. Limping my way, I reached the restaurant where I was to meet my prospective groom for the first time.

An hour with no sign of the guy, I limped my way back to the auto stand and reached home only to find my parents waiting with an anxiety writ countenance.

“The guy called up to say that we had cheated him. He says you are lame. Apparently, he had seen you limping.” I smiled as I realized that ‘Marriages were made in Heaven.’

Fraandships (A haibun) by Shloka Shankar
“Do you have trouble sustaining friendships?”
“All the time, in fact.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Someone told me I’m emotionally maturer than my peers. That could be it.”
“Do you sometimes find yourself at a loss to describe how you feel?”
“What has that got to do with anything?”
“It’s at the heart of everything. Do you ever express yourself?”
“Only when I can’t take it anymore and the pressure starts to build.”
“I see.”
“Do you, really?”

waiting the wait a few hundred visualizations

Youthful Experience by Mauli Joshi
“Long live the king, longer live the queen,” hailed the crowds.
“Why would you live longer than me, my dear,” asked the still naïve king.

The queen whose juvenility was the talk of the town replied, “it’s the game of chess my lord, where the king can win if the queen lives the longest.”
“Does that mean they want me to live –”

The obstinate queen interrupted, “Can the Kingdom live without its king?”
Her parlance had often dissolved the doubts of many.
“Can the queen live without her king?”
Two drops of venin in the king’s goblet was the answer.

The Swing Chair by Rianne Samuel
The whistle of the kettle pulled her back to the present. She quickly picked herself up from the swing chair that was carefully placed near the window sill. Jack fixed the swing chair himself. After pouring a cup of tea for herself, she went back to the window sill. That’s where she did all her thinking. The hot cup of chamomile tea, in some way, helped with the tiredness. After all, the funeral preparations had drained her out. The house fell silent once more; the love of her life was gone. Memories now took over her consciousness again.

The Hand by Sohini Ghosh
It was not the usual kind of hand. It was exceptionally soft with innumerable number of lines patterned intricately all over the palm. The nails had been shapely cut but there was no polish. That was unfortunate.

But what intrigued me most about the hand was the enormous ring on the forefinger. The diamond shaped ring head was covering half of the middle finger.

I stopped examining the hand and tenderly wiped the blood dripping from it before hanging it on my wall. The space in the centre was finally filled. It was now time to work on the corners.

Prose 500 2018 Longlist

Prose 500 Winners
Sohini Ghosh        Gomathi Mohan       
Shivani Dua          Swatilekha Roy     
Vaidyanathapuram Shankar     Bindu Saxena

The Missing Pensioner by Sohini Ghosh
When I couldn’t find Mrs. Sen in the queue of pensioners for the third consecutive month, I was disappointed. She was a jovial old woman who treated us bank staff like her children. The sombre mood of the office would lit up every time the youthful old lady would enter. Her son, Prabhat, started coming instead, carrying the required documents with his mother’s thumbprints. On asking him, I learnt that she had fallen ill and had been advised bed rest. I sighed. Old age was finally catching up on her.

One evening, I happened to be in the same area in which Mrs. Sen resided. I thought of visiting her and asking about her health.
I bought a bouquet from a local florist and asked him her house number. He pointed behind him towards a pale green apartment with identical windows and said, “The one with the freezer.” That was a weird identifier, I thought as I moved towards it. As I came closer to the apartment, I indeed saw a freezer on one of the windows. Without giving much thought, I entered the building and took an elevator to the second floor.

A young woman answered the door. She said she was the senior Mr. Sen’s nurse and asked me to wait on enquiring about Prabhat and Mrs. Sen.
When I was left alone I went to the bedroom hoping to find Mrs. Sen there. But it was empty. I went to the other room though I never expected her there as that was the room with the freezer.
To my amazement, there was not one freezer but two freezers kept next to each other. They were huge in size and were continuously making a buzzing sound lending an eerie and uncomfortable feel to the otherwise quiet house. I checked behind me. There was nobody. I tiptoed to the first freezer and held its handle. My heart was pounding as I pulled it open.
I took a deep breath. It was empty.

I then turned towards the other freezer. I felt like a burglar but I had to check inside. Praying to God, I opened the door. I almost shrieked when I saw what was inside.
The naked and yellow body of Mrs. Sen was seated inside the freezer.

My head was spinning. I wanted to vomit. I somehow pulled myself and shut close the freezer.
I ran towards the door when something stopped me. There was something about the body. Something weird. Something different. I turned back. I opened the freezer again. I raised the lifeless arm of Mrs. Sen and saw her fingers. Her thumb had a blue ink stain.
I heard the nurse returning with Prabhat. I closed the freezer again and ran out of the house wondering why the second freezer was kept.
Without waiting for the elevator, I sprinted down the stairs. Just as I was about to hail a taxi, I bumped into the senior Mr. Sen.

Going To School by Gomathi Mohan
Schooling Is An Endless Cycle – I Just Need To Make It Through This Week. Every week.
This poster on the wall, met Mrs. Mistry’s eyes, as she entered Emad’s room.
“Pesar beta! Get up, it’s six already! You’ll be late again.” It had become a daily ritual for the past two weeks. Maybe a new city, new school and a co-ed one at that, needed more time to acclimatize! 

”Shall I skip today, just one day Maman… pleeease!! ” His sleepy voice pleaded as he wrapped his quilt tighter around.
”Emad Aaojo! No bahaana… Heated your bathwater, coffee is waiting. Making French toast for breakfast.” A ruse that seemed to always work.
Crawling half-heartedly out of his warm haven, he stepped out. 

A steaming mug of coffee revved him. In another half an hour he was ready. The hot fluffy french toasts glistening rich with butter, topped with maple syrup doubled up his appetite.
Wiping his hands on his Maman’s apron, he quickly put his shoes and waited for her to assist with the necktie. ”Hmm… How much will you make your Maman slog? This one last time!”
While tying, she noticed a worried look in his eyes. ”What’s the matter Emad?”
Seeing anxiety in her eyes, he started slowly,” It’s the girls and boys at school, Maman. Real bullies!”

