Prose 500 2021 Shortlist

 Selected stories on the link below.

Poetry	Short Story	Prose 500	Drabble
	Short Fiction

Leo James	Jignasa Parikh	Ankita Gupta
Harshita Nanda	Kamala Belagur	Bindu Saxena
Pratima Karanth	Canta Dadlaney	Anish Sarkar
Enakshi B	Sakshi Bhatnagar	Jyotsna Jha
Preetha Vasan

 

Prose 500 2021 Longlist

 Selected stories on the link below.

Poetry	Short Story	Prose 500	Drabble
	Short Fiction

Leo James	Anisha Dutta	Jignasa Parikh
Ankita Gupta	Bhupendra Dave	Harshita Nanda
Manish Ranjan	Kamala Belagur	Bindu Saxena
Pratima Karanth	Canta Dadlaney	Divvisha Bharti
Anish Sarkar	Enakshi B	Sakshi Bhatnagar
Jyotsna Jha	Preetha Vasan

 

Pratima Karanth, Featured Writer, Prose 500 2021

Absolution

In a smoky, musty smelling room, with a couple of guitars by his side stood a young man taking his time, getting his mask off. He needed some peace and quiet after the release of all those emotions on stage.  He liked it. He liked being there behind that mask. There he could finally be himself. He felt a strange sense of freedom behind its hard contours. 

He seemed to be in no hurry. So what if the great entrepreneur Samit Sarkar was waiting to see him. Samit Sarkar! A name he loathed since he was fifteen. He cursed his agent. This meeting was all his doing! 

 

His mask off, he looked at a picture of his parents and him that he always carried wherever he went. He ran his fingers on the picture, on his aai’s face in the picture and felt a rush of sadness but he caught himself before the feeling had a chance to crush him. Now was not the moment , he thought. Samit Sarkar! Bring him on! He called for a bottle of whiskey. He took a couple of swings straight up.

Samit entered with slow measured steps. He made quite an impression as he entered. With salt and pepper hair and dressed in a white shirt and a black waistcoat , he seemed to have a quiet confidence about him. They exchanged pleasantries and the young man offered Samit some whiskey (par politesse). They bantered on about the concert that had been a huge success, the music scene in general. 

Fifteen minutes into it the young man started to get a little fidgety, a little agitated, which he made no effort to hide. Samit went up to the mirror and picked up the picture and he couldn’t help but smile. "I’m on my way my love," seemed to say, his eyes,  as he slowly ran his fingers on her face in the picture and  then Samit brought her up- taking the young man to a place he didn’t want to go to and bringing Samit to the very place he had come this far to be in.

Words were exchanged even hurled at times, especially from the young man’s quarter. There were smokes of anger, whiskey stained sighs, painful silences and bitter tears. And of the encounter, all that remained, was-- on the table a will, a testimonial to love, gratitude and hope of redemption and in the dustbin, a handkerchief stained with coughed up blood, a promise of release.

Jignasa Parikh, Featured Writer, Prose 500 2021

Aamras

It was 2.30 in the morning when he awoke from a deep sleep by a smell. A smell so strong that he had to wake up and inspect. With half sleepy eyes, he puts on his slippers and opens the door of the bedroom gently so as not to disturb his wife. He walks into the living room and takes the smell in with a deep breath in the dark.

 

He is twelve years old. He lies on a hammock made of an old sari tied to the two pillars under an arch. On his right is a verandah with black-and-white flooring placed diagonally and the pistachio green walls adorned by old Tanjore paintings and brown windows. On his left is a courtyard bordered with trees of all kinds. He is wearing little brown shorts with tiny sailboats on it and his t-shirt is tied around his head. The afternoon is passing by gently as he lies on his hammock. He makes binoculars of his little hands and follows a brown lizard on the wall across. He turns on the hammock making it swing gently to him. And the afternoon just passes by. 

Just then an old lady comes and stands towering over his hammock. She is wearing an aubergine purple sari with tiny yellow circles on it and a border along with a green blouse that merges with the walls behind. Very unlike his own mother, who always wore matching blouses with her saris. She has kohl around her eyes, probably the same one that she made that morning while lighting the lamp. Although towering him physically, her eyes are soft and her smile full of glee. 

