Finding love isn’t difficult. It finds you once, twice, thrice…
Difficult is deciding where you want to halt and stay forever.
Category: Random Thoughts
Ratings and Reviews
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Juvenile thoughts: 01
The morning you wake up and realise that you did it all by yourself; that your life is a product of your own stupidity…
The Far Door: Part 2
Author’s note: This is second installment of a short story from my latest book: The Bracelet and other short stories. You can find the other parts here: The Far Door: Part 1, The Far Door: Part 3 and The Far Door: Part 4.
**Wednesday**
**Thursday**
**Friday**
For three days, I have avoided looking at the door. The absence of a metal latch and lock on the far door is putting me on the edge. The wooden latch just didn’t cut it. I keep reminding myself that the rooms are probably just full of old furniture. On weekdays, it is easier; I am out for work all day, returning only to eat and sleep. But on the Friday morning, I hear whispered voices on the other side of the door. Not sure what are they saying, but there are many.
Franc’s warning comes to my mind, “Just don’t open the latch to the door.” Does he know about the voices too?
I haven’t made up my mind about selling or sharing the key, but I have to make this place safe while I am here. So, I call a locksmith that evening to fit the new metal latch—a thick copper one to match the interiors, of course. He pulls out the wooden bolts holding the wooden latch and replaces the set with copper latch and bolts. He pushes and pulls at the door several times in the process, which should have opened the door and broken my promise to Franc. But the door doesn’t budge. It seems to be locked from the inside as well. How is that even possible if no one is on the other side?
Pushing aside the thought, I pay the locksmith. And then, I hang a huge copper lock from the new latch. Technically, I haven’t done anything wrong since I haven’t opened the door.
I can finally breathe easy. No one can force their way in now, or so I hope.
**Saturday**
I don my apron and wash the vegetables to prepare breakfast. I am about to sit down to cut them, but I can’t find my knife. The knife I had brought with me isn’t in the copper stand in the kitchen; neither is it in the sink nor dustbin. In fact, all the stainless‑steel cutlery I had brought with me is missing. I look at the far door accusingly; the metal latch and lock are still in place. I will have to go to market to buy a cutlery set today. How can an entire cutlery set go missing overnight? The thought is unsettling. It is even more difficult to sleep that night.
**Sunday**
Some of the silverware my grandmother bequeathed me is missing. I rummage the place—the drawers, wardrobes, the space under the sink…
Something on the floor glints back at me; a silver spoon…
…or what is left of it! Someone has bitten off half the head. I can see the toothmark on the bitten edge.
The far door is still locked.
I am hyperventilating now. I run down the stairs and out in the yard. It feels better to be out in the sunlight. A couple of old women stand there, smiling and talking. Deciding some small talk will sooth my nerves, I approach them. One of them looks up and her eyes turn hostile, daring me to speak. I want to turn back and leave but the other lady smiles, “Hi! You must be our new neighbour! How are you finding the place?”
I want to tell the truth, but politeness takes over, “It’s nice.”
“Have you met Franc yet? He said that he will speak to you about buying your portion.”
“Yes. I’m still considering the offer.”
The hostile lady hisses from between clenched teeth, “You would have taken the offer and run with it if you knew what’s good for you. That poor lad has enough on his plate already—His senile grandpa who sleepwalks and two little kids, while his wife dumped them all for another man. He just went to Gorgon for a month to bury his parents, and you locked him out of his house! Now his grandpa is stuck inside a room for the fear of making a spectacle of himself and his children can’t go to school because we are unable to look after his grandpa. Franc can’t cook for them since he has no kitchen, and he can’t return from office until late in the night because he can’t be seen f—,” She bites her lower lip as if she had gone a little too far.
I am too horrified to dwell over that, “Are you implying his family was living here when I moved in; that he was out just for a month? The agent never told me!”
Her voice softens a bit, “Well, you wouldn’t have bought the house then, would you? I bet, he must have given you a really low price too.”
The other lady pitches in, “Franc’s grandpa is a co‑owner along with Marc. It is Marc’s portion you have bought. They were childhood friends, and their families lived together. Since Marc and Lily had no children, he had intended to bequeath the rest of the house to Franc. But before he could create the will, he died in a car crash along with Franc’s parents. While Franc went to Gorgon to bury them all, Lily’s nephew who had received Marc’s estate asked an agent to sell everything. He never cared enough to come here and look at the place where his uncle and aunt spent their entire lives. And why would he? Lily’s family never accepted her marriage with Marc. They were ashamed of him being a g—” She too stops mid‑sentence, probably realising she is offering me Franc’s personal information.
