Posted in Fiction, Life, short story, thème

Midnight

He had only a few minutes left, for the clocks to strike 12
and he wouldnt remain the same,
pumpkin carriage would be no more,
he would no longer be the prince charming,
and as he feared, no longer the apple of her eye.
His mind seemed to be in a hurry, and yet he was’nt.
His midnight never arrived,
He was never let free,
Thus continued his eternal wait,
for his
midnight.

Posted in Life, Marriage, Relationships, short story, thème, Thoughts

Completeness

Guys you remember my blog friend Rusty from “Two A Day” right?, so she had written this short story a few days back, which I was really impressed with. She called it “The Beginning“. I asked her if she could do a part 2 of it, from the view of the women, and she asked me back, if I could do it. This was way back and I have been wanting to do it for long. Finally I got myself to do it, so here it goes..

It had been months since she started talking to herself, first she found it amusing, because back in her days she hardly liked to speak, she was one of those who preferred few words, and uttered them only if necessary, but now, she found herself being more expressive. She would surprise herself with the physicality of her emotions; she had caught herself smiling at things from a book, or with a lump in her throat, or even for that matter humming her favorite songs loudly. May be it was her unconscious mind trying to fill in the void.

She had never been particular about her ensemble, and her mother always had a problem with that, she was always being told things like how a dupatta completes her salwar, or when she wore western dresses, she was always reminded to throw in a nice pair of high heels along with it. Basically she didn’t care, a feeling of “completion” did not matter to her much, she always believed that she had better things in her life to drive to completion, rather then something as trivial as her look. Like the elusive degree in art she wanted to earn in the city of Paris, or things as simple as a perfect evening in her lawn with a good book, and a cup of tea, with nothing to worry about.

On that day, as she ran down her steps to catch her shawl, which was forced off her, by the wind, she began to introspect what she had become, and what she was. Red shawl completed her attire for the cold evenings she spent on her balcony, and she did not want to lose the comfort of what she had, especially after all other things which were completely beyond her reach right now.

She had all the freedom she wanted, no one to answer to, she had complete independence. she always had wanted this, ability to not depend on anyone, even if it were for deeds which required physical strength, like moving things in her house, or something as trivial as deciding what she would eat that day. At home she had always felt controlled, being told what to do, what to eat, and being taken care of. One could catch her on days moving stuff into her balcony and out of it. She felt idiotic and stupid, because she kind of yearned for that control now, the bondage which she hated so much, she kind of missed it. Without that pull, the freedom felt incomplete, less attractive and less appealing.

Balcony was one place she had gotten absolutely fond of. You could catch her there most of her free time. Reading, cutting vegetables, watching people, living her life. One day as she gazed around the area, she caught a pair of binoculars aimed at her, for a second she got creeped out, immediately rushed back into her kitchen. She did not know how to react, should she be calling police, or call her husband at work. She decided to ignore it, and if it becomes more intrusive she thought about taking some action. One thing she realized was that, she did not want this to ruin one thing she loved the most in her life, her balcony, her window into the blue skies.

Every time she came into the balcony, she kind of glanced to see if she could spot the guy, she would find him on some days and not on others. Slowly she began to feel comfortable with being watched, more importantly she liked it amidst her loneliness, gave her a sense of being looked after and looked at, even though it meant a loss of privacy, at times. Slowly she began to treat the person as being there with her, in her balcony, imagined him responding to her, talking to her, providing her a virtual company, he had become a part of her evenings remotely, ‘his’ presence completed her evenings. Its one of those feelings which she could not categorize as romantic or sexual, it gave her a sense of companionship, and she began to like it.

On that day as her husband piled boxes on top of each other, she stood there with a confused mind, it was going a new place and a new city, and the same old herself, in a way stepping a step back, from being accompanied back to herself. The sense of completeness those unknown eyes brought to her, was something beyond comprehension”

P.S. This will be my last post wrt to my writing experiments and I am going to take a break from all the prompts and attempts. I want to get back to how the blog started more ME, since I am blogging so less these days I want to take this blog to where I started from my life and opinions.