 

He sits up on his hammock at once and asks her, “Is it time, Grandma?” Holding the same glee in her smile she nods in a yes. He gets off his hammock and she wraps her arm around his shoulder and they walk towards the room at the end of the verandah. She takes out the keys tied at the end of her pallu and unlocks the door. The warm sunlight enters the room before them. He steps into the room and looks around. He is in a castle of mangoes. He walks around the room, gently touching each mango like a treasure. She stands at the door watching his delight that elates her immensely. She finally walks in the room and after careful observation chooses a mango. She gently presses it between her fingers and softens it and hands it to him. He bites the stub off and sucks on the delicious juices of his first mango of the season. Although his eyes are shut to capture the taste of the mango, he knows that he is being watched with love by the woman in front of him.

He opens his eyes in his living room. His house, on that moonless night, smelled of that afternoon, of his grandmother, and of mangoes.

Kamala Belagur, Third Prize, Prose 500 2021

Urmila, The Wave of Emotions

 

The meaning of the name, "Urmila" is the wave of emotions, perhaps also a mermaid or a magician.

Urmila was a good painter as well as being blessed with virtues of kindness, renunciation and sacrifice, she pleases all. However, the less sung tragic heroine of the Hindu epic Ramayana is Urmila. Urmila's role in the Ramayana is of no importance. No justice was done to enhance her role. If so, that would have been a more epic story. 

 

Consider this.

Rama and Sita are the protagonists of the Ramayana. The lord Rama is the eldest of the sons of Dasharatha the king of Ayodhya. Lakshman, Bharath and Shatrughna, are brothers of the Lord Rama. The King of Mithila, Janaka's daughter, Sita and Urmila, Mandavi, Shrutakirthi, are her sisters. Sita's sisters were married to Rama's brothers during Sita's swayamvar, a ceremony where the princess chose her future husband based on his acts of valour at the event.

Many people do not know that Urmila was the Sita's sister and daughter of King Janak. When Rama sent on an exile, with Lakshman and Sita, to honour his father's words, Urmila also wants to follow her husband, but Lakshmana convinces her to stay back in the palace and serve her mother-in-law.

 

Accordingly, at the height of her youth, Urmila spent fourteen years in isolation, without her husband. She goes into a deep sleep of meditation in anticipation of Lakshman. According to one story, Urmila spent fourteen years in a meditative sleep (also Lakshman's sleep). During this time, although  Lakshman was conscious and was engaged in the service of Sita and Ram in his corporal form.

 

Lord Ram supported Sita in every trouble. Urmila was also Janak's daughter and grew up in the same palace. The narrator has no remorse for the way, Urmila is portrayed, who despite being the wife of Lakshman  is deprived of all happiness. There is no clarity about the role of the tragic heroine.

Surprisingly, even those who still remember Kaikeyi and her evil friend, Manthara, do not know about Urmila, who topped the line of great women. But it's the truth..

Prose 500 2020, Longlist

Poetry	Short Story	Drabble
.
Abigail Duro	Aftab Yusuf Shaikh	Ananya Guha
.
Anila Mathew	Apeksha Solanki	Harshita Nanda
.
Bhupendra Dave	Bindu Saxena	Christian Danbey
Divvisha Bharti	Dr. Diwakar Pokhriyal	Ermelinda Makkimane
.
Garima Batra	George Swaim	Haimanti Dutta Ray
.
Joyce Job	Mankirat Randhawa	Megha Nayar
.
Preeth Ganapathy	Samarth Sadhu	Sanika Shinde
Sakshi Bhatnagar	Shivani Dua	Snehashish Ghosh
.
Amar Agarwala	Sudha Viswanathan	Sudeepto Mishra
.

Harshita Nanda, First Prize, Prose 500, 2020

The Wedding Saree

It was an old steel trunk, which had traveled half across the country and back, but still in pristine condition as it was always covered with a cloth to protect it from dust. Whenever she opened it, once in a few months, the daughters would gather around, as if drawn by a magnet and aware that something precious was to be revealed.

