My daughter was memorising an application to Principal in Hindi today about reduction in school fee–something her school teacher had them copy from the board but did not explain. By the time she reached the part where she would eternally sacrifice her Principal (Aapki sada Aahuti karungi), I was in fits of laughter. 🤣🤣🤣
I assured her it would not be a pretty sight–a grown up school Principal being thrown into sacrificial fire 🔥 by a nine-year-old girl to save a pretty penny; and that it would suffice if she is eternally grateful 🙏(Aapki sada Aabhari rahungi).
Thankfully, she gave up her plans about roasting her Principal crisp, and decided to be grateful instead. Whew! I think I just saved a life!
It is a common problem with unsuccessful writing–using archaic words without understanding them first. In our job as Instructional Designer, we are taught to write so it would make sense to a 13-year-old, which means no obsolete words, no sentence longer than 10-15 words, no page to hold more than 8-10 lines (preferably 5-6 lines).
We write to be understood.
I am sure you will argue that some situations require archaic words, like royal scenes and fantasy. I would like to disagree because I have just read an amazing novel–Thief in the Castle–which used every day language with a bit of formality where royals were concerned and still managed to create a perfectly believable royal scenario.
However, if you feel your audience is well-read enough to know those words, I would suggest understanding the correct usage first–don’t be my nine-year-old.
It also includes understanding the difference between a Worcestershire sauce and a Barbeque sauce (Is there a difference?); and the difference between severe and sewer 🤣.
Remember, your audience is holding a smartphone. It takes 10 seconds to search a word and even less to write a scathing review and post it on Instagram, X and Facebook in a single click.
So, if you are really that smart, or faking to be, ensure you cross your T’s and dot your I’s well. Don’t resort to human sacrifice–it doesn’t look pretty on Instagram! 🤣🤣🤣
My style of writing stories is more intent on an individual’s perspective on the situation than the events themselves. Most of the times, the narrator is one of the main characters. I write about the narrator’s emotions and relationships as events unfold. Sometimes, there is no plot, just feelings…more like Poetry…
…which becomes my bane when writing Fantasy!
Fantasy requires building a different kind of world around us where I need to explain what things look like. But being inside a character’s head who is already part of the world, they can certainly not be surprised with the flying jellies and candy bars hanging from trees (Okay, that one could make a good story…). So, why would they even think or talk about it? It is like make an Indian talk about their visit to the streets of their town–it is their daily life; they ignore it.
Also, since my writing focuses on relationships, it is difficult to make a character think of both their world and their relationships at the same time.
Therein lies my biggest challenge.
In one of my recent Fantasy stories (The Ceremony), I was creating a society where the Queen held all the power over the King. She goes out fighting while he raised their only daughter to be the next Queen. The scene is about the day their daughter chooses her Consort that will allow the Princess to become the next Queen, pushing her father out of royal circle.
Expectations about relationships change in light of the society and, speaking from inside the characters head, I had to make it sound like facts of life and acceptable. All the facts that fit for a mother in a patriarchal society were fitting in here for the King.
I kept changing perspectives from third-person narrator to the King to the Princess to the Consort-wannbe because no one can know the whole story or what is going inside another person’s head. And the entire narrative changed with it based on his relationships with the world around him.
It was an experience learning how the same situation can feel so different to different people. And the story wasn’t long enough to justify multiple perspectives. So, I had to stop at one point and take a stand about who our narrator is. Considering it’s a Fantasy, I had to “stay in the character” and keep adding Fantasy references that would feel natural, though I did not go to Victorian language for creating dialogues (I was tempted to but it is beyond my skillset).
It was a struggle that kept me occupied for months.
I am what you would call a “compulsive reader”. I have read enough books to build a public library. Unfortunately, I never had enough money to buy all of them. So, most of them were borrowed from friends, various public libraries and, lately, online libraries (Project Gutenberg Library {Link: Free eBooks | Project Gutenberg} is my favourite since it offers a lot of classics.)
And if I like a book, I read them over and over. I have read Harry Potter and Twlight Part 1 and 2 seven or eight times already. The one book I have read even more often than that is Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome (a gift from a dear friend, Megha).
The book was supposed to be a travel guide on a boat journey on River Thames. It ended being the most humourous book ever, filled to brim with anecdotes by an idle mind…something that is only possible when someone is floating slowly down the river. In fact the book is so humourous that when the writer actually begins describing the beauty of the river in a particular spot with a serious tone, you can’t wait for it to get over so that he can move on to his next anecdote.