”Arrey that’s all? Come on, you can handle!”
”You don’t know, how much fun they make of my height and head.”
“No, no, Pesar beta. You are just a bit challenged, vertically. It’s not your fault. As for your head, I have only seen wise people carrying it.”
Oh, it’s the winter blues! Thought Maman. 

“Give them some time, Pesar. Am sure once they know you, will love you! Here, take your bag, the driver is waiting.”
Both Mrs. Mistry’s breath and patience were by now wearing out. Sensing his Waterloo, Emad dragged his feet, lugging his bag to the waiting car. He nodded to the driver’s ‘Good morning Baba’. Bade a half-hearted goodbye to his mother. 

A silent ten minute drive took them through winding roads,  as the flower laden trees and early morning freshness, crisp with the winter bite flew past. Emad was lost in thought when the huge imposing gates came into view. His heart sank as the car rolled through the iron gates.
He could hear the bell going as he shuffled along the garden path, up the porch and the never ending corridor that led to the auditorium for the morning assembly.

The layers of clothes, sweater and a blazer weighed him down. He trudged the foyer to the entrance door.
The school had assembled and there was pin-drop silence. Calming his nerves, he measured his steps heavily up the dias to the podium where the address system lay. Taking the mike, he addressed the school, ‘Good Morning children! ‘
The whole school chorused in unison to wish back Emad Mistry, The Principal of Arav Valley International.

The Mermaid by Shivani Dua
A streak of light was sneaking through the window of my room. I peeped through the window and saw a mermaid down the street. She was walking gracefully, carrying a plethora of colours spread on her palette. My eyes followed her majestic gait which had left me spell bound and fascinated. I felt blessed for being considered worthy to behold this fantasy. I closed my eyes and thanked the streak of light for making me meet my muse. 

I exclaimed,’ Oh! A lovely feast to the eyes. How has this lovely mermaid come here? Has she lost her way?’ I was suddenly jerked out of my reverie by my sister,’ ‘Hey! What’s up?’ she asked. I replied,’ Oh dear! Nothing special.’ ‘But you were mumbling something, why were you speaking to yourself?’ she enquired. I just smiled as my reply to her query. How could I reply when I myself was not in a position to explain what I was going through? She glanced at my face, looked down and again looked at me. She failed to decipher anything. Her suspicious glance had put me in a fix. Thankfully, she was called by mother. 

She went down leaving me again with my mermaid and my train of thoughts. I looked down. The mermaid was still there but what I failed to notice earlier was her bare, soiled feet moving on the rough road in the scorching sun and her tattered dress (that flowing long skirt which bestowed on her that perfect mermaid look) showing her poverty peeping from various spots of her body. The plethora of colours were actually the colourful balloons to lure the kids so that they could persuade their parents to buy them one and the mermaid could get something to eat with the money received. I ran down to meet her. 

When she saw me gazing at her, she asked, ‘Do you want to buy one?’ Her sweet voice had a velvety touch. I fumbled for words and just gave a nod. I gave her all the money I had in my pocket. She was shocked, may be she thought I was an eccentric .She returned me the balance amount which I refused to take. To this she reacted rather sternly-’I will charge the exact amount not more not less. I hate sympathy,’ she said. This time I could not refuse and took the money back. She looked at me and said, ‘Whatever I earn I do that with my hard work and will continue doing that no matter come what may.’ 

She took her colourful palette and went away, leaving me speechless. My whole world of colours and illusions came shattering down as I was smitten with reality. Despite being bare footed, she had a firm foothold on reality. It wasn’t she who had lost her way (as I had thought earlier). Rather it was me who was groping in dark and needed guidance. I went back to my room. The streak of light was gone perhaps finding some other window to sneak in.

A Mountain Wish by Swatilekha Roy
Mountains, blue skies, silk clouds and herds of conifers swishing with the breeze – Kashmir has it all, and we were here to see it. Vipul was the one sponsoring this trip, as he had gotten his dream job abroad last year; I had started pursuing a degree in Marine Biology in the Nicobar Islands. Neha, my eldest cousin, had divorced her drunk, know-it-all husband just a month ago, and we couldn’t be prouder of her. This trip had been our childhood dream, and we were overwhelmed!

We reached Sonamarg in late afternoon. With countless flowers and spans of green grazed upon by wild ponies; the “Meadow of Gold” was no misnomer. We rented horses and started down the narrow dust road toward Thajiwas Glacier. The horsemen were friendly mountain boys, who told us about the weather and brown trout in the river in broken Hindi. They waited as we sledded and played in the snow like kids. To our surprise, one of them named Thimbu even invited us to spend the night with them. He offered us a cheaper rate than the nearby hotels, and despite Vipul’s protests, we agreed.

Thimbu’s humble house in the foothills, with Nallah Sindh gushing past it, was picturesque. Pashmina draped floors and the aroma of barbeque made it feel homey. His parents were overjoyed to have guests. Mani, his little sister, gave us tubs of warm water. After freshening, we helped Thimbu and his father, Kachum, collect firewood.

Over dinner of grilled cauliflower and barley bread, Kachum told us how they travel down to Srinagar during winter, when Sonamarg is covered in snow. We listened in awe. These mountain people lived without Internet access, room heaters, and other conveniences that we take for granted, yet they were so content. Sitting on the narrow terrace, we stared at innumerable stars studding the magnificent sky like bright denizens of an inky night. Nearby, Mani was munching the coffee bites we had given her.

Suddenly, our eyes fell on a shooting star in the north sky, and we exchanged our wishes. Thimbu blushed, saying that he wished to see the sea; Mani wished for more coffee bites. On coaxing, Neha revealed that she had imagined her ex-husband without his moustache. I wished that I would discover a new species of sea life sometime in the future.
Ultimately, workaholic, Internet-loving Vipul’s answer surprised us the most. “I wished we could stay here forever!”

The Unreserved Compartment by Vaidyanathapuram Shankar
It was almost midnight as the train to Cochin approached a station somewhere near Salem.
The three-tier unreserved compartment in which teenage brothers Sam and Jose were travelling was crowded as usual, except somehow one small area or cubicle in front of the boys.
“Do you know why that area is empty always?” whispered Sam to Jose. Before Jose could answer, their mom hushed them up and asked them to go to sleep. At the same time, the train chugged to a halt at the small unassuming station.
***
Arun was perspiring hard as he was running alongside the train looking for a seat in the crowded unreserved compartments. The halt time available was very short as it was a very minor station. Just as Arun was giving up in frustration, he saw the empty area in the compartment and got in happily.