And treasure’s there were a plenty in that old steel trunk. On top a lovely blue organza saree.
“This saree was given to me by your grandmother as part of my trousseau, she bought it for me
from all the way from Sahranpur,” she would narrate. Below it the chocolate and gold Benarasi silk, it’s gold shimmering in the sunlight filtering through the curtains. The silver kaliras that she wore for the wedding; the red velvet handbag she had taken for the vidai, now too impractical to be used; the silver surmedaani, a family heirloom, passed on from mother to daughter. All things part of her wedding, all with their stories, all with their memories.

Nestled at the bottom, wrapped in tissue paper and covered with department store plastic

was the real treasure for which the daughters used to gather around. A gossamer-thin red saree,
embroidered in gold. “Real gold thread was used for this”, she would say with pride, for in this age
of adulteration, reality was hard to come by. She would then narrate how she designed the saree
herself, how grandfather, in spite of all the other expenses, paid for the gold thread.

Of how that saree, became her bridal saree. The young daughters gathered around, listening to her, mesmerized, inwardly longing for the day when they would also be dressed as a bride in the same saree. It was almost as if the saree had the magic of dreams of a young bride and the blessings of parents sewn in the lotuses embroidered on the border.

As the daughters grew of marriageable age, however, practicalities overtook the magic.
The saree was too thin or the gold embroidery was not in fashion anymore.
Worst of all, none of the daughters inherited her petite frame,
so the length of saree would fall short; re-designing it would be a sacrilege.

The saree continued to languish in its steel trunk.

And thus in an old and now battered steel trunk lies wrapped in the tissue,

a red wedding saree embroidered in gold, a saree worn only once. Once in few months she still opens
the trunk, there are no young girls with dreams surrounding her, while she looks at the saree.
Underneath the mustiness of moth balls, she can still catch a whiff of the dreams
she dreamt forty years ago.

Anila Mathew, Second Prize, Prose 500, 2020

Feast

One after the other, licked slowly, smoothly, almost seductively. Insatiable hunger billowed in the breathtakingly scenic locales. There was no human noise. No gunshots, no whizzing of arrows, no stretches of slingshots or stones, no roars of anger, no whimpers or pitiful cries, no shows of superior interference.

Most of the original dwellers had already fled or flown away in haste. The air grew thick with the smell of the sumptuous banquet. The lusty embrace literally sucked the soul out of lives.

The feasting dragon moved ahead without stopping to pause for even a moment. No force could resist its charm and secrets buried deep in history were divulged without hesitation. All surrendered before its magnetic vigour.

The insanely intelligent however, discussed, pondered, debated. The uncouth and uncivilized tried to protect the concealed treasure. The rulers were dismissive. After all, they had unleashed this roaring outsider. As long as it didn’t reach the palace grounds, it was free to roam and devour.

As few clamoured for protecting the ravishing beauty, there were rude rebukes and admonitions from the ruler and his faithful citizens.

More sympathetic voices arose from other fiefdoms. Yet, nobody was permitted to pry. Didn’t these incidents happen everywhere? Why sully the name of only one, when such shenanigans were commonplace? Words of all sorts flowed freely.

The passionate, one-sided affair meanwhile continues unabated. The blinkered humans callously turn their back on their mother, who has been trying to appeal to their scientific spirit. Her strength has begun ebbing out slowly.

Feeding human greed and avarice, majestic flora and fauna lay down their lives in charred heaps. Yet the fire to conquer, rages on.

The Tribune
Updated 31 August 2019, 00:10

Over 17% of the Amazon forest has been lost to deforestation.

Mankirat Randhawa, Third Prize, Prose 500, 2020

I Held A Moment

And then there were days when I gazed into a mysterious infinite in my mind, thinking what to write. Not that I did not have anything to begin with. There was so much on my plate, it felt like a whirlwind, and I, standing in the middle of it. Helplessly, looking out of that dynamic vortex, to hold onto the exact words and to hold onto the exact sentences, that I wanted to jot down.

I let this whirlwind tame the melancholies in my mind that I grew.