“That’s horrible! I kicked his entire family out without even knowing it. Can you please ask Franc to come home and meet me this evening?”
*****
I can barely wait for Franc, sitting as close to the main door as possible in case I have to run out again…
In case the monster returns…
Author’s note: To be continued…
Let me know if you wish to read the next part, or you can simply download the free PDF version of the book from here: Books by Shaily
Original photo by Casey Lovegrove on Unsplash (with minor edits based on the story)
The Far Door: Part 1
Author’s note: This is first installment of a short story from my latest book: The Bracelet and the other short stories. You can find the other parts here: The Far Door: Part 2, The Far Door: Part 3 and The Far Door: Part 4.
I have been itching to get away from the independent house I received in divorce settlement from my abusive ex‑husband. To someone else, a house just outside the city with a porch and surrounded by fruit trees would be a dream come true. For me, it is a constant reminder of the scars on my body and soul. A fresh start is all that I am looking for.
When the property agent sent me pictures online, I instantly fell in love with this one‑bedroom half-a flat in the middle of a busy city. As I walk into the building with my luggage, I feel like a princess. The grand, five‑story building is designed like a medieval palace with ornate galleries, cream walls and copper fittings. My flat is on the third storey—way up from the ground, ensuring my ex‑husband can’t get in through the windows. He hasn’t tried anything since I got the restraining orders, but I can never be too sure.
The huge door of the flat opens into a grand main hall with French windows and a sunlit balcony. A wide gallery on the side leads to the bedroom and an attached bathroom on one side and, on the other side, an open kitchen my mother would envy. The fully furnished flat comes with antique wooden furniture and copper utensils, cooker and gas stove that complete the medieval look. It even has copper plates and cutlery. Overall, it reminds me of ancient castles, fairy tales and princesses. All it lacks is a knight in shining armour.
There is another huge door on the far side. It is barred with a wooden latch. According to the agent, there are three more bedrooms and a couple of bathrooms behind that door, but they are not a part of the deal. Giddy with happiness at how cheap the charming flat comes, I don’t give it the thought I should have.
**Tuesday**
It is two days since I moved in, and I am already regretting my decision. I have just returned from office and found an olive‑skinned hulk in a black blazer waiting at the door. He introduces himself stiffly, “Hi! I’m Franc, the owner of the other half of the flat. I’d like to buy your portion.” Without waiting for a response, he opens his bag and pulls out several bundles of banknotes.
The amount is huge, enough for me to buy a bigger and even better place but the attitude puts me off. I am done being bullied, “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
His following smile is steely and forced, “Ah! In that case, you need to give me a spare key to your main door. I hope you know that it is the only way to reach my portion and I have the right of way.”
I curse myself for not seeing it coming, “But I can’t hand over my house key to a stranger!”
“You should have thought that before you bought the property.”
“Look! Let’s be reasonable. I am a single woman. I can’t let you have free access to my house.”
“You have two weeks. Either sell your portion to me or give me the other key. And while you are here, you must never open the latch leading to my property.”
“Of course, I won’t trespass your property. I am not a thief.”
He drops a bit of attitude at those words, “I didn’t mean it that way. I just…Just don’t open the latch of that door.” With those words, he leaves me. His words and the pleading tone make me curious. He clearly doesn’t think I am a thief, but what does he think would happen if I open the far door? Would I dust off some of the antique cobwebs? Or would some of the mice escape?
Well, there certainly are mice in his portion—tonight, I can hear faint noises coming from the other side of the door. Well, as long as they stay in his portion, they are not my concern. Surely, it can’t be anything else; the rooms have no other door leading outside, and it is the third floor so no one can enter from the windows.
But still, I feel unsettled and unsafe. The smallest sound gives me goosebumps. I am unable to sleep until the wee hours in the morning.
Author’s note: To be continued…
Original photo by Casey Lovegrove on Unsplash (with minor edits based on the story)
Dream some more
Author’s note: This piece is meant for my daughter and every one else who still dares to have impossible dreams. The world needs your vision.
Fly on dragonback, borrow some wings;
World will tell you to stop these things;
Just ignore. Dream some more.
…
Castles to see aplenty, make one more round;
Sweeping view will not do, mystery abound.
Pleas to return ignore. Just explore.
…
Ride waves like a pro on luminous fins;
Join the green mermaid choir out singing;
Heed this bridling world no more.
…
Pull out priceless visions from your pockets;
Crazy rich–build castles, build rockets;
Build a better world as you snore.
…
Dream some more.
Young and crazy forever
Life sucks all the fun out, right? Wrong. We suck the fun out because we want to act all grown up. I have seen a clear example at my home.