As the train moved out, Arun made preparations to lie down, thankful for this oasis of emptiness among the crowd. Though his part of the coach was dark due to malfunctioning lights, he was happy to rest his tired body after a hard day at work.

Just as he was about to close his eyes, he was startled to find a pair of eyes staring at him in the darkness from the seat opposite him. Though it was quite darkish, he could see the pair of eyes quite clearly. Though he found it eerie and a bit disconcerting in the general darkness, he said, “Hi!”

A voice emanated from the other side as the ‘eyes’ responded, “Going far, huh?”
“No, I need to get down at Erode,” said Arun.
“Don’t worry, doze off sir, I will wake you since it’s still more than a couple of hours away. Anyway I don’t intend to sleep.”

Though Arun was usually very wary of such assurances from strangers, he was overpowered by sleep and dozed off. Suddenly, he was woken up very rudely by his fellow traveler, “Wake up, wake up, no time to lose, sir! The train is about to leave your destination.”
Arun looked outside but it was total darkness and could see nothing at all.

Erode station without power! Quite unbelievable, but there was no time to wonder about this.
“Quick sir, the train has already started!”
If time had permitted, Arun would have noticed an eagerness and strange excitement in his co-traveler’s voice. But he had sadly no time to even think. The train had started moving slowly.
As Arun stepped out over the small bridge in total darkness, right into the gushing waters of a small canal, he heard raucous and almost violent laughter from his fellow traveler.
***
Next morning, Sam started telling Jose, “They say a guy once jumped out of this train somewhere near Erode, from the area next to us; that’s why people avoid that part of the compartment.”
Before he could explain further, mom shouted, “Don’t scare the young boy with all stupid tales…”

A PIE IN THE SKY
It starts with me walking around to an award function. I was part of a strange crowd of people, pictures, frames and colours. I pass through a huge glass enclosure. I try to touch the mesmerizing curtains but these continue to elude me. Its prism-like effect stuns me.
The lights blink for a fraction. As the flashes return, my eyes see someone seated on an exquisite throne. The face was his. The eyes were his. The stance was his, and all that I saw belonged only to him. His eyes sparkled as always. His attire was one that he wore at Eliot Park – the place we met last.

I could see his right profile: A part of his glasses, the side of his shapely nose; the lips that I longed to kiss, and the cheek I wanted to touch softly. I wondered if he still has that prominent mole on his left cheek because that view was not in my vision territory. I had a quick peek at his hand that used to caress me. The cufflinks sent constant glitters and a portion of his favorite white shirt were all that I set my eyes on.
It felt like an Easter feast.

My heart raced. It was bubbling with constant desire. I was back in times when I fell in love with this erudite through an uncanny incident and our friendship elevated to a next level. Alas! It turned transcontinental and was left to open ending…
Oblivious of my presence, he sits with an undivided attention. This brilliant evening happens on a sky high terrace. The venue had richness in awesomeness with a complete out of the world experience!
 
Equipment and services were all under a remote control operation. The elevators would read your business card and decide if you were privileged to enter!
The evening ended with his introduction. Thunderous applause followed. Suddenly I hear my name being announced. My feet began to take off. I sensed I could fly. Amidst sparkles and illumination I fly like an American Goldfinch. I stand before him in complete amazement. It was a brilliance of panorama with my name emblazoned all around in air, flashing our puppy-love pictures.
 
Our teary eyes meet as he holds me in an inseparable hug. We become a couple. Walking in the aisle, there were showers of celebrations. Tulips and Red Roses wrapped us in. The gates to the glorious
Presidential Suite open.
His scent waffles in the room and I try to find my feet…
Bindu Saxena

Prose 300 2018 Longlist

Prose 300 Winners
 
Drishti Nagdeo         Anila Mathew Vivek            Shloka Shankar        
Swatilekha Roy        Vaidyanathapuram Shankar

Rains by Drishti Nagdeo
If there’s something that can calm down the biggest of all storms, bring a smile on the saddest of all faces, or, beautify the disheveled, it is rains. It is purely divine. How confidently it assures that there is always respite after the scorching heat, euphoria after sadness! Rains make the trees greener than ever, the roads cleaner than ever, music and a cup of hot tea soothing than ever. It is a lullaby to the drowsy, a song to the dancer, music to the singer, romance to the lover, and, inspiration to the writer. Oh, what is it that the rains can’t do? It gives joy to the sad, relief to the tensed, hope to the disabled, and, belief to the incredulous. It assures a way to the confused and warmth of feeling to the cold. To be able to do a task, there must be willingness. Rains provide willingness to complete the tasks we’ve forever wanted to do but didn’t. Such is its beauty. Such is its charm. It can comfort the depressed. If the shattered still hopes, it is because of the rains. If magic and miracles have meaning, it is because of the rains.

Grief/Relief by Anila Mathew Vivek
Raman waited for the crows to arrive. The family clapped their hands and soon crows did eat the sacrificial offering. All agreed that Dakshayini Amma’s soul was indeed at peace.
Her only son Raman had performed all his duties in a dignified way, while his wife had ministered to her mother-in-law satisfactorily. The two grandchildren and spouses duly arrived for the well-attended funeral. All the arrangements had befitted the status of the family.
Raman looked at a nephew who was leaving for office after the ceremonies. On the spur of the moment, Raman called out: “Hey ! Wait up !”

He strode quickly while his wife looked inquiringly. Ignoring all questioning glances, Raman walked up panting to the young fellow, impatiently glancing at his mobile. “What is it Ramu ammava(uncle)? I am getting late for office…”

“Can you take me back home?” asked the bereaved son. Taken aback, his nephew answered puzzled, “But right now? Aren’t you all returning together?”
“No!” came the vehement reply. “I want you to take me on this bike-” replied his uncle. Raman lovingly stroked the machine.