There are tales of doctors and shipmen and boatmen and train drivers and bank clerks and people feigning to be cooks and churchyard visitors…
The book starts with small smiles, turning into occasional chuckles until you are having a full-belly laugh. The best part is that you don’t need to look at the storyline at all–you can start from any page and you will still be laughing full out half an hour later.
It is as much a book to carry on a journey on a subway and as it is one for fireside. I assure you, you can read it fifty times and still laugh on the same jokes over and over. Definitely a keeper!
Hello! I have just finished polishing the Books by Shaily page: Link
Apart from two free short stories compilations, it has Ratings sections for both books and a common Comments section at the bottom for reviews. Request you to leave any ratings and reviews about the books here.
There is a light clicking noise, something I would have missed in my bedroom. I look at the front door, sure that Franc has opened the lock—nothing there! Shaking apprehensively, I turn to look at the far door. The huge copper lock has unlocked itself and is now hanging in the air, slowly descending to the floor without a sound. The metal latch slides open quietly.
Very slowly, thick, fat, gnarled, grey fingers appear on the side of the far door, slowly pushing it open.
My mouth opens in a silent scream—I am clearly not prepared for an attacker who isn’t a human. Should I just hide here and pretend I am not awake? Afterall, it hasn’t touched me yet. Or should I keep an eye and see what it does? Will I ever be able to forget seeing a monster? I am still dealing with so many demons from my own past…
A low squeak, a strangled cry of alarm, reaches me. A child? Is it torturing a child?
The thought of a child in trouble gives me strength I need to face whatever it is. Picking the metal rod and the pepper spray can, I run to the far door and pull it open all the way…
A strange sight greets me. In a darkened room lit by only a night lamp, an incredibly old man—grey skinned with long ears—is standing at the doorway dressed in pyjamas and what looks like a crumpled blazer. The glazed eyes tell that he is sleepwalking. A couple of kids are holding him back—a girl around six and a boy around eight—also grey with long ears, wearing similar crumpled blazers. The kids look stunned at my sudden appearance. The old man simply takes the metal rod from my hand and starts chewing. He doesn’t do it to look intimidating, more like he isn’t really all there.
The boy stutters, clearly at his wit’s end, “S‑Sorry, He’s sleep‑eating. Can’t remember he mustn’t eat metal!”
I blink at his response, not sure how to respond at the apology, “How did he open the lock and latch on the other side?”
The boy is terrified and looks ready to tell me anything, “Standard magic—he can manipulate the metal lock and latch. The wooden latch used to stop him from wandering off in his sleep. But Dad said it is not in its place anymore, so we have to hold him back physically until Dad returns home around midnight. But it is so late in the night, and we get drowsy…and Grampa always gives us a slip. Sorry for the bother!”
Nothing is making sense anyway, so I try to get to the most obvious question, “Why isn’t he eating his own metal? There are plenty of metal fittings here?” I gesture at the copper vase and copper‑framed mirror.
The little girl pipes in, “Copper tastes awful! I guess, that’s why they put it everywhere in the building so the residents wouldn’t eat the fittings.”
A French window opens on its own. Aren’t we on the third floor? Alarmed, I turn to find Franc standing on the attached balcony with his wings (?) open, taking in the scene apprehensively. He is grey-skinned with large ears too. With a huge sigh, he places his laptop bag and restaurant food from a twenty-four‑hour joint on the floor and touches his watch. In a blur, his wings wrap around him like a blazer and turn white. His ears are now normal and skin olive again.
Is it fear lingering in his eyes? He tries to cover it with an apologetic smile, “I see you have met my family. Welcome to the Gargoyle residency. Please don’t freak out. We are not monsters—we just co‑exist.”
His eyes are pleading me to understand. He looks unsure of what else to say, probably waiting for me to freak out anyway. I lean on the nearest couch to support my failing knees. I should be scared but, once I look at the laptop bag and restaurant food at his feet, weirdly, I am relieved instead. Curious—baffled… but not afraid.
In my sternest voice, I demand, “We need to talk.”
I glance at the children. They look scared, and I melt a little, “And I need something to get over this. Who’s up for a hot chocolate?”
The children cry happily in unison. Apprehension gone, Franc is now smiling in the earnest, “Allow me.” He moves towards my kitchen, followed by the kids who take their rightful places on the dining table.
Grandpa is still busy chewing the rod while I lead him to the sofa in the hall. I smile at the absurdity of the moment—the place finally feels home.