When my daughter started painting at three, her imagination was vivid and paintings slightly eccentric. All her animals had long flowing hair and nearly half wore a tiara. Even though they may not have all the body parts, they had personalities.
Her imagination used to fuel mine–the way she once questioned how we know for sure that little Johnny threw the cat in the well (Ding Dong Bell) made me question the rhyme itself. We only had Tommy’s word for it. A lot of her eccentric paintings fueled my stories.
But lately, she had been mimicking either You Tube characters or my realistic style of painting, never going out of her comfort zone.
Recently, when we were looking at her older paintings, she laughed at her younger-self for being silly while I had always been so proud. Her younger version was free to imagine; she had fun while painting and assumed she will be appreciated, no matter what. The newer one is conscious of social stigma and tries to blend in. While I love all she creates, she is not having fun anymore–expending too much thought and energy on making it realistic. She wasn’t happy with this dog she had created out of imagination, because “it wasn’t as real as mine”.
So today, I took matters in my hand. She is on a winter break right now and has plenty of time on her hands. I put her to cartooning. I think there is nothing like cartooning to bring the imagination out, especially if you are drawing animals. You will have to give them a character.
I gave her the basics by displaying her favourite Bluey characters and explaining their characteristics (dogs standing straight, rectangular body, over-large eyes, high bushy eyebrows, simplified body parts). I also explained how some of these features are used to give them a theme and others give them a human-like character.
Then I asked her think of a story with three animals and draw their characters in this fashion. She is already done with an elephant and a lion in a circus. She is having so much fun! Once done with the third character, her next task is to fashion them as “Pepe and the Big Wide World” characters (round, no body, stick legs, no hands, one with small triangles for wings, large round eyes, no nose–well, they are all birds). Soon I will get her started on a different style and keep going on for days, until she can create on her own like she did earlier, and not just copy.
The idea is to get her readjusted with the absurd and eccentric. She is laughing her head off and still excited at something new. She is sucking her life back in.
What do you do keep your imagination going when the world around you is trying to suck it out?
Educators
Educators are zeroes.
The beginning and the end;
Nothing at all;
and, still, the centre of it all.
Nothing alone
But with the power
To bolster someone ten times;
We are unsung heroes!
My Neighbour: The Queen
She is a dog person. I can tell just by looking in her eyes. It’s in the way she is looking at me in expectation, as if I am going to dance out of my bed to lick her. Ugh! I have better things to do than pleasing random people dropping in to visit me.
Okay, I know she is not a random person, probably a neighbour of my temporary-slaves–a really close neighbour, considering she is here everyday, sometimes cooking in the kitchen, always eating and drinking god-knows-what.
Honestly, I don’t know much about these temporary-slaves except that my permanent-slaves trusted them to do my bidding and escorted me to their place so that they themselves could go where they had to.
So far, these people have been satisfactory–they keep my food plate full and the water tastes correct. They offer me random treats that I reject outright, so they don’t expect any special treatment. They stroke me and when they try to pick me up and I give them the evil-eye, they drop me right there on their bed. I like their bed, it is large and the blankets spread on top of it are specially soft.
They have a human kitten who is satisfactory too. She comes in early mornings, late afternoons and evenings and keeps stroking me and offering toys, which I reject, of course. She talks to me about random things–school, friends, teachers–and I ignore her. I close my eyes to remind her it is nap time though I don’t think she takes the hint…until she calls her.
That is another reason I don’t like her. I don’t like random people calling off my slaves, especially when they are stroking my favourite spots. I think her name is Momma. That’s what that kitten calls her. Momma has also been trying to get my attention but I would rather avoid her. That is why I always leave my throne next to kitchen window when she walks in. I would rather hazard sleeping inside my slaves’ room. She may be a worthy subject but that doesn’t change anything. She is a dog-person–it is written all over her face, in her disappointment for not getting a special treatment for just showing up. And that is reason enough to dump her.
I think dogs overdo it. Everytime someone comes in, they have to react–they bark,they bite or they wag their tails and lick. Every single time; like they had been waiting for the opportunity; like they didn’t have anything better to do; like they don’t need time to wash and groom, or sulk and brood…
They give too much importance to their human slaves. It’s shameful. If my mother was here, she would call it attention-seeking behaviour. We cats are above this silly stuff. We eat, we drink, we wash and we sleep. That is enough to get us though the days. We don’t need to run a mile to be pampered. We chose to be pampered. And we chose the pamperor. No Mom, Dick or Harry is going to touch my fur unless I allow it.
