I am an Instructional Designer, avid reader, small-town woman and working mother with a fish-eye perspective. I have just published my first book, The Forest Bed and other short stories.
If you like my stories on this blog, feel free to Like, Comment, Reblog and Share.
You can reach me at shailygrwl@gmail.com or through my Facebook page facebook.com/shailyagrawalwrites/
Been too long I could think of what to say besides.
…
Feels like forever;
When you were by my side,
Been too long ever since I felt the pain subside.
…
Wait for me, won’t you?
I will be along
Wait for me, won’t you?
You won’t be alone…
…
Been too far away
On the other side of the sun.
Too long since I touched the fresh earth
and didn’t feel the burn.
…
Lost in space forever,
I didn’t see until you were gone;
Now there’s nothing but to wonder
When I’ll be along…
…
Wait for me
there, my love;
I’ll be along…
Wait for me
won’t you?
I will be along…
_________________________________________________
Author’s note: Not sure where this one came up from. I am not a song writer, but I was singing it as I wrote it. I could hear my brother’s guitar in my mind, strumming a quick beat as I sang it. And for some reason, it feels like a piece of my heart.
In India, ring is not a symbol of engagement. I mean, people can give it to each other if they like since exchanging rings is in fashion, but it is not a mandate. In fact a lot of people get engaged while they aren’t face-to-face, aided by their families who fix the marriage. I guess we don’t need a symbol since once someone gets engaged, everyone in the whole world is invited to attend the ceremony so that everyone knows and none of the parties think of backing out.
So, most of us wear rings simply as a symbol of affluence or for stone therapy (related to star-charts, lucky stones and all that). But for some reason, I wear them for protection.
Ever since I started my job, I started wearing gold rings in both my hands. They are nothing fancy–just two thin and simple pieces that my parents bought for me when I started college. Once I left home, these pieces were a reminder of my parents’ love but also an emergency fund, in case I lose my cash…my wallet…or lose my way…
Not sure where these insecurities came from. Maybe because I had been sheltered for the first 28 years of my life by my parents before I stepped out to create a life on my own…
When I had first moved to Bangalore, my parents had simply handed me over to my brother to ensure my safety. So, three months later, when I decided to move to an all-girls PG room with a female colleague, it was a monumental moment of my life. Moving out of family’s protection circle scared me senseless. And that was when I made the decision to wear these two rings plus two gold earrings to ensure financial safety in case of crisis.
My logic: I can always sell them or give them away in return for help.
It sounds insane even to me and I never had to actually sell anything, thank goodness for that!
Even after I started working from home, the habit of wearing these rings all the time has persisted, so much so that I feel exposed without them. Now my two fingers have ring-marks around them. And if I wear fancier rings for any occasion, I simply wear it on the top of these two.
In my family, I am famous for recycling. No cardboard box that ever passed my path and lived to tell the tale. Since furniture is so pricey now a days that you need to sell the house to buy a wardrobe, my family doesn’t complain when I steal their cardboard boxes to build racks and other storage areas.
I started when my child was two by building a Playhouse out of the cardboard box that once covered our new fridge.
Next year, I repapered it in bright pink and it became the famous Playschool where my daughter scribbled her famous first word–ZYXWVUTSRQPONMLKJIHGFEDCBA–several times over. She had also created her first fish (without fins), first caterpillar, first cat with two legs and her brood of kittens lacking in limbs at various degrees, playing with a limbless monkey. You can see them on my previous post about minimalistic approach to painting.
Later the building was used as a stable where her rocking horse was housed.
After that I created a couple of shoe racks (that are not worth seeing anymore because they couldn’t take the weight of the shoes).
A couple of years back I created what you can loosely call as the dresser cabinet (top). And last year when my daughter started school and her books were everywhere, I built her a bookshelf (bottom).
Initially it was sky blue, but my daughter took it in her hands to bring more colour to it and the result was…well, I should have just taken the picture and shared it with you. Let’s just say she went a little overboard with the sketch pens. She wouldn’t let me change the paper for how attached she was to that scribble. So, I had to wait an entire year until the paper was a little torn in the corners to get her permission to ‘take down her masterpiece’. Now, it is a sunny yellow, and I added lace, so she is satisfied that it is nice enough to be hers for now.