Then the warmth of stillness hushed my stormy heart and I found a calm within. The calm felt like I was floating in the same mysterious infinite. But it felt serene, like I found myself holding onto the words I was searching for. They would rise and fall on paper like tides on water. It felt like that prattle inside was finally resting.

I smiled at the elation that touched me in sweet silence.

Warily, finding my little joys with each paper I filled, every word, that I was able to hold onto. While my mind kept floating in that same infinite of mine. While I kept picking the words to form sentences I needed.

As I now knew, the clamour inside was my subdue.

The moment was seized by the little treats I gave myself of ending it all with a dot of content.

Megha Nayar, Prose 500 2020 Shortlist

The Sunset Lovers

It is a monsoon morning, and I wake up to the promise of some well-timed therapy.

A dust storm has brewed all night, leaving behind a thin film all over the house. The specks catch my eye first thing, and before I know it, vitality begins to throb anew in my veins.

I brush vigorously, ridding my teeth of much imagined squalor. As the brush runs over each tooth, I imagine a thick yellowness lifting. My mouth feels like the spring. I wash my face and comb my hair, both slightly alleviating the disarray in my heart. A bath beckons too, but it’ll be sweeter post the cleansing.

Five minutes later, I am armed with a wet dust cloth, a sponge, a bowl of water and a spray can. I begin with the TV cabinet – that is where most of the dust has chosen to settle. With a dramatic swipe, I run my armour over the intrusion, gathering up the muck and depositing it in the water bowl. Satisfied, I grab a look at the dust cloth – it’s turned a muddy brown already.

Over the next hour, I go from the cabinet to the couch, the study table, and then to the windows. With each swipe that uproots layers of dust, I feel my senses come awake. With each move, I feel my balance return.

The cleansing over, I collapse into my armchair. Sunshine has begun to stream into the room, filling my mind with its own sweet music. The yellow walls appear jaundiced no more, and the chirping of the birds isn’t grating on my ears. The morning has returned, her glories in tow. Or maybe I now see her better, with a sanitised heart.

I think Nature knows just when to invade my home. She comes visiting just when I’m beginning to lose my resolve to face the sunrise.

*****
Entry 2: Getting Appa to agree

He was engrossed in the newspaper. Today, the big news was the new-found friendship between America and North Korea. He read the special edition cover-to-cover.

In his 64 years, Manichandran Iyer had never stepped out of Mangalore. But reading international headlines made him feel in control, like he was in sync with the world. It gave him power and superiority.

Anushree lingered in a corner. She wanted an approval from him but was considering her chances. The prospect of rejection was petrifying. No, she couldn’t allow that. He had to agree.

Anushree had always been a “good girl”. The open book types. The kind of kid whose confidence comes not from having a high self-worth, but from having nothing to hide.

Today though, she felt her approach would have to change. A straight question would not do. This game needed strategy and new moves.

“Appa...” she ventured.
“Yes?”
“Remya and Dhivi chose Mumbai for their internships.”
Silence.

“Remya got Indian Express and Dhivi got The Hindu.”

Silence.

“Surprisingly, both their dads agreed.”

Silence.

“Venkat Uncle and Padma Aunty were asking me too… but I told them you wouldn’t allow me. So the college will send me to a local newspaper here only.”

Silence.

“So, the Placement Council is thinking of approaching Mangalore Daily for me.”

His head was churning. She could hear it. The mention of the other dads had triggered it. She waited.

The answer took a full twenty minutes coming.

“You can also go to Mumbai. Will give you my authorisation letter today. But, be very careful. Don’t let me down.”

“Thanks, appa!”

The game had paid off. Ego had defeated patriarchy.

Aftab Yusuf Shaikh, Prose 500, 2020, Shortlist

Maitri, Mother And The French Language

Father advised me to go for shorthand training. According to him that would keep me engaged

at least for a few hours. And he wasn’t wrong.

    ‘But what is the use of learning it?’ I asked.

    ‘You want to be a writer, right?’ He asked. And it gladdened me that my father was interested

in what I want to become.

    ‘Yes. But what has that got to do with typing?’ The foolish me had really no idea.

