Year 1920
“Of course we don’t send our daughter to school. Who will marry her then?”
Year 2020
“We are sending her for a professional degree. Helps in finding good grooms.”
Year 3020
“Yes, she is in the team flying to Planet Isis. Heard there are many bachelors over there.”
“The monsters looked like a small grey mountains.”
“They had large wings where ears should be and a hand in place of nose that they used to pick and throw us around.”
“As His Majesty Alexander’s war horse, I had believed nothing in the world could scare me but the war cry of these ‘Alifants’ sent chill up my spines.”
“I’m glad we returned after that encounter on the banks of river Indus. I don’t think we could have survived one more.”
-Survivor stories by His Majesty Alexander’s war horses
YEEEEEEE! Two hundred likes!
I know most people might consider it a low score. But considering I had 3 likes 3 months back when I decided to give blogging a real try, it is quite an impressive score for me.
I want to thank everyone who read my stories.
I would also welcome any criticism. We have a saying in India: ‘Nindak niyare raakhiye…’ that means ‘Keep a critique close because they clean your impurities’. So I urge you to share your thoughts about how you felt about my stories, my site and how I could improve.
I would like to thank BeateleyPete for his timely blogging advice about adding my site to my Gravatar. It skyrocketed the number of followers from 10 to 40 in one month!
YEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
Every evening when I go out to forage for food, I see her returning home. The last of the sun glints through her brown glossy feather as she glides through the air in all her regal glory.
She lives on the tallest tower in front of my humble tree and I have worshipped her for all the three years of my existence.
But as a creature of night with wiry, featherless body and jerky flying skills, I wish I was worth her.
I don’t think she knows I exist…
She had run to the park like a crazy woman where Britishers had opened fire on a peaceful gathering. “But surely, they would spare a four-year old”, she had thought.
Now she stood petrified, looking with glazed eyes at the mountains of dead bodies and wondering which one search first.
He was just one sip away from freedom but his hands felt too heavy; they wouldn’t lift the bottle to his lips.
He stood there for a long time until the bottle slipped from his hands and he began to cry.
After the divorce was finalised, she posted the picture of a gold hair clip on FB with the message, “Why I divorced him? Found this in his pocket. It isn’t mine! He refused to tell me whose it is. 😡”
He commented, “It is yours. Bought it for your birthday. Good riddance though! 😜”
How drab the world would be if there was only one colour!
Stirred by the burning sensation, she had come back from her grief-filled fog. She realised her clothes were dripping with oil; and she was burning on her dead husband’s pyre.
She tried to escape but her relatives pushed her back in until she stopped moving, all on the pretext of reuniting her with her husband.
Image by unsplash.com
Daughter: Mommy, would you please read a story for me? I can’t sleep.
After 70 years
Mom: Honey, would you please read the letter for me? I can’t find my glasses.
Short Stories 