Rahul sat restless besides his mother. He could not understand why she would not allow him to go out and celebrate with his friends. He missed watching the final match on tv and did not see how the game was won. The whole country was gripped by cricket fever yet their village was silent as a tomb. Comparing it to a tomb he thought was appropriate since someone had died. Someone important. An old man who was look upon as a benign leader of the community. His death was gruesome and kind of strange. Leaving the villagers mystified and puzzled. But Rahul did not really know him and he found it hard to mourn for a man he have not even met. And that it happened in the most inconvenient time. The fireworks from other villages lighting the sky every now and then were an irritating reminder of what he was missing.
” The bull was there watching from outside the hospital when babaji was taken there. As if making sure he was dead.” One of the old ladies whispered through her ghunghat. The women sitting with her including his mother clucked their tongues in horror and amazement. ” And again the bull appeared in the crematorium when they were burning his body.” The women shuddered. “Eh bagwan!” (Oh my god). One of them muttered. Rahul stood up feeling impatient with the women’s superstitious tales. He wanted to know what was happening in the rest of the country. He could only imagine that everyone’s heart like him was filled with pride for his nation’s cricket team. It took after all a very very long time before they could take home the World Cup trophy again. Continue reading
” You’re pregnant! You’re pregnant!” her mother kept saying. She stared at her mother feeling sick. She did not know who had gotten her pregnant.
“ We have to find you a man to keep you warm at night. It’s painful being pregnant.” Her mother added. Looking at her very strangely.
She was holding her stomach. Something was moving in there. Her eyes grew large. She felt sick again.
She went to school the next day thinking her future was ruined. She kept thinking about the horrible experience of delivering a baby. The pain, the dampness and cold. She did not know how she knew about those feelings. Her young mind must have accumulated it from stories she had read.
“I have to lose the baby!” Continue reading
“There is a ghost up that tree.” said the shepherd. The sheep beside him looked up as if to say, ” So let it be how does it bother us.” With many sheep in the area, there was hardly any grass left for grazing. This particular sheep with the fluffiest wool was grazing on a lone yellow flowered plant. But one can’t really call it grazing as it was so gentle with the flower it was more like kissing.
The shepherd had let this sheep grow its wool without shearing it for last three season. The fluffy wool reminded him of one rockstar’s hairstyle whose name he could not even recall properly. There was a stick in the shepherd’s hand forked at the other end. He suddenly realized it and scratched a few lines on a moss covered rock in comfortable reach of his stick.
Not stopping he went on to write his name, drew a few symbols like at the rate sign, an exclamation mark and dot, dot, dot. Got up and went to the other side of the rock to continue his masterpiece. His pants became green at the back because of moss. Continue reading
Telling stories has always been a way of expressing my self, my beliefs and my feelings. I found that it can a drive a point more effectively than a long rhetoric. Stories have won me many friends when I was a kid. Especially horror stories. Kids like to scare themselves silly. I can have them cowering under the covers after I am finished. And since I love to read at a young age I never run out of tales to tell. And now that I am grown up I am happy to share stories I wrote myself. Though I remember having written a short novel when I was in highschool in one of my notebooks. My classmates read it and passed it around. I knew then that I wanted to be a writer. So thank you for sparing a minute or two from your busy lives and stopping by at my page to read some tales I’ve written. You bring a smile to my face. 🙂
My dream is to become a master story teller. From whom words will flow smoothly like water from an eternal spring. And everyday of my life I am working on that.
” Men are so stupid! ” A friend had declared while slumping on the chair of the cafe. She sounded like it was the first time she had that realization. I checked my watch. Judging from her tone this chat over a cup of coffee would take a long time.
” Husband problem? ” I asked. But I already knew the answer. She really didn’t need much encouragement. She nodded and started with the litany of complaints against her husband.
What to do. I sit. I stand. I stretch my legs. Where the hell are you? I walked around the house. But there’s nothing to do. The tv is on. You left it open for me. As if that will compensate for your absence. Yeah, I like listening to music occasionally but mostly I don’t know what the hell is going on inside that box full of unintelligible noise.
Bored, I went to sleep. Hoping this will fast forward time. I dreamt of food. Chicken. Hmm. Eggs. Those are my favorites. Waking up,I felt hungry. Leave it to you to keep my food out of my reach. I drunk some water and begun the cycle again. Stretching. Sitting. Walking around. Why is the time not getting any faster?
Finally in utter frustration I saw the pillow on the bed and shredded it into pieces. I’ll show you! Then the plants did not escape my wrath. Ha! This will really rile you up! The newspapers! You are next! Looking around I am unrepentant of the destruction I caused. That will teach you to leave me all alone again! Continue reading
Where she goes nobody knows. Where she lived nobody dares go. Her backyard was the forest. A secret maze of tall ominous looking trees hide her cottage from the rest. And whenever young Marie would see a dark red diaphanous long dress or a red velvet coat she wears. Her eyes towards the horizon. Her gait confident, oblivious of everyone around her.
“ I want to wear a dress in that color.” Marie told her mother one day when she saw the woman in the town. She looked suspiciously at the woman. “ Men never marry a woman in red. They want women in pastels.” Marie frowned. “But men do sure like women in red.” She remarked. Her mother snorted. Marie can see men ogling the woman in red. The woman would occasionally look at the men sideways and the men would have an expression Marie thought indecent.
“She doesn’t have any friends in the town,” Lilian said while drawing circles in the sand with her fingers. Marie copied her and drew a heart and wrote the name John in it.
“Mother seems to hate her. But father always have a dreamy look every time they would talk about her.” Continue reading