    ‘You have to type your manuscript when you intend to send it to a publisher. You cannot send them

handwritten work. And if you do send, those poor people will definitely go mad deciphering your army

of ants.’

    So, eventually, I joined a typing class. I was amused by the dance of my fingers along with the keys

and there were many sweet faces for the soothing of my eyes.

    From among those half a dozen girls, one, as usual, became quite special for me. Her oval face,

straight nose, dusky complexion and ahem-- rosy lips, enchanted me. But I did not give her

more than a couple of looks. I do this with every girl I like. I think they feel proud when you look at them.

I ignored her for one fortnight. It was a kind of funny, both of us would pretend to ignore each other

though we kept looking sideways at each other. I had started experiencing all those things

which are shown relative to love in Hindi movies. On seeing her, my throat went dry,

my palms got flooded with sweat, my lips shivered at room temperature.

I was quite sure it was my first love. 

   

That Monday, in the fourth week, we talked. What a shiver it was which I felt when she said

those sweet words. ‘Lend me a page.’

    I kept tossing in my bed that night, recollecting the same words as if they were

the commencement of a historical love saga.

    The next morning when I woke up, my mother got me in a big confusion.

    ‘Son, how are you liking the class? 

    ‘Yes, Ma, why?’

    ‘Just asking.’

    ‘I do. The place is amazing. Time smoothly passes when I am there. I am thankful father gave this idea.’

    ‘Who is this Maitri?’ mother asked, hiding her intense curiosity.

    ‘Maitri? Who? I don’t know, Ma.’ I blabbered. 

    ‘Well, son, Maitri is the name you kept repeating the whole night.’

    ‘Was I?’

    ‘Uhmm..yes.’

    ‘Really!’ And in that very moment I made up an excuse.

‘Oh Ma! You know I am learning French. Maitri is the French word for mother. I know

you will not believe. I love you so much and Maitri is the first word in French I memorized.’

    ‘Oh my dear son,’ she smiled and grabbed me in a tight hug. The expression on her face

was mysterious.

    This way, that day, maybe, I fooled my mother, who didn’t know a single word of French.

    French, that mysterious language. French, the national language of Bangladesh.

Samarth Sadhu, Prose 500 2020, Longlist

Christian Danbey, Prose 500 2020, Longlist

One of the ways you definitely don't shoot people is with your closed.

Abigail Duro, Prose 500 2020, Shortlist

The Black Swan by Abigail Duro

The year is 1981 and the world is full of possibilities, at least for the bunch of scientists here. They all grew up together knowing well that they would all end up at Caltech and that they would be astrophysicists, and that Adam Dreyfus would be their head. And even with no fortunetelling involved, all of this came true. However, what couldn't be predicted was how Avram Berenson, oldest of Adam's friend, would be the only one who would drift away, so far off the course, that no one could ever retrieve him.

Not that Avram himself wanted to be rescued. He could have been an astrophysicist just like all of them. He was brilliant in his academics. Around this time he started moving away. Drunk on Nikola Tesla's work, they would venture out on what they called their "discovery tours". They had scoured Tesla's work at the library for simple technological experiments, then tried on his "magical" writing, even running off to see Tesla's apartment in New York at one point. But as university started, and Adam got busy and Avram slowly started to steer in a different direction.

When he started reading the Talmud a bit too much, Adam assumed it was his religious parents. When he started his meditation experiments, Adam teased him if it was a wireless method to contact Tesla. Adam liked such quirkiness in the genius around him. After all his wife was an astrology buff. And it was she who had said that Avram's Saturn in the eighth could take him to different dimensions or realms. Whatever that meant! But he only ever suspected something when his other friends started making excuses not to hang out with Avram. Avram was called many names, 'A Quack', 'The Black Swan' by his friends. But the one person who never called him anything was Dreyfus. People assumed it was Adam's humility. But Adam knew kindness and humility had no part to play in this.

But then that day it happened, and Adam was left with an emotional and mental void never to be filled. The thing that became a fodder for local conspiracy nuts.