Momma is calling my name. I am ignoring her. She is holding out kitty-treats, smiling. I give her an evil-eye and the smile falters. Well, it doesn’t feel as good as I thought–she isn’t evil and she isn’t exactly setting her dog on me. But she is in my territory and that makes her my subject. I have to teach her respect. Disappointed, she drops the treat in my bowl. Good!
Gingerly, she holds out a hand for me to sniff. Hmmm, she is seeking permission to touch. I am tempted to lick the taste of treats off her hand but I don’t. I just sniff and ignore her. She quietly moves her hand on my head and strokes. I should have growled to set her in her place but I allow it for now–it is rather nice the way she is scratching behind my ears…
Ohhh!
Yes!
Yes, Yes, Yes!
Right there, keep doing it!
Ohh my goodness! How did she know?
Ooooh! Oh God, I love her…
But I can’t tell her that, I have to teach her her place…
But this feels so good…
Here, scratch here under my neck…
My goodness, she is a scratch goddess…
Here, a little more on the tummy…
You got it right baby! Keep doing it…
Ohhhh!
Oh no, she is getting distracted by her kitten! Go away you pesky little thing…
Come back, Momma. Do your thing!
Duh! Lost the rhythm! That’s what happens when you socialise while on job. Go away and don’t come back, you…you…disappointing human!
Huh! Call my name all you want. Like I care!
Photo credit: Antonio
Author’s note: I have always been a dog person. When a relative dropped off their cat at our home for a week, I wondered if I’ll like it. But she is furry, quiet and dignified with just the right kind of sass. I love her and she ignores me. I call her name and she moves into my brother-in-law’s room to shake me off. I follow and she gives me ‘the eye’. I offer her treats and she gives me a look of disgust. It’s only when I stroke her that she acknowledges my existence. As soon as the rub ends, I become invisible to her again. Sigh!
A Recovering Book-junkie: Relapse
A few months back, I wrote about how, last winter, I started on a crazy reading schedule and couldn’t stop myself until, finally, I put my foot (read ‘book’) down. I deleted Kindle and Google Book apps from my phone and limited my time on Project Gutenberg. Since then I was following a sustainable speed of one book a month so that I could spend time with my daughter.
Last month, I decided to read something lighter and downloaded Google Books again. As it happens with all libraries that do not solely contain classics, I had a few hit and miss cases, which meant that I was reading books I didn’t like and then moving on to the next one to “wash out the taste from my mouth”. I read two short stories and two book samples before settling on a series which was interesting. It was four book combo and I read it in three days. Then, I realised that I really like it and read it again a little slowly. And now I am reading it for the third time to understand how the writer has done the charater study. And I am halfway through again.
That’s 10 books in 10 days. Since I work part-time during days and am full-time mother, needless to say I am sleeping…two-three hours a day. And I can see the dark bags under my eyes and irritation seeping in and I have that craving to go back to the book again.
I relapsed.
This morning, I decided to take a step back and see where it was taking me. I have a pounding headache–the kind associated with hangover after heavy partying. I have had it for the last one month.
I haven’t combed my hair in three days and hadn’t offered my daily prayers. I hadn’t talked to anyone outside work, not even my mother. I haven’t posted in the past two months. While first month was excusable due to my daughters exams and bad health and my work pressure, second one wasn’t.
My house has clothes littered all over the place. The kitchen is a mess because I am not even helping with the minimal household chores that I usually do before I start office work. My mom-in-law hasn’t said a thing and it makes me more ashamed than any kind of reprimand.
Until yesterday, I didn’t know what my daughter ate for lunch. My sister-in-law has been feeding her, assuming I was busy with office work. I don’t what my daughter had been studying lately and whether she had finished her homework, and I hadn’t played with her all month.
I am ashamed and yet the craving of going back to my book is overwhelming. I have to stop it here and now. So, I am starting today.
I spent my time after office by gossipping with my mom-in-law while helping in kitchen a bit. I came back to help my daughter with her homework. She was delighted and ready to forgive and forget.
I still have the headache and am sleepy and a little dizzy. But I think I will be able to contain the damage to my health in a couple of days. Damage to my reputation amongst family and friends, not sure. I haven’t wished Happy Birthday to a bunch of them and almost missed my husband’s birthday, my brother-in-law’s anniversary which are both in a couple of days.
I also missed out wishing everyone on Christmas. Apologies! I hope you got what you asked Santa for 😊 Happy Holidays everyone! I wish we will all be able to keep our new year resolutions.
Mine is to contain my book enthusiasm to one book a month. Wish me luck!
And what’s yours?
Short Stories | Fish-eye Perspective 