Posted in Fiction, short story, thème

Leftovers

From where I sit, the place looks a little pale, one of those café’s which has kind of lost its race with its neon glittering, over crowded counterparts. I assume, the place must have had its loyalists, but today not many seem to be around. May be it had to do with the hour of the day. The grand clock on the wall, showed a little past 10. It was that time of the day, when it was well past breakfast but a little away from lunch. Not many people hang around the old time café’s during this hour of the day, unless they are one of those who hang out buried in a book or a laptop. But today I can see none around, it is just me.

I lay there, on an empty coffee table, with fresh stains of leftovers around me, living me with a feeling, that may be I am one too, a stain, a leftover stain. 

A sudden gush of wind caught me off guard, turning a few pages backwards, taking me along.

I can see an young man, may be in his late teens. The impatience of the youth eminent in the rhythmic noise his cell phone made, with its every touch, to slightly damp surface of the table he sat at. The morning dew formed a layer of tiny droplets, giving a fresh and bubbly look to the otherwise worn out table of the yesteryear’s. I guess he was waiting for a text or a call, he made it a point to flip open his cell phone, in case his mobile forgot to signal him, when whoever he was waiting for, made a contact. He spent a really tough 90 minutes here, occasionally sipping a cuppa, or a vigorously tapping of his legs firmly onto the ground for a few minutes and then getting back to his monotonous and frustrating wait. Finally, after about what it seemed like an infinite wait, his phone is ringing. 

I am being an eavesdrop today and picking up the eager voice the guy is sporting, 

“I think today is the day, I ought to tell her, I need to come out of the hiding, its been weeks since I have been leaving her gifts, things I am sure she has enjoyed, leaving her with words which she cherishes the most, I have been giving her clues to find a way to me. This has got to end today, in fact this should have ended by know, its well past her time here, and here I am waiting, with no trace of her”

Ah the wind yet again, as though it does not want me to revisit the whole of it. Taking me forward, well past the lunch, right into the time of the day I love the most, the dusk.

I see her, a lady well past her prime, hair crowned with a bunch of gray wisdom. There is something about her eyes, burning red in color, and swollen out of their sockets, indicating sleepless nights or hours of crying. Her face looks void of emotions though. She does not look like a regular here at all, this was not the time the or the place for a person of her age. I surprisingly see a sense of fitting in, as though she has accepted this. I see her reaching to her bag pulling out a plastic bag, it seems to be loaded with things which I cannot see from where I sit. I wait in hope that she pulls things out one by one, just when she is about to get the first item out, I see a young girl approaching her. I guess she must have been here to meet her young friend, I prognosticate.

Now that I can here their conversation, I let myself flow to into her voice

“Oh I am not sad at all, I know she left us happily, after years of struggling, I had given up the hope that I would see her smiling again, but something changed in the last few days, she seemed to be happy, may be it had something to do with this bag I found below her bed, may be this is where she hid  all her happiness, I guess I met you at the right time, I would be really happy to see her last bit of happiness being spread across the numerous children at the orphanage which you guys used to visit, I guess she left us with no regrets.”

The powerful wind at its work again, behaving as though it exactly knew the cue when to turn the pages over, and interrupt my narration. 

I lay there, on an empty coffee table, with fresh stains of leftovers around me, living me with a feeling, that may be I am one too, a stain, a leftover stain.

Posted in Fiction, Life, mèmè, short story

A White Canvas

As a kid, people always found Kush interesting, they found him a little different, and in a way Kush loved it. He always wanted that bit of uniqueness to be tagged to him, and needless to say he consciously worked on it.  