END
Author’s note: If you prefer to read the entire book rather than in piece-meals, you can simply download the free PDF version of the book from here: Books by Shaily
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…
When the bell rings, I run to the door and wrench it open. Franc is certainly surprised but doesn’t comment, for which I am grateful. He is a bit wary when I offer condolences and request him to step inside. Looking like a model in his navy blazer and jeans, he sits stiffly on the medieval sofa looking confused at the change of my tone as I pour tea.
So, I tell him about the misunderstanding and my reasons for the hasty purchase—about my abusive marriage and my ex-husband’s multiple attempts to break in—he finally relaxes and nods. “It’s alright. I, too, wanted to apologise for my behaviour the other day. I realised a little too late that the property agent might not have given you the whole story.”
“I’ll be happy to sell the house back to you if you are willing. I spoke with the agent, and he was apologetic. I just need a week until he finds me a new accommodation. Meanwhile, you can bring your family in today. I’ll give you the key.”
“Thanks! My grandpa is not in his right mind, and I don’t want to burden you with him. We will wait until you leave,” he gives me a smile. God, what a smile!
“Really, it’s fine. My grandma was pretty old too and not really all there. We managed fine with her.”
“Still, I insist. While we wait for you to move, I’ll get the paperwork ready.”
His denial unsettles me. I was hoping he would jump on the offer, and his family will come in right away so that I will not be scared at nights. I have been going on without sleep for a little too long. A few more days and I will become cross‑eyed.
Franc interjects my thoughts, “You opened the wooden latch against my warning?!”
I sighed, “I didn’t open it, just changed it to metal for better security. I could hear voices on the other side of the door, and the wooden latch didn’t look strong enough to keep anyone out. Can you please check if there’s anyone in there? My cutlery is missing, and someone has been chewing away my silverware.”
He looks at me like I am certifiably mad, “Just change it back to that damned wooden latch, will you?” And he stomps out.
I should follow his directives, considering it is the door to his portion, and I am selling the rest of the house to him anyway. But I am too mad at him to care. If a metal latch can’t keep out whoever is in there, what can a measly wooden latch do?
**Monday**
**Tuesday**
**Wednesday**
**Thursday**
The previous few days are spent pretending that the far door doesn’t exist while still trying to hear any noises coming from that side, as, slowly but steadily, my steel utensils keep going amiss. Today, some of my jewellery is missing—my white‑gold earrings are nowhere to be found while the sapphires that were encrusted in them are sitting on the top of my dresser.
Something doesn’t add up. Anyone pilfering my jewellery will not leave sapphires behind where I can easily find them. And if something is really ‘eating’ my things, why not eat sapphires as well?
A thought strikes me. Is Franc trying to scare me off the property? All this mess started after I declined his offer. Even though he is behaving casually now that I have agreed to sell to him, he would want to ensure that I don’t change my mind. And of course, he has a key to the house already–he lived here all his life until last month!
Well, it is finally time to face my demons.
*****
Whoever is trespassing my property is, clearly, doing it late in the night. Tonight, armed with a pepper spray and a metal rod, I am hiding behind a sofa where I am able to look at both the far door and the main door without being seen. I am scared witless, and my palms are sweating like crazy. While I am 99 percent sure it is Franc and that I have nothing to fear, it is the remaining one percent that is making my entire body shake.
It is nearly midnight, and I am getting drowsy. There is a light clicking noise, something I would have missed in my bedroom. I look at the front door, sure that Franc has opened the lock—nothing there! Shaking apprehensively, I turn to look at the far door. The huge copper lock has unlocked itself and is now hanging in the air, slowly descending to the floor without a sound. The metal latch slides open quietly.
Very slowly, thick, fat, gnarled, grey fingers appear on the side of the far door, slowly pushing it open.
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
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
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.
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!
My daughter started telling stories when she was three.
Most of it was reused, recycled and repurposed from the stories I had told her or what she saw on You Tube (Link to the proof: Plagiarism with Brains: Reuse, Recycle, Repurpose). She would add or changes animals in my animal stories and replaced mango with pumpkin in fairytales.
Yesterday, she wrote her first piece of poetry–on the fly and in 60-seconds flat. I actually had to ask her if she had taken ‘inspiration’ from someone. She claims she hadn’t.
Here is the piece. Before you ask, I have taken Your Highness’s permission.
Touch the sky,
Touch the sun,
Just go on and have fun.
You don’t know how long it will stay,
Or rather it will just go away.
I haven’t correct anything there. I had just asked her why she wanted to write game score on the diary I had given her to write poetry and stories in. So, she just took a pen and jotted these lines on the first page (rather the cardboard) of blank diary.
Now that she has a foot in the door, I can hope. I know, there is no guarantee that she would want to continue at all. But that’s life of a parent.
Short Stories 