However, she has been threatening me with colours ever since. I have requested her to wait until I have acquired Acrylics so the painting is “even nicer with all the shiny shades”. It will give the poor thing another month or so before it becomes her next victim and I have to find another excuse to repaper it.
Since we are moving house soon and buying loads of new things, there will be loads of cardboard to go by. So, I am planning more recycled stuff–paintings, wall hangings, shelfs, one privacy wall for my office work and other tidbits to add to our living space while avoiding cutting down any trees.
My wife’s voice wafted out from the kitchen window. She sounds pretty pleased at the wonderful smell of fresh ‘parsley’. I smile too, knowing what would come next. Tasting! My wife always tastes her seasonings before putting the dish in the oven.
She is a wonderful cook who has too many secret family recipes and a whole lot of pride. Mother hates her—their quarrels are epic, and I am always stuck in the middle. After six years of being stuck between them, I have had enough. So, a couple of weeks back, when my wife decided to hold the Christmas dinner at our home rather than Mother’s to further infuriate the old woman, I knew there was no better opportunity to end this scene forever. With eleven people coming over for the dinner and serving as witnesses, no one can hold me liable when she drops dead in the kitchen right after tasting her stuffed duck with ‘parsley’ seasoning.
Very few people can recognise the purple-spotted-hemlock that I have smuggled in the kitchen and replaced fresh parsley–it looks exactly like parsley except for the purple spots on its stem, and tastes and smells wonderful too. Also, no one is able to survive after eating it. It hits within seconds of touching the tongue, sending victim’s muscles into hyperactivity until they are twisted in unnatural angels and all their bones break one by one, ending with a twist of neck at a degree that breaks the spinal cord.
This innocent-looking and wonderful-smelling herb has been the cause of many ghost stories in the past. I wore gloves while I collected and placed it in the kitchen. I wasn’t worried about anyone else in the family touching or tasting it. My wife gets angry and mouthy if anyone touches anything in her kitchen. After so many years of dealing with the wretch, no one will be stupid enough to touch anything. And once she dies, I will quietly remove any unattended pieces of hemlock using the plastic wrap in my pocket,
Well, my wife is already done smelling. It is about time to taste the seasoning. So, I wait for the conundrum to begin…
My wife shrieks. With tremendous effort, I hide my smile. There are, of course, other voices shouting as well—Mother never leaves her alone in the kitchen, lest she makes a mess of the dinner in front of the whole family. She can’t touch anything but she sure can point. The shrieks now sound more ghastly and other-worldly. A shiver runs up my spine—I wasn’t counting on being spooked for the rest of my life.
But it was better than being stuck forever with Mrs. I-know-everything-and-you-are-a-fool.
I make a show of getting up hurriedly and falling while trying to reach her. Meanwhile, I can hear pans falling. By the time I get up, quite a few people have reached and surrounded the kitchen. There is a lot of screaming, and someone is calling the ambulance. It is too late—by the time a doctor arrives, it will all be over.
I push people aside to reach the centre of circle hurriedly to avoid suspicion.
My wife is sitting on the side, crying in the earnest, “I told her…I told her I put in dried parsley in the seasoning because the fresh one was hemlock, but the old fool threw a piece in her mouth just to prove me wrong.”
The body on the ground has stopped moving—her neck turned around towards me like a scene from a horror movie and eyes open in a silenced scream that will give me nightmares for the rest of my life.
Author’s note: I wrote this story in a hurry because I wanted to tell you about hemlock. There is no cure for hemlock poisoning and the horrendous death it brings. It looks and smells like parsley. Recognising and never touching it are the only ways to survive.
The purple-spotted stem of hemlock is the only way to recognise it, though sometimes, it is not even spotted—that evil thing!
I finally found the list of subscribers somewhere in the Stats page. By that time, I swear, I was about to have a stroke! It is not the fear of losing readers but losing friends…your comments keep me going.
You see, I am a work-from-home Instructional Designer by profession.