Missing him too much or perhaps due to guilt, Adam vowed to spend an entire day with Avram. Right away, he noticed how often Avram would get phased out between conversations. But Adam could only feel sympathy for his weirdo. Then he suddenly got excited, "Hey Adam, I have been waiting to try something for sometime. It's great you are here. Do you want to see what I found?" Yes, said Adam half-excited but more worried. Avram asked them to enter his study. It was dark and seemed overgrown with some kind of root system which could have been less scary because as Avram switched on the lights, one could see that every inch of the room was covered in intricate drawings or some forgotten language. Adam was speechless, then on the ground he found an elaborate circular system of measuring devices and monitors. He switched it on, entered this 'portal'. Something within Adam wanted to stop him, but things happened at such speed, that right in front of his eyes, Avram vanished. For a moment, he wondered if he was dreaming but no. Then he wondered if this was a sleight of hand but not that either. As if on cue, Avram's parents entered, Adam was still forming sentences in his mind but they seemed to know. All hell broke loose, cops were called, Adam's statements were recorded. Then he was ordered in the meanest of voices to never speak of what he saw to anyone ever, Avram's room was ransacked, papers were confiscated and Adam was made to sign papers he wasn't allowed to read, and as in a drunken stupor, he caved. Days and nights after that Adam kept wondering what had happened? Had Avram become a bit of Tesla himself?

George Swaim, Prose 500 2020, Longlist

Sanika Shinde, Prose 500 2020, Longlist

Paradox by Sanika Shinde

We were a pair to be looked at- with awe and suspicion. I am just a mother with a daughter as loved as any mother would; the traditional archetypal mother who loves unconditionally  and can feel the child's emotion from a distance, not the cruel one from the noir movies.

She walked next to me with her blonde hair, blue eyes and perfect Marathi.

Amar Agarwala, Prose 500 2020, Shortlist

A Tale From The Wild West

Sam Mendiz was known to be a good man, He was the designated Sheriff and guardian who defended the town of Santa Fe as if it were his home. The day Cano Navarro rode into town, he knew it was a bad omen. Cano was not just an infamous shootist, but the quickest draw in the Chihuahua desert. The man had the blood of many an innocent on his hands and meant big trouble wherever he set foot.

It did not take long for Cano to get into an ugly brawl with the townsfolk at the ramshackle bar, the only watering trough in the shanty town. Before long he shot and nearly killed the local banker Joe Delmer. News travelled fast to the Sheriff’s office and soon an angry Mendiz confronted Cano, who sought a gunfight saying, “You can keep your law as long as you can take me on. The winner takes it all Sheriff.”

“Get to the main street you rotten scoundrel, am ready,” the fearless Mendiz replied.

They stood facing one another – cowboy hats shading their eyes, revolvers sheathed by their holsters and hands hanging limply by their sides. The townsfolk waited to watch the gunfight with baited breath, when Santiago – the Sheriff’s page boy was asked to toss a copper coin. They’d draw the moment the coin hit the ground.

A split second before the coin hit the ground, a ruthless Cano drew and fired across the thirty yards before an eye could blink. The bullet struck Mendiz below the heart, and the Sheriff fell dead, his hands yet on the holster of his revolver.

The orphaned Santiago rushed where the Sheriff lay, the boy was inordinately fond of the man who had bought him up like a son. He then pulled out the heavy revolver from Mendiz’s holster and stood up, “Hey Mister... how bout another duel?”

“Go bury your old man. You need to grow up,” smirked the shootist.

“Bravery has nothing to do with age. Come fight me you coward,” the boy said through clenched teeth.

An astonished Cano half turned and before he fathomed the challenge, Santiago had already tossed the coin high in the air. All eyes along with Cano’s were on the coin as it rose up in the warm air, glinted in the late afternoon sun, before spinning down, by then Santiago had already levelled his gun at Cano and took aim.

Instinctively Cano turned around and drew out his revolver but at that split moment the coin hit the ground and a single shot was fired. The bullet pierced outlaw’s heart... as Santiago stood unblinking, the Sheriff’s revolver still smoking in his hand. He never imagined in his wildest dreams that his lessons with the Sheriff’s in firing a gun could be so effective. As the townsfolk burst into applause, Santiago knew the Sheriff would be proud of him.