Ceding to the unusual demand, his nephew gave him the mandatory helmet. As the bewildered family watched, Raman rode pillion with an unfathomable expression. Raman savoured the breeze, the jerks of the ride and the feel of the helmet, still wearing the wet mundu.

The only child of his parents, the precious heir had been kept away from all things “risky”; no riding bikes, no working away from home, no playing sports, no travelling…

The burden of love had been lifted. Instead of crushing grief, there was a sense of relief.

Saturday (A haibun) by Shloka Shankar
For as long as I can remember, I’ve more often than not met those special to me on a Saturday. Maybe it’s the convenience of a weekend or maybe it’s how it’s meant to be. I’ve not analysed it to death. At least, not yet. But it makes you think, doesn’t it? You look forward to that moment when everything arranges itself as if by magic and time slips past you in liquid anticipation. The small talk closes in on you and you’re worried about what to say next. How do you make yourself sound larger than you are? And then you realize you don’t need to. Here, it’s okay to not think, to lower your guard, be whole, be vulnerable, to just breathe.
                                                        heart sutra        untying the fabric of my universe

Bitter by Swatilekha Roy
These unending fields of plenty speak nothing of the girl with that sparkle in her eyes.  This is Idukki district of Kerala, where dreams get crushed faster than the traditional coffee beans it’s renowned for. They do talk of the boy, with skin darker than chocolate, who got lost in the web of his expectations. ‘The boy who wandered’, they call him.

To wander is to sway. To expect is to dare! Here, the world is oblivious of dares. The burden of an ancestral occupation sits heavy on its tilted back.

'The bitter, the better,' they prune leaves and sing in unison- men and women united by a common destiny. A destiny that sustains! Although, just. Now, it’s a disgrace that the girl, with kohl eyes and a spring to her walk, should think otherwise. Doesn’t she realise how shallow dreams are? Why does she ask them about the seven seas and poetry?

They listen as she sings off tune and whispers to the moon. “I’ll touch you. Someday.” The moon whispers back, when they aren’t peering. One day, just like the rest, her dreams will have blended with cold regret, as she keeps brewing endless warm pleasures for cocaine lovers over the world.

An Ex-Convict’s Tale by Vaidyanathapuram Shankar
Jaggu stepped out to freedom and inhaling the fresh air, looked around for his wife or teenage son. It was a great feeling- this freedom after the long spell in jail.

No one was in sight. He had so fondly waited for this moment, to meet his dear wife and only son. They were quite understandably angry at his criminal actions and hadn’t come to meet him during his jail confinement. But he really had hoped for their forgiveness, and presence here today.

As he trudged along disappointed, he saw Raghav, the last man he wished to see then. He sweated profusely as he saw Raghav approach him with rapid strides. ‘I am finished!” he thought, since Raghav was the man he had assaulted and also was the reason for his incarceration.

“Go ahead, Raghav, do it fast… Kill me!” said Jaggu, resignedly.
Raghav shrugged and said, “I could have done that long back if I wanted.”

Then he continued, “Believe me if you can; I am here to take you to my house, because your kin do not want you anymore. You may check with them, if you wish before coming with me.”
Jaggu, the hardened convict, wept for the first time in his life.

Drabble Microfiction 2018 Longlist

Drabble 2018 Winners
 
Divya Garg           Gitanjali Maria            Shloka Shankar          
Drishti Nagdeo      Lakshmi Venkatesh       Mauli Joshi            
Rianne Samuel      Ruchika Pahwa     Shobhana Kumar               Sudha Viswanathan      Swatilekha Roy      
Vaidyanathapuram Shankar           
Sohini Ghosh       Bhupendra Kumar Dave

Echo Effect by Divya Garg
The day of Navratri, purity in the air. Incense sticks and vibrant Diya flames brought the perfect illumination and calmness in the room that can made one stay in room just a little longer. The chanting and hymns started since early morning, to get it completed before son leaves for office. Mother beautifully draped in the hue of orange, and Father elegantly dressed in the beige color kurta pajama.
A whoosh of air, reverberant sound just crossed their son.
Hello!
Are you there?
Are you there, Aunty?
Was it someone calling his mother or was it auditory hallucination?


Every day Musings by Gitanjali Maria
I looked out of the window. There were people scurrying to reach their workplaces, cars honking and drivers cursing for more space and speed. I wondered whether they are always like this, angry and impatient. Maybe not, maybe yes. It all depended on where you were in the hierarchy. The car driver scoffs at the auto-rickshaw driver, the security guard brandishes the Uber driver, the young executive scorns at the security guard, the manager shouts at the young executive and client VP at the manager. All of us wearing different masks and changing them as per the requirements of the role. After all, isn’t life a stage!

Fraandships by Shloka Shankar
(A haibun)
“Do you have trouble sustaining friendships?”
“All the time, in fact.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Someone told me I’m emotionally maturer than my peers. That could be it.”
“Do you sometimes find yourself at a loss to describe how you feel?”
“What has that got to do with anything?”
“It’s at the heart of everything. Do you ever express yourself?”
“Only when I can’t take it anymore and the pressure starts to build.”
“I see.”
“Do you, really?”
waiting the wait a few hundred visualizations

The Moon Replied by Drishti Nagdeo
I asked the moon, “how is it that I can’t take my eyes off you?” The moon chuckled, saying, “Darling, it’s I who had fallen for you in the first place. Those eyes, the way they smiled to me, that sparkle, made me fall for you”.
Astounded, I asked, “then?”
“Then, I had to use my magic. I had to make sure that those eyes searched for me every night. It was me who made you turn thrice. When you started going, I held you with all my might.”
“That could be the best misuse of magic,” murmured the selenophile.

