Our conditions are relative. We just need to compare ourselves with the right person.
Say, for example, ‘he’ is a king.
He is around twelve. His back is ramrod straight, eyes determined and voice strong as he dissipates the dense fog around his face when he calls out his wares, “Chalees ke barah kele.” (“Bananas: a dozen for 40”)
It is an extremely foggy day in winters. My eyes stray to his bare feet as he stands on freezing concrete. He must be in pain. A bunch of kids on school holidays are mimicking his call, making fun of him. I want to smack them all for being unfeeling.
But his eyes betray nothing as he continues calling. He is a king captured by the enemies jeering at him while he is being taken for execution. He would not show his pain.
My eyes are still stuck at those bare feet. Nothing I own would fit him, and if I offer money, he would be offended. I can see it in his proud eyes.
So, I do the only thing I can. I buy bananas—enough to make me wonder what I would do with them. Surely, I could find some use: pudding, fruit salad, fruit custard, share with neighbouring families?
It is the market day. If he makes enough profits…
I hope he buys a pair. I pray he buys a pair so I can get out of this weird feeling in my stomach—like I have too much but still not enough.
I dare not mention the idea to him though. I dare not allude to his bare feet…
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.
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.
If you go looking for the meaning of the word “Joint Family”, you will probably find phrases like, a group of blood-related families that live together 🏠, eat together 🥘 and pray together 🙏. But trust me, a joint family is the one that sneezes together 🤧.
India has an abundance of joint families and not nearly big enough houses.
Even if the house is big enough, no one is content to stay in their portion. They must all converge in one or the other rooms and share gossip 🗨️. The fact that they eat together is not enough. They often have stuff 🔨 strewn 🔧 around 🥻 the 👕 house–with so much of borrowing that just one cellophane tape can do several complete circles of the house, visiting every room on its way, before the actual owner goes and buys another 💵, rather than trying to track 🐾 it down.
And then, there are the kids 👧👦. They are everywhere ⛹️, playing in every room 🤸, strewing their stuff ⚽ in everyone’s 🎾 space 🥍with precise division ⚾, so no one feels left out. They run around the floor 🤾 without shoes and jump on every bed 🛏️.
At night, there is no space 🥎 big ⚽ enough 🏐 where 🏓 you 🏀 wouldn’t 🏈 step ⚾ on a toy 🏉 that doesn’t belong to your own child. So one careless nightly trip from bedroom to bathroom can make you owe all the kids in the house a new toy each.
If you are brave enough to piggyback one, there is an entire line waiting for their turn, regardless of the age and weight.
And when one nose runs…
You can’t keep them away from each other. They will find an excuse to break all the rules you set out about quarantine, go meet their sick cousin and kiss him on the cheek to comfort him. And then you will have your hands full with a whole bunch of kids, all down with fever at the same time. All the while, all the elders will be down with fever too, because who can resist kissing a child who is unwell? Especially if he has walked in every room telling everyone he is unwell and sneezing as a proof.
So, if a joint family is really joint, it is the one that sneezes together.
I would know. I live in just such a family who is sneezing together at the moment. And I wouldn’t trade it for all the gold in the world! 😊
Short Stories 