The job itself is lonely since I just keep looking at the documents trying to decide how to best design them for the maximum impact. And I am working from home, so my only connection to my colleagues is via once-a-week virtual call which often gets cancelled. I do have a joint family, but not everyone understands the rumble inside my brain! :)
Your messages keep me afloat. Since you all have a creative streak, it is like having our own Writer’s Club. You remind me that I am more than the work I do. I joke with you. I often reply to message not directed to me and it makes me smile.
So, losing all of you is not an option. I just realised that I don’t thank you all enough for standing by my side through all these years!
Not sure how it happened but somehow I have lost all my 500+ subscribers–well, at least I can’t see anyone of you on my list. It seems that WordPress has been busy as usual!
If you think my blog is worth it, could you please subscribe back? :)
Also, please forward the message in case some of my old followers are seeing your posts.
As most of you would know, lately I had been working on my second short stories collection, Not a Lore: The Imperfect Tales. It is now published and available on Amazon as an eBook and a paperback (I recommend eBook since it is ecofriendly).
The cover page is designed by Manpreet Kaur who is a professional artist (@ammpryt on Instagram). Nishant Agrawal, Instructional Designer and short-stories aficionado like me, is the editor.
Not a Lore contains twelve quirky stories about curses that kill (or worse, make you to fall in love), monsters who aren’t all that bad and damsels that are better left alone with their distress. A mix of fresh tales and retelling, the compilation is all magic. Written from the point of view of one of the central characters, it is a celebration of my skewed perspective regarding all things magical and mundane.
Here is a short description of the stories in the collection.
Not a Lore: A handsome prince sets upon a journey with his Squire to kiss a sleeping princess awake. But how will he get past the dragon? And would it be better to become dragon fodder instead?
Ugly: A prince stuck as a toad forces a princess to help him lift the curse, but she would rather fry him alive. His only hope is a maid who doesn’t shriek at his sight.
Captivated: A girl stuck on the top of the tower meets a handsome prince. He brings a fresh perspective while she persuades him that there is no need to run from the ‘witch’.
The Doors: When a Fighter tooth fairy goes to explore the worlds behind the mysterious doors, her Spellman partner of 93 years decides to find her somehow.
Barred: When the severed bull’s head guarding the door of a famous potion-bar stops a love‑struck wizard from entering and staring at the barmaid, they discuss the issue with surgical accuracy.
Vivid: While restoring a cursed bracelet at a museum, the museum assistant shares the awe, love and agony of the first owner, as she finally realises why the bracelet was cursed.
Muddled: A man wakes up in his bed groggy and confused and finds that someone else is now also living in his house. He is searching his memory as he walks down the steps.
Late: On a full moon night, a young man stumbles upon a horrible secret in a dark alley and runs for his life. Unsure if it is a hallucination, he would rather not stop and confirm.
Broken: A hunter recounts the tale of when he goes looking for a trophy head of a tiger and ends up falling in love completely beyond repair.
The Far Door: A single woman moves into a new building to leave her past behind. Therein, she finds a door without a lock that she is forbidden to open. The story captures her fascination and fear wrapped around the unknown entity in the room behind the far door.
A Matter of Chance: A new-age non-witch cooks a dumb cake on All-Hallows eve to see her future husband in the mirror. But now, she must wait for him to find her. If only he would acknowledge that she exists!
The Scoop: When a famous news anchor decides to cover Cinderella’s ‘fairy connections’ with vengeance on mind, Cinderella didn’t stand a chance.
The e-book is now available on Amazon. To preview:
If you wish to buy the ebook, know that Amazon Kindle app can be installed on any device and not just Kindle Readers. (I had it on my Android phone. But my daughter forced me to delete it because it is addictive!)
Wish me luck. I will need loads of it. I have two requests.
If you think it is worth it, please share the link with others as well.
If you choose to buy, please leave reviews, good or bad. I am happy to learn from you.
Let me know what you think of the sample in the comments and if it needs improvement.
Thanks a lot! Looking forward to hearing from you all.
Short Stories | Fish-eye Perspective 