Pain by Lakshmi Venkatesh
My heart broke, not that she screamed to rip my self-respect, but, she dishonoured my robe with comments that almost dismantled the hopes, that I had collected, to be with my better half. I had just begun my life and she had almost finished halfway. What’s so wrong to tease the small stain that any womanhood, would have got? Why to comment so ruthlessly and laugh with the unknown, of the phase that she too went through!
I realised then, her end is going to be tough…
                                  “AS YOU SOW, SO SHALL YOU REAP”
                                            (END WAS TOUGH… RESPECT YOUR SOUL)

Youthful Experience by Mauli Joshi
“Long live the king, longer live the queen,” hailed the crowds.
“Why would you live longer than me, my dear,” asked the still naïve king.
The queen whose juvenility was the talk of the town replied, “it’s the game of chess my lord, where the king can win if the queen lives the longest.”
“Does that mean they want me to live –”
The obstinate queen interrupted, “Can the Kingdom live without its king?”
Her parlance had often dissolved the doubts of many.
“Can the queen live without her king?”
Two drops of venin in the king’s goblet was the answer.

The Swing Chair by Rianne Samuel
The whistle of the kettle pulled her back to the present. She quickly picked herself up from the swing chair that was carefully placed near the window sill. Jack fixed the swing chair himself. After pouring a cup of tea for herself, she went back to the window sill. That’s where she did all her thinking. The hot cup of chamomile tea, in some way, helped with the tiredness. After all, the funeral preparations had drained her out. The house fell silent once more; the love of her life was gone. Memories now took over her consciousness again.

The Outline by Ruchika Pahwa
“Hey, I want to read that story,” demanded Harry, pointing in the direction where Rachel was sitting on a sofa chair.
She replied, “It’s just an outline. There are many fine details to work on. You know, authors have to fill colors in their story’s outline before they can hand it over to readers. It’s like you filling colors in your paintings.” Rachel said with a faint smile.
Harry came closer, looked at her draft, and looked up, “Take a break, Rachel. I want to read ‘your’ story.”
“It’s an outline, Harry.”
“I’ll fill it with shining colors,” said Harry.

First class by Shobhana Kumar
She has survived, alright. Eight years, a hundred thousand miles and counting. Her seats hide a million memories—spilt coffee, profound conversations with fifteen-year-olds, drenched-in-sweat-evening trips from football, the anger of rejections, the blushes from crushes, long silences, one hell of a lot of swearing (alone, of course,) notes to self and even some poetry.
Today, eyes well. For the first time her scars are visible. Depreciation, they call it.

The Proposal by Sudha Viswanathan
Unable to withstand the stampede in the crowded bus, the fragile strap of my sandals ripped apart. Limping my way, I reached the restaurant where I was to meet my prospective groom for the first time.
An hour with no sign of the guy, I limped my way back to the auto stand and reached home only to find my parents waiting with an anxiety writ countenance.
“The guy called up to say that we had cheated him. He says you are lame. Apparently he had seen you limping.” I smiled as I realised that ‘Marriages were made in Heaven.’

Burn by Swatilekha Roy
I had fished them out without conviction. Photographs of a stranger, posing with the sun in her hair, sea in her eyes, and the universe in her smile. Asha, who was scared of monsters.
“I love you, Asha”, I told the mirror with conviction.
My acid burns did what they always do: burn.

The God Man by Vaidyanathapuram Shankar
Arun recognized him immediately… No room for any doubt.
The ‘God man’ started his usual sales pitch unsuspectingly, pleading for some cash or kind for the needy. He showed no signs of recognition, nor could he have possibly remembered Arun.
Arun, curbing the seething anger building up, heard him out and told him, “Sorry, can’t really help you now.”
“Sir, please try to give something, whatever you can spare.”
Arun drove the blade of the pen knife into the abdomen of the man who was walking free after molesting Arun’s sister, declaring,
“Sorry, this is all I have now!”

The Hand by Sohini Ghosh
It was not the usual kind of hand. It was exceptionally soft with innumerable number of lines patterned intricately all over the palm. The nails had been shapely cut but there was no polish. That was unfortunate.
But what intrigued me most about the hand was the enormous ring on the forefinger. The diamond shaped ring head was covering half of the middle finger.
I stopped examining the hand and tenderly wiped the blood dripping from it before hanging it on my wall. The space in the centre was finally filled. It was now time to work on the corners.

God by Bhupendra Kumar Dave
A scientist being proud of his recent achievements, approached God and said, ‘Listen, we can now do all kinds of things. We no longer need you.’
God heard him patiently and smiled, ‘Think well before I vanish.’
‘Yes,’ he replied curtly.
Seeing the image of God vanishing, he said, ‘Now man is supreme.’ But then he saw his laboratory gradually disappearing. He collapsed. He felt as if he was floating in space. He tried to look below before losing his consciousness. There was nothing — even his body that he loved so much had vanished. He was dead.

Drabble 2017 Winners & Featured Writers Microfiction

First Prize	Second Prize	Third Prize
Divya Garg	Kamalika Ray	Shloka Shankar
Featured
Nimi Arora	Amrit Sinha	Debolina Coomar
Dr Diwakar Pokhriyal	Mandeep Singh
Longlist
Abhilasha Francis	Anila Vivek	Bhupendra Kumar Dave
Subhankar Biswas

The Clock by Abhilasha Francis The mighty hands of the teller struck, hard. Perceiving, he isn't waiting for none. Running into a zone wild I couldn't catch it, With all the toil tried. His hands move, so as my fortune. Scheming, to happen next in my life, In the coming time soon. Tik Tok Tik tok in a language new, Making my and brain block. 'The clock' is what everybody calls him, being a stranger, yet deciding my destiny!

The Bag by Amrit Sinha Back to Top

Three officers of the bomb disposal squad walked towards the bag abandoned on the railway platform. They opened it and found some clothes and two soft toys inside. Just then, a young guy of twenty arrived there, “Hey, that’s my bag.” The officers signalled, and two uniformed policemen grabbed the guy’s wrists. “So the bombs are in these teddy bears?” “No. Those are for my sister. It’s her birthday.” Ignoring his plea, the officers tore apart the toys, only to find cotton inside. Meanwhile, in the nearby town, a little girl awaited her birthday gift – her favourite teddy bears.

Untitled by Bhupendra Kumar Dave Back to Top

The office of my boss was just next to my room. Seeing my door wide open, he entered and asked, ‘Why you keep the door open? You should keep it closed like me.’ I said, ‘Once in my dream I saw two gates before me. The gate of hell was shut and heaven’s open.’