Kush, one day had an interesting project for himself, his signature, he wanted to develop one which he would use on cheques and letters when he grew up, he wanted his signature to stand out, something out of the ordinary you know, he started practicing, he came up with many forms, but thought they were ordinary. he wanted that extra special twist, and finally he framed an artistic K, with two dots below, something no one can come up with, something his very own.

Teenage and peer pressures hardly had an effect on him, in fact it did, but in the reverse way, it made him choose paths unthinkable to his peers. When there was a mad rush to get into professional courses, scoring as much to get into a good college, he chose a lesser known path, painting. He began painting as an hobby, and soon it began taking all his time. He loved how much he contributed to his own creativity, and how different and unique it felt when compared to other paintings around him. He began investing more time, and thought of making this career, and infact he did not care if painting counted as a career, but he had found what he wanted to do.
 
Kush who had started as an amateur painter, began developing skills which he never imagined, the paintings started to express things in a spectacular way, with colors no one used, with depictions hardly ever seen. Something which made his style of painting extra ordinary. People began liking his edge and even suggested him to arrange an exhibition. At 19, he had his first exhibition,  something which  was conceived and planned totally by him, everything about the exhibition stood out, the huge dark gloomy welcome signs, or the single exhibit concept he came up with, where a big room would have a single piece waiting to be explored by the onlooker behind the closed doors. He was an instant hit, his paintings sold within seconds, with bids raking in huge moolah. 

Kush, over months became a revelation in the art world, his unique use of colors and moods made his paintings stand out everywhere. Anybody could recognize his work without any tags, but still he did not let his old effort go waste, he began to sign his paintings with the interesting K he had come up with. It had become his signature, in a true sense.

His quest for uniqueness didn’t stop at his profession, his personal life too was filled with ideas and plans, to make his life more interesting and unique, Kush never believed in marriage, or any social norms, he wanted to be the outlaw, he first fell in love with a single mother about ten years older to him, within no time, they decided to move in together, he truly loved her, and she was in love too. He knew the topic of marriage would come up some day, and in a way he expected that it would be soon. He was surprised it took more than five years for the topic to come up, the stern guy he was with his ideologies, he refused, she was left with no choice but to move out. For the first time Kush felt real rage in his life.
 
He wanted to bring this out on canvas, he took a white canvas, and started venting his rage on to the painting, at the end of three hours he had a red canvas, a canvas with shades of red, In a way showing every frustration he had had over time, the things he was angry with himself for, every silly move of his which had come back to trouble him on days he had been alone. He had a look at the piece, and felt this was his worst work till date, nothing more than the mixing palette he had in his hands. He couldn’t believe he had created something so common. He wanted the piece to be out of sight, he took the painting and threw it behind the stack of old canvases up in the attic.

 Kush was back being single, and he enjoyed his new single status in every possible way he could, dinner dates, and sleepovers was now common, I guess he never considered what he had lost, or more importantly what he wanted. Days passed by, he developed a habit of going on long evening walks. He would walk down the beachside, or even busy streets for hours, just thinking and enjoying his company. One day he came across a children’s park, and he loved the sight. He entered the park and sat on a park bench, observing kids. It soon became part of his evening routine, where he would just visit and look at kids. Once when he was in a the middle of a painting, suddenly his thoughts drifted to those days back with her, the greener pastures from the days gone buy, the kids in the park, the greenery, and without him realizing the canvas turned into an absolute green one, shades of green just like his mind. It had him in splits, did it indicate his envy, or the calmness. He did not want to think, nor wanted it to affect his usual style. So he found the best place for it, the attic. Right behind the red one he had painted few years back.

 Years flew past, woman after another, painting after painting, life just flew in front of his own eyes. Only two things survived the years, his paintings and his long walks. Today as he walks past with his stick to his side, and almost the same attitude he once possessed, one can almost see the stubbornness. I guess one can choose to call it as his determination too. He walked past a beautiful sunset, the sky had turned orange in the twilight, just like the vibrant orange he had used in numerous of his paintings, for a second he could frame a canvas through his eyes onto the sky. He had no clue, that the sight would somehow find his way into his canvas the very next day. An Orange canvas, with shades ranging from the dull and pale, to the vibrant and shocking streaks. 

 This time he wanted to analyze, he wanted to find out what the  painting stood for, why he had painted something so common, something which has none of his style, something he would never want to claim as his own. Suddenly he remembered the other two sitting somewhere on the attic, he got his servant to bring them down, and there had all three of them, side by side, shades of red, Green and Orange.  Standing there, looking at these paintings Kush felt an amazing uniqueness and satisfaction which he had never felt before, he had finally come up with the subject for his masterpiece. 

 He took out his canvas, and began painting every possible incident he could remember about his life, people he loved, people he missed, things he chose to ignore, thinks he loved. Every thing he could think of. It almost took him an year to fill the canvas until, he had nothing more left that he would want to fill. Finally he took a long clean brush, and painted over the filled canvas, a sheer white. There he had his masterpiece, a perfectly white one, the way he wanted his life to be, the way he wanted his painting to be.

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Prats over at Retrospections! Emotional ecology……Tagged me here . I was supposed to come with a story with color I like, and I chose not one but many which I like.

Posted in Fiction, short story, thème, Thoughts, thoughts to think, Uncategorized

I am a flower

I lay there on the sidewalk just a little away from the curb, I look fresh enough to attract any damsel on this earth, I could end up in hands of a love struck fella of any corner of this earth , who is in a bid to woe a women of his dreams, or I could end up of just above the left ear of the graceful lady who leaves a few blocks away, or I could end up next to the photo frame of a old person hung on the blue wall of the room right above the tree I fell from.

I sometimes marvel at the prospects of my own future, and my friends call me an eternal optimist.

It’s was a lovely morning, the gentle breeze kept trying to knock on windows of people, as though inviting them for an early morning bliss. The loveliness lasted until the satanic side of the otherwise gentle wind decided to play its little trick on me. Luring me with a prospective freshness, swept me off my feet, making me fall with my just blossomed fresh petals. Life can change your path in just a sniff, I had heard many people walking below my tree tell this, I never thought I would fall for that sniff.

I had a reputation to live upto, I had to be the eternal optimist, well I wasn’t trying to be one, I really was an optimist. As the morning joggers began to jog along, with their ipods attached to their ears, I knew it was just matter of time, before I am in palms of one of the guys, or an object of admiration resting in the hairs of an young hazel eyed beauty. I might have fallen, but I still had my grace intact.

The young joggers seem to be in a bad mood of sorts today, none seem to be looking down, all seemed to have an unfinished business up above, they continued to jog with their head upwards. I never noticed this, did they always jog like this?, as if they have no business down below?, may be the old person who rested below my tree was right, they do learn a little late.

It was time for the old people who began their day with a painful walk around to the park. I sometimes pity them, after their long walk of restless days, now in their twilight, when they can hardly walk, they huff/puff around with a painful face, and even more painful knees. I was sure, the old lady with a slight hunch would spot me, and I would be the focus of her devotion, getting the pleasure to grace her deity. I was sure that the old man who would no longer spend money on materialistic means to spirituality like me, I was sure he would pick me up and take me home. The old lady seem to have an excessively painful knee today, still she did come for her morning ritual, her walk, she seem to walk past me with her eye fixed to her feet, may be I never get to see where eyes are focused, from my position on the tree. The old guy seems to have lost his eyesight in all those days spent providing. I realized one thing that moment, when I sit on my tree, amidst those supporting branches of mine, I hardly get the view of things which I was getting today down below.

My optimism, even though tainted a little, was still going strong, I knew its just a matter of time, and its still a long day to go.

[24 hours gone by]

Its that gentle breeze yet again, carrying a faint aroma of the baker down the street, the aroma of the freshly brewed coffee, coming from the neighboring kitchen, freshening me up.