She Knows by Kamalika Ray Back to Top

It is time, for ‘her’ share of bad times. She understands each obstacle and accepts it, with as much dignity she has left inside. Her family tells her to smile a lot. Her friends point out, the importance of keeping faith. And the hope that something good must be waiting to happen, very soon. They don’t know, that she knows. That the ‘good’ is already happening… That She is growing... Like a phoenix, from the ashes, of her own Drawing strength from the holy fire of her wedding.

Untitled by Debolina Coomar Back to Top It was a peaceful, moonlit night. He waited for her at the beach with a bottle of wine and the ring. She came. She looked mesmerizing in her mustard coloured dress. He poured the wine, and after a few sips, she started to pour her heart. She talked about how they met, their romantic memories, their funny moments. He smiled and listened to it all. Soon, she passed away in his arms, smiling. He kept the ring back in his pocket, and a drop of tear rolled down his cheeks. She thought he was just a friend, she loved someone else.

Silence by Divya Garg Bewilderment everywhere as I entered. Never was silence as chaotic as it was today. Her painted nails, matched the color on her fingers. She was all wrapped in that sole color, strangely dripping from those once beautiful lips. High volume on the TV, closed doors and the scorching heat outside, must have made her oblivious to the knock on the door. After numerous futile attempts and the incessant banging on the main door, lastly I broke it down just to find out her lying in the pool of blood, completely unconscious of the atrocity she had committed, devouring our child, the one that was once perhaps as lonely as her.

The Bigger Picture by Dr. Diwakar Pokhriyal Back to Top He looked at the sky, breathing yet all blank. His heart heavily pounding and eyes washed with memories. He knew his family will be broken at the news. He knew no-one could fill the void he is about to leave between his children and himself. After all he was just 35. Yet, there was calmness inside him. As if he has lived his desires, as if he has lost a minor battle to win a major. In a few minutes, silence overpowered the atmosphere yet the smile subsisted. After a few days, the flag was all over his body.

Archives by Anila M Vivek Back to Top Filmworld – 1990 Q: How did you get into acting? A: Oh it was entirely by chance! God’s will… (I had no choice because my father owed a fortune to loan sharks.) Filmworld – 1994 Q: Why have you been refusing offers recently? A: I want to play characters that are vital to the story. (He doesn’t want a working wife…) Filmworld – 1995 Q: Are you making a comeback? A: I never went anywhere in the first place! (Men are b******s.) The Times - 2025 Former actress dies in government-run shelter for the destitute.

Untitled by Nimi Arora Back to Top In a world that calls for forever, the two of them had perfected the art of living in the moment. Ignoring the lingering throbbing, the anxiety always waiting to surface, they would smile. Much as she loved this newfound bliss of the last couple of months that had been missing from the decade long of togetherness, of the time before, she sometimes wondered if they should discuss more serious stuff. The deadline by the doctor had certainly worked wonders. She loved her limited time of happiness more. Crazy to feel thankful for a disease, “But who cares,” she thought smiling.

The Menhir by Mandeep Singh Back to Top We had stopped at a café when I noticed some menhirs nearby and asked the café owner about them. “They are put up in memory of the dead. It’s a local custom”, he replied. Pointing to one, I asked, “Do you know who’s that is?” “Oh, that.  He had come to our village many years ago, married a local girl. Even converted to our religion.” After a pause, as if reflecting, added, “He was a good man.” “But why is it separated from the rest?” Taking a drag on his cigarette, he replied, “But he was an outsider”.

Crossroads by Shloka Shankar Back to Top

I meander the many by-lanes in my mind, righting every wrong, second-guessing every pseudo-decision’s finality, exhaling at the count of five. It could be six or seven, too, but five has an alluring quality to it. Wholesome.  Just the right number on each hand. As I reach a crossroads, my body swells and rises to the steady rhythm of my breath, unassuming, clothed in possibilities. This thing I do, to dissect, and finally discard, every thought, catches me unawares. My conclusions build barricades every few hundred yards. Space. That’s all I seem to have these days.

Marked by Subhankar Biswas Back to Top She stares at the mirror, looking at scars invisible to others. Her face has healed, but she refuses to go out. The police had arrested him, but he is out on bail. His father is a minister. "You should forgive him," her mother says. "His parents have come with a marriage proposal. They say he did it because he loves you." She wants to scream: Did father mark you as his woman? Is that why you married him? But she keeps quiet and stares at the mirror. They can't see the scars because they think acid marks only the skin.

Prose 500 2017 Longlist Microfiction

Longlist	Longlist	Longlist
Abhishek Srivastava	Lakshmi V	Gautam Banerjee
Sajeev Kumar	Anila Vivek	Dr Diwakar Pokhriyal
Kamalika Ray	Mandeep Singh	Nimi Arora

Next Time by Abhishek Srivastava “Teena” “Present Ma’am” replied Teena. “Yash” “Yes Ma’am”, said Yash.  “Zubin” There was a silence in the classroom. “Zubin... Aren’t you listening? I am calling your name” “Yes...yes ma’am”, said Zubin hurriedly waking up from his world of dreams, the little dreams of a sixth standard lad but of immense importance to him. “All right kids... So today is the last day of your school before summer vacations. I have already given you homework. So you all must be visiting various places this summer. So when you come back after holidays you must bring a travelogue written by you only... I repeat... it should be original. Ok!” “Yes Ma’am”, all replied in chorus. Zubin was very happy. Why shouldn’t he be? After all he was going to visit for the first time out of the town this vacation since last three years. Her mother has promised to him. She has saved ten thousand bucks for the trip to Zubin’s maternal grandparents place in Manali, a hill station famous for its scenic beauty. Zubin was a boy from humble background. His father was a clerk in a private firm but he chose to give education to him in best school of the town where he used to study with kids of elite class. After every vacation his friends used to narrate their experiences of having fun and adventure in places across the country. Zubin could only visualise images in his mind of what it would like be to bathe in a waterfall or travel in a ropeway. Zubin ran to the home after the school hours. “Mom, where is dad? Has he taken reservation in the train? When are we going?” There was an awkward silence. Then his Mom said, “Go and first wash your hands... dinner is ready.” Zubin smelled something wrong. At the dinner table Zubin’s father told him that his grandpa is admitted in the hospital out of a minor heart attack and they do not have enough money to visit Manali this year. Zubin went to his study table and started writing a travelogue; after all he needs to win this year too in the travelogue competition. Her mom came with tears in her eyes and started caressing him... Zubin said, “No problem momma. I am happy.” His voice stumbled as he spoke and tears rushing through his cheeks he said, “Next time...”