I still lay on the sidewalk, I agree that some of my petals have darkened, and my fragrance seem to have lost a little, but today is a new day, and it’s a matter of few more minutes and my young joggers will be in just a bit time.

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The topic over at skittles today is “flower”, Inspired by the book “my name is red”, here’s my attempt of trying something in first person narrative.

Posted in Fiction, short story, thème

Flashes

He sat there on his chair pulled up right close to the wall, just besides the open window. Two large portraits hung on the wall just above the window. As he looked outside the window, with his face pressed to it, he could almost smell the rusty odor of the iron bars across the wooden window. His room was dark, with his tube lights off, a faint light from the nearby street light fell on his slightly pale face, the droopy old bald guy seem to have a glowing face with eyes behind a pair of almost thick glasses. The light coming into the room cast a shadow of diagonal parallel bars on his otherwise straight face. He sat there in the darkness of his own room.

“Amit” his mom screamed, “Will you open that stupid window of yours, it stinks in here, where will the air come from if you always keep the windows closed?, I hate to enter your room!”.
Amit shouted back at her “Who asks you to come in, you need not. You can leave all my stuff at the door, and I shall pick up, this is my room”
Amit’s mom walks back still continuing to vent her frustration for her highly disobedient son.

As he sat there gazing upon the far horizon, with a face as calm as an innocent lamb, scenes from his youth flashed before his eyes.

His line of sight slowly lowered, and fell upon the people walking by on a not so busy street. He saw people of all ages, making their journeys through life. Some animated self talkers, some calm and slow sloggers, some who seem to have hit the jackpot of happiness, and others who seem to consider themselves to be the personification of sorrow if there ever was one. He was having an amazing time, letting his imagination go crazy, with the possible stories of anyone who walked passed the street, Even with all the excitement, he sat there almost expression less.

“Amit, Why do you keep yourself shut in that dingy room of yours?, and why do you hate socializing so much?, you got to get out, meet people, if not outside house atleast the ones who come visit us”, You could see that Amit’s mom was really angry this time around, the green vein showed up on her forehead.

Amit had never been a people person, no he was not an introvert, nor did he suffer from anthropophobia, but still he never enjoyed meeting people, the earlier days where he preferred himself to other people, flashed before his eyes, as he continued to enjoy the one way interaction with thousand of faces, and a lovely imagery journey his mind was undergoing at the moment.

The power cut which seemed to have caused the darkness in the room ended, and the lights came on, he could see a shadow of his wife walking up to his room, with a cup of coffee in her hand. He took the coffee from her hand, and began to sip it. A little cold, a little too sweat, and a little too light to his taste, he sipped along as he remembered his days from youth where he would have shouted at his mom for making the coffee just the way he didn’t like. Amit finished his coffee, stood up and walked out to his usual walk.

Posted in Fiction, short story

Traffic Signal

The highway was empty as far as he could he see, he held the steering wheel as firmly as he could, with his eyes gazing upon the imaginary horizon made by the long highway. A light could be spotted at a far distance, it appeared to be a coming from a traffic signal. His eyes were darkish in color, they seem to be reminiscent of the sleepless nights he had had. He had no tears in his eyes, it did not seem to have dried up, he had his usual numb face on, but one could see the disappointment, one could spot the signs of anger, one could see the emotion waiting to burst open. Still with a numb face on. The speed to which his car was reaching, must the highest he would have touched in years, he was driving as though there was no tomorrow.

The images from the showdown he had with Tina were flashing before his eyes. It was not new to him, they had fought about the same issue many a times, and today was not much different. He seem to be drawing blank reliving the scene, and he could feel his throat drying up, as he remembered the exact words that were exchanged. Coming from Tina, the only person who mattered to him, made the matters worse.

Tina had said No, yet again, she had refused to marry him yet again, he had done everything he could to make her think over her decision, with a lot of hope that she would reconsider his request. Tina had moved in with him three years back, their relationship had made many a heads turn, and both were proud of the dignified way in which they had carried off their relationship so far. Tina was adamant as ever, she did not want to marry, and he failed to understand her reason behind this. Tina knew him very well, she must have had absolutely no worry about her independence being hampered, she needn’t worry about her career either, he was a thorough gentleman who respected a woman the way she should be, he did not have any family either, so she had no fears of in-laws as well. He was exhausted trying to come up with possible reasons as to why said no. It was beyond his imagination.

Tina shared her every feeling with him, every emotion she felt was shared with him, and they could read each others mind in most of the circumstances, but for this situation. Tina seem to be hiding some fear, some doubt, some insecurity, some hidden secret, forcing herself to say no. Tina had been a hard working, career woman for long wanting to reach levels of success which always eluded her. She had let him know at times how much she feared loosing her career, losing the legacy which she had struggled to build up, fears she had about how her routine would change about work, and kids she feared the most. Every time she had come out with this fear, like any responsible person he had tried to reason out how normal family life is, and trying to let her know of the cold feet she has been having, but nothing seem to satisfy her.

He really did not need this he thought, he did think about the break up, wanting to look outside and see if he can get what he is looking for, a little more commitment, and the sanctity of marriage he now seemed to be obsessed with. He also knew the breakup would leave both of them devastated, its not something time pass the two shared, they really cared for each other.

Every time he had these sessions with himself, post the heavy showdown with Tina he went through three phases, He always began with telling himself, it was time for him to take an action, to ask her to move out, spare himself of all these pains he has to go through often, for once get rid of this never ending saga of heartbreaks. He never considered himself to be wrong in asking for the next step in their relationship. He would then move on to a second phase where he thought, may be she was right, may be their careers would get affected, may be they were best this way, with no tags attached, loving each other the way they were. May be they were meant to be this way, together.

The traffic signal which seemed way distant from him, was now just yards away, as though life had given him the signal he was looking for. He was close to his usual third phase, where he would take action as always. The traffic junction came by, and at the junction he spun his car around for a U turn and headed back to his place, back to his Tina

Posted in Fiction, Life, short story

Torn paper.

One could easily see the love for each other in their eyes, its not that they did not try to hide it, but the love and admiration for each other was too much for them to hide. It was almost as if they want to ignore it. They had read a lot about the work place romances, and their ill effects on each others career, and both of them did not want to risk their careers, something which they had achieved with lot of hard work.It did not come easy to him, he had always dismissed the idea of falling in love with someone, or idea of a relationship. She on the other hand had experienced it once, and knew the importance and the happiness in it. She seemed more calm, but still apprehensive about the unfolding events.

They were never a typical couple, they never hung out much together while at work, nor physically close to each other all the time. They did not even hang out much after work, both busy with their own personal lives after work, it was as though “love” was ironic in
their case.

What held them together was their countability to each other, anyday she could be sure that she could count on him for anything. Same was his case, he could trust her with anything when needed. No there was no money involved and no favors too, it was just the emotional support they sought in each other. The bond was growing stronger, with every shared thought on high and low days they spent together.

He always had a thing for single moms, no he was not of the types who would lust at the possible sight of a hot single mom. He had a theory that any person who has lost something would value it better, so a single mom would value love and commitment more than anything in her life, this is what he believed in.

It was not easy for her being a single mom, she had a lot many people in her frame, and more importantly her kid. The decisions she made was no longer totally hers, she had a kid to think about. It was not easy for him either, the society he lived in was not mature enough to handle a good hearted relationship with a single mom. All people thought, was that, he is an unmarried bachelor, trying to take advantage of a lonely single mother.

The kid was old enough now to accept the lack of a father, more importantly it was old enough to want one, he was filling the shoe very nicely. Even though they never noticed, the kid was beginning to accept the rare visitor.