Perspective by Gautam Banerjee Back to Top

Hari’s mother started vomiting immediately after her evening meal. Pressing her stomach she retched and threw up again and again. She wailed, complaining of a severe abdominal pain. Seeing the awful mess her mother-in-law was making, Mala slammed down a broken plastic mug before her. “I can’t clean up your vomit! Use this!” Too weak to retort, Hari’s mother pulled the mug to herself. Neither Hari nor Mala tried to comfort the old woman. They no longer showed any sympathy to her frequent bouts of illness. She groaned and writhed in agony. “Get me some medicine please!” She said meekly. Hari couldn’t see her face. The kerosene lamp was put out for the night. “It’s late mother. Shops are closed.” Hari’s voice sounded gruff. “Please!” She was weak and barely audible. Hari clenched his teeth. “Stop whining!” He was losing patience. They wouldn’t get a wink of sleep that night. “I promise an offering to Goddess Kali the day she dies.” Mala muttered under her breath while patting her youngest who had started weeping in her sleep. Hari envied his kids who slept soundly. Many a time he also wished his mother had died. This emaciated ailing woman, an onerous burden, only ate and slept. For a casual worker like Hari, with six mouths to feed, her death would definitely be a relief. “Medicine! Where will the money come from?” Mala hissed, grinding her teeth. “Now and again she’s sick. Are we millionaires?” The stagnant air sharply smelled of vomit. Hari lit the lamp. His mother moaned and grimaced. In between gasps and retches she puked up a dark, foul fluid.  “I can’t bear the pain anymore.” Her constant nagging was getting on his nerves. A waning crescent moon still hung in the sky when Hari carried his mother out of his shanty on the outskirts of Kolkata. Her frail body was unbelievably light. Scanning his surroundings Hari almost began to run. The old woman opened her eyes enquiringly. “Hospital,” Hari said. She looked askance at her son but only whimpered. Hari’s feet were almost numb as he reached a far end of the empty railway station. He staggered. Sweat broke across his forehead and his mouth was dry. His mother, in a state of semi-consciousness, was breathing in shallow gulps. Boarding a train they crossed a few stations, how many Hari couldn’t remember. It was almost dawn when Hari abandoned his mother under a tree. He slipped away without looking back. The old woman had passed out without knowing that her trust had been betrayed. The following night, after a long time, Mala undressed and cuddled up to Hari. Their 60 square feet shanty had enough space and privacy, she thought. Running his fingers over her undernourished body- all skin and bone- her matted hair, sunken eyes, perched lips and sagging breasts, Hari wasn’t excited at all. Instead, he felt completely drained. Then, curling into a fetal position, he clung to his wife and began to sob.

Silence by Lakshmi V Back to Top

It was the morning of hot weather. Nevertheless I had decided to just keep silent the whole day, since understanding one another headed towards negative vibration. As I adjusted to look up the sky, my thoughts sought to collect the importance of a wedding - the kanyadaan, parents giving away the daughter's hands in the bridegroom's hand! It was the D-day, surely our day too, lest we even realised that, the gloominess of the biggest separation was going to standout - that of a mother and son! Silence, tears, consoling words - that's the end of the huge preparation. But, God's plans submerged all our plans. The music was played, chants reverberated, the greatest role of the kanyadaan shifted! The bride stood strong, the groom accepted, we too remained silent in that cluster of acceptance and adjustment. That's life!

Untitled by Kamalika Ray Back to Top

They are inside the main hall of the Central library, all of them. About twenty-seven people huddled together into the gap between the two tallest and longest bookshelves. The lights are on, thankfully. So are the sound boxes, through which they can hear the alarm, incessantly going off every ten minutes, ever since the first warning came. That it was an emergency drill they were conducting, for a bomb alert. The warnings too have been going on ever since. They were first told to move away from the windows. Then, after two minutes, almost in a panic, the mechanized voice told them to come together, preferably in a covered place. The sleepy librarian, fifty-eight year old Suresh Joshi, awakened into sudden activity,held his paunch protectively with one hand like a pregnant woman and used the other hand to vigorously wave and collect all of them like cattle herd to that spot between the bookshelves. Their usual hideout in all drills. The drills on an average last for about fifteen minutes. But it has been more than forty-five minutes now. The wait has started to get on their nerves. If it’s just an emergency drill, it surely should not be taking this much time, should it? Two impatient students in a bid to look ‘cool’, were already taking calculated slow steps out, mainly to tease the tense librarian. They giggled when Mr.Joshi’s quivering voice requested them to come back. A queer nagging fear pricked up somewhere in the alert minds. Was this damn thing a drill or not? Few started to write messages to family. Starting with innocent enquiries and then revealing their own situation, deftly disguising the seriousness behind a joke.  But mobiles started ringing anyway. And though the next warning prohibited them to talk on mobile phones, some of the angry ones, kept on at it. Fifty-six year old Mrs.Mitra was browsing the History section, when the alarms went off. Not yet ready to become a part of history herself, she had readily followed all directions of everyone and stood in the middle of the group. But now, after carrying her eighty kilos for so long, her little tired feet were giving away. She was on phone too, talking to her retired husband at home in hushed whispers. Considering the possible dire situation she was in, she now imagined that her words might be the last ones being spoken to her husband. Well in that case, she decided, to choose her words well. “Don’t waste the Mutton curry left in the refrigerator if I die. Eat it up, as if you didn’t know. Otherwise I won’t rest in peace. And the maid, I have paid her in advance. Don’t let her fool you into paying again, in my absence…” Mrs.Mitra’s words were cut short that day, by another alarm. No, she didn’t die. Nobody did. It was the last announcement. A clear female voice ‘hugely regretted’ the delay and then finally, told them to relax, go home and live.