He did not speak much, even when he was around once in a while helping her. One thing she noticed was that he was never sympathetic, he was never sorry for her, he treated her normal, just like any other woman, with equality in his own way. This is what had drawn her to him. More importantly he was open to accept her help whenever she offered, it may not be big things, just simple chores, she loved this quality of his.

After a lot of effort, and lots more thinking, he finally did it, he did propose to her. She knew this would happen some day, but she was surprised at herself for not giving an instantaneous yes, she did ask for a couple of days to think it over. She thought this would be a formality, and was sure she would say yes.

It turned out it was not a formality after all, every time she wanted to dial him up and say yes, there was some force which stopped her, she was not happy saying yes, she doubted, no not him, but herself, she doubted her worth, wondered if she was spoiling everyone’s life here. She was now spotting in herself, what others had seen in her. The “tear”, the feeling of a torn paper was eating her. She feared that how much ever she tries to
glue it together, people will spot the tear. After a lot of thinking, she decided to move on, leave the city and take the job at a distant place.

He too did move on, he married the one chosen by his family, not that he was very sad either, he had really moved on.

What she failed to realize was that it was not only her who left with a “tear”, it was also him, the paper did tear in his case too.

The paper did tear.

26_torn_by_smibee.jpg

photo courtesy Smibee

Posted in Fiction, short story

Happy Birthday!

He was fast asleep in his favorite spider-man jammies, the one he had dreamt about for long, and was very happy to have. It had been a very tiresome day, he was sleeping like a log. He felt a soft hand on his shoulder, within no time  the hand was shaking him up, trying to wake him I guess. He open his eyes reluctantly, he thought he must have really overslept, and his mom would be very wild at him he thought.

As he opened his eyes, he could here a chorus “Surprise”, He could see his mom and dad, with a small home made cake, with his name on top. It was his birthday, he was angry at himself for forgetting that, There were 8 full candles on the top, one for every wonderful year he had lived on this earth. His parents started to sing “happy birthday to you”, with the soft music of instruments playing on the music system. One could easily spot his happiness, he was almost grinning ear to ear.

He cut the cake with a small knife, which had a ribbon bow tied it, as he held the knife it started to play his favorite rhyme too, “Row Row Row your boat“. His happiness had no bounds. He quickly made his parents eat the piece he had cut, and also ate the rest of the piece. His father has brought him many gifts, which also included a coupon with permission to watch TV with no restrictions. His father also had kept his promise to take him out for a week vacation to his grandfather’s village, which he had always loved.

After the short but very sweet ceremony he was asked to sleep, so that they could enjoy the day next morning. He woke up, and eagerly rushed through his morning routine, he brushed his teeth and rushed downstairs, his mom had prepared his favorite breakfast combination, just the way his grand mom would make, Idli’s along with the khus-khus payasa [a sweet made of poppy seeds]. What made it more interesting was to see his mom take a day of her busy schedule to make his breakfast. As he sat at the breakfast table, he was surprised to see his dad reading newspaper patiently, he had never seen his dad in recent times being so laid back, In fact he hardly got to see him, as his parents used to get off to work before he wakes up and generally back only way past his bed time.

As he sat there having the breakfast he began to plan the day mentally, the places he would like to visit with his parents, the games he would love to play with them, and that playground which he passed daily with lots of kids playing with their parents. He had so many things to do. He did not want to waste time at all.

Just as he finished the breakfast, the phone rang, and it was his grandparents, calling to wish him on his birthday. They could easily make out the joy in their grandson’s voice, which they had been missing to spot for long long time.

He quickly took his shower, which he insisted that his mom should not help, well he was grown up now, and it was indeed shame to ask his mom to help, but she convinced him it should be her to dress him up, as she hardly got chance these days. He was happy indeed, to see his mom comb his hair, no one took so much interest to make sure the line on his forehead formed at the  parting of hairs was perfectly straight, and exactly to the left of his forehead. He loved it when she chose to be so perfect.

All set he was, for “his” day.

Just then he heard a buzzing sound, he could not help but get annoyed it was not stopping at all, it was some kind of a ring, he realized that it was his alarm, and it was morning. Poor guy he could not believe it was all his dream. He woke up, and he was right it was indeed his birthday. He quickly brushed his teeth and rushed down.

It was just another day, his parents had left already, the housekeeper was busy preparing his breakfast, she wished him a happy birthday, and handed him a huge collection of cleanly wrapped presents. Which he threw aside, got ready for his school quickly not showing his disappointment.

As he walked past the playground, still watching lots of kids playing, all  we could see was that he was humming his favorite rhyme

Row, row, row your boat,
Gently down the stream.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,
Life is like a dream.
Posted in Fiction, short story

May be..

I had been wanting to do this for quite some time now. I don’t read much fiction, nor much of a fiction admirer, but I wanted to try fiction. As I don’t have much clue, have been really skeptical about posting this. So here it is, my little attempt at fiction. I decided to call the story “May be”
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She stood there, looking outside the window, as though she was trying to spot someone, she continued to speak to her friend, the only one whom she could trust, but still she seemed to avoid looking in the eye, she really didn’t want to give it away. She knew, one look at smiling friend of hers, and the truth would come out. Had she always been like this?, she thought.

Friend was happy with love of her life, he used to drop in almost daily, their laughters and smiles was not alien to her anymore, Even though they tried to rope her into the fun, she always stayed out, made excuses, as always,she had her favorite pass time “the windows”. She found a little solace in watching crowd, or was it a means for her to drive away the sadness she felt looking at them.?

What she could not share with her friend anymore, used to get journaled in her dairy, it was more like a black book of her emotions, and a vent for her frustrations. Every page of it began with the same line, “If only, I had stopped myself during those unfortunate days”. Anybody who read a few pages could easily make out the level of impact those days had on he life and ever since.

She was really rendered clueless, she felt as if she had lost the ability to make choices, rather she had lost the faith in the ones she had made and ones she might end up making. She had chosen silence. She was not sure about it, but she did not want risk it any more, she already had the guilt of having betrayed someone, who had been so dear to her, more importantly for a reason she felt, was really not the other person’s fault.

She blamed herself, she blamed her own body and her soul. Those well hidden marks of thin blade cuts on her thighs and inner side of her hands spoke as to how much she had begun to hate her body. It seemed as though she wanted to punish her body, keep souvenirs reminding herself for years to come of the incident which changed her life.

It was a Sunday afternoon, she hated weekends, she had to spend the day with not much work, that meant more time to be “alone”, and time to introspect. She wanted herself to be busy, work did make her forget the pain. She heard her phone ring, it was her friend’s mom from the hospital. Her friend was admitted, she had no clue why, leaving things haywire she rushed.

Her friend was on the bed, she looked really pale, it had been quite some days since she was seen sans makeup, may be the paleness was well hidden all along, her friend finally opened up, it was not a small illness, she had had. Friend had been diagnosed to be HIV +ve. The cheerfulness of her friend never gave it away. She thought to herself, “HIV need not mean fatal”, and was sure her friend had lots of time. The only reply Doctor gave was, “may be, she has more time”.

She was so worried about her friend, that she did not, for even a second, think, she could be +VE too. Scenes from the past played in her eyes, the way she had given into her friend’s love. Every time she did that, she thought it was the biggest mistake, but his charms had lured her away. She had fallen for her own desires, and also in her own eyes.

As she came out of the hospital, she saw the guy walking in, he was as calm as usual, with fruits in his hands, and a smile on his face.

May be, if her friend had hinted about illness, she would have been more careful.
May be, if she had confided in her friend, her friend would have been more careful,
May be, there was nothing they could do,
May be, there was something they could do,
May be, he was also to blame,
May be, there was nothing to blame,
May be, it was her fault,
May be , it was her friend’s fault.

“May be’s” were all that she was left with.