Rust in Trust by Dr. Diwakar Pokhriyal Back to Top

“I will not marry now,” She said in anger. “No beta, you should marry at this age” Her parents tried to make her understand. “No, I will marry a boy of my own choice” She was adamant. “No, we will also check. After all, it’s the matter of your life” They said. “I am mature enough to take care of that,” She said and left the room in anger. “If they think I can’t live on my own then why they want to marry me” She was thinking and suddenly her mobile rang. “Hi, how are you” A smile crossed her lips. “Missing you,” A boy was on the other side. “Let’s marry,” She said in a flash. “Ok, should I come to your home?” He joked. “My parents will not agree,” She said in a low tone. “Let’s run away. Once we will get married they will surely accept us” He said. “But I am scared” She opened her heart up. “Don’t worry I am with you. We both will be happy forever my love” He said in a romantic tone. “Ok then on Monday night” She decided. “Done, I will let you know the time. Love you” He said and they disconnected the phone. On Monday night she was feeling anxious. It was after all the question of her future. Indecisiveness was at the peak. “Should I go or not” She was thinking. “But I love him a lot” Her mind was wandering. She again looked around and slowly started to walk. “No-one should see me. I should move silently” She looked around and found everyone sleeping in his house. “Oh God, please help me, no one should wake up” As she prayed she heard some footsteps. “Oh No,” She ran inside the bathroom. After some time she looked at her watch and realizes that she has to hurry. “Let’s go,” She thought and came out of the bathroom and slowly walked out of the house. Her destination was still at some distance. She ringed the bell. “Hello, where are you?” She said. “I am coming for you, my love” A voice came from another side. “I am about to reach,” She said in excitement. “I will be there in few minutes darling,” He said. The darkness was at its peak. Trees were breathing life in and out and humanity was drowned in the world of immature dreams. She stopped and glanced at the endless road.  A car headlight flashed and her smile widened. It was the perfect time they had planned to flee to unite forever. “Why are you late,” She said while opening the door and went inside. The door closed and car started in a flash. As she hopped into the car, she realized the fluke. “Who are you?” She was surprised. “You should ask that to your boyfriend” The man laughed and pounced on her.  In an instant, her life was over. She didn’t realize when the rust mixed with trust.

Escape by Anila M Vivek Back to Top Apertures opened slowly... It was floating in a fluid like substance. Dark walls closed in on all sides. It tried to move but no avail… Exhaustion creeped in - sounds drifted in from far away - the apertures closed… The next time, it awoke to a feeling of energy. There was a cord connected to one of the walls to the middle of its curved shape. Strangely it seemed to be gaining more strength from the cord. It tried to push against the walls of captivity, but soon tiredness crept in… At times there was prodding and an invasion seemed imminent but nothing happened. Sounds could be heard more clearly, all types of noises assailed its senses but the struggle against the walls yielded no result. A few sounds could be sensed continuously. It could feel a tingling sensation at times. When the walls were pushed the sounds grew louder and the tingling was more frequent. Then when it had gathered enough energy and strength, it started pushing with all its might. Strangely, the walls seemed to help now. It pushed, struggled, fought. It seemed like the walls wanted to get rid of it. There were louder voices and more unbearable clamour. It pushed its way through a narrow opening. And then light hit. The blinding light drew a sound of happiness, anticipation and excitement…Free at last! Surprised, elated and overwhelmed. The struggle seemed to have ended after ages of captivity. The strength derived from the cord, the relief on reaching a new world, the shiver of anticipation – it emitted a sound on its own trying to express its feelings for the first time, in the new unfamiliar territory. “Congratulations!  You have delivered a baby girl!” “Oh look at her flailing fists! Isn’t she a darling?” “She takes after me…” The welcoming voices, the caresses, the kisses…

Okka Aidu Rupayala by Sajeev Kumar

“Uncle, okka aidu rupayala!” The thin but penetrating voice made my eyes roll up to see the source of the out stretched hand! A ragged looking, ill clad boy, probably ten years old! My immediate reaction was an irritating denial, which was soon overpowered by a thought, "May be this poor boy really wants to drink a glass of lemon water to beat the heat!’ I was on a tender coconut water mission for my wife last summer! The coconut vendor’s shop was about one furlong from my house. The above mentioned scene occurred just hundred meters before the ‘tender’ man’s shop at a cool drink spot! It was around 7 p.m. “Come back”, I screamed at the boy, who had walked away in desperation! When I handed over a five rupee coin to him, I could see an ocean of gratitude in his big, but painful eyes. He looked at me with an awestruck expression for a while, and then disappeared in darkness! I stood dumbfound!  I crossed the busy, narrow road with a lot of difficulty; the remarkable traffic sense of multitude stole ten minutes of my time just to achieve the task of crossing the road! Reaching the tender coconut seller’s shop, I ordered my stuff. “Bhai, ek bottle”! These coconut vendors are great business people; they sell each coconut for thirty rupees during the peak summer season; the customers have the option of buying single ones or a 650 ml full bottle! They are equipped with new plastic bottles to meet this challenge! I always buy the full bottle for Rs.100! Because that comes with an absolute guarantee of satisfaction; we can always see the quantity of water due to the transparent character of the bottle! This guarantee would not apply when you buy a single coconut; you would be lucky if there were a glass full! When you enter a tender coconut vendor’s jurisdiction, you’ll not miss the ‘slate’ board, bearing the cost, which varies depending on the mercury scale! In fact, the slate manufactures owe a great deal to these coconut vendors. They are the only souls who made a fortune with the ‘slate’ boards, which were the ‘chrome books’ of last generation! Now no schools use them! The slate industry would have gone out of business if the coconut vendors opted for a different mode of advertisement! “Sir”, the tender coconut wala called me to hand over the bottle; I paid the amount!  While coming out of the shop I happened to glance upon the next shop, which was of a flower seller’s! The beautiful ambience of yellow and orange flowers was obstructed by the figure of the boy, who had run away with the coin. I, with a trembling sense of curiosity, went closer. A dam broke in my heart! The vagrant boy was dressing his younger sister’s hair with strings of jasmine flowers! I realised it was not to beat the heat, but - the day was of festival Ugadi!