Posted in Fiction, Published, Science Fiction

The Flight

Author’s note: This is a Science Fiction story from my fourth book, 7D: Tales from the Future.


We canโ€™t afford to miss this flightโ€”literally. I urge the taxi driver to go faster but he is helpless too. Half the air route is filled with taxis. The other half is filled with protestors with huge placards on their vehicles levitating in the air with demands to prepare more spaceships so everyone can reach to safety. I check my fourโ€‘yearโ€‘old daughter if she has picked up the panic around her. But she is licking a lollypop contently as she hugs her favourite doll.

I would have been out there as one of the protestors too if I hadnโ€™t got the ticket. I had to sell everything I had but, somehow, I was able to scrounge just enough. Of course, that was only possible because I had a head start. One of my close friends received inside information from his government connections before the impending apocalypse became public knowledge.

*****

While thousands of meteorites enter Earthโ€™s atmosphere every year, Oxygen burns most of them down to ashes. However, this one hurtling through the space towards Earth is the size of Russia. The one that made the entire dinosaur species extinct was nothing in comparison.

The seas are already rising slowly, thanks to the new gravitational pull, beginning to drown the seaโ€‘side cities. And once the meteorite enters the Earthโ€™s atmosphere, it will catch fire, raising heat to unbearable levels, burning oxygen and filling atmosphere with poisonous gases. And then, it will make impact, turning Earth to pieces. Is there are any survivors from the impact, they will find that these pieces will not have enough gravitational pull to contain air. But before asphyxiation kills them, lack of air pressure will burst all the inhabitants apart like balloons.

Of course, the event will have a larger impact on the galaxyโ€”not that any of us would be alive to study it.

A lump constricts my throat as I pull my daughter closer at the thought, glad that she is too young to understand the horrors she is leaving behind.

The governments of all countries on Earth had known about it for years, of course. But they had been hiding the information from public to avoid widespread panic. They had been lying through the   teeth that they had weapons to break the meteorite down before it enters Earthโ€™s orbit. It was only last year when a famous eโ€‘news channel sniffed out the truthโ€”even with the strength of all the space weapons we own, it is impossible to break down a meteorite of this size in space. And even if we somehow manage to do it outside Earthโ€™s atmosphere, the residual motion, abetted by Earthโ€™s gravity, will pull most of the pieces inside Earthโ€™s atmosphere anyway. Too many of these pieces will be too huge. The result will still be almost the same.

Hence, the governments have been putting all their resources in quietly building spaceships to travel to Azumiโ€‘306โ€”the closest habitable planet in a different galaxy. They have been sending scout flights with scientists who have discovered ways to exist in the otherwise unknown territoryโ€”what food to eat, what creatures to avoid and how to see in the 280โ€‘hoursโ€‘long moonless nights. Apparently, they are currently experimenting on growing โ€œEarthโ€‘foodโ€ on Azumi but havenโ€™t really reached there yet.

*****

When the news came out last year, people went berserk. Some people with means got the tickets and were leaving Earth to start afresh. There is no guarantee as to how it will all pan out though. The two-and-halfโ€‘year flight and the life after were full of uncertainties.

I pull my daughter in my arms. I wish I could shield her from all this.

The people outside are protesting for more spaceships, which is useless. If governments could, they would have done that already. But there would never be enough spaceships for the billions of people inhabiting the Earth. So, it will be Titanic all over againโ€”the rich go first, leaving the poor behind to die. But that was a thought for later. For now, I just had to get us through this day somehow.

*****

We reach the space centre at last. We are just in time, so I must be quick.

I tickle my fourโ€‘yearโ€‘old and am rewarded with a toothy chuckle. I hug her tight and, with trembling lips, I speak the magic words, โ€œRemember, I love you.โ€ And then, I hand her over to the flight attendant, โ€œThis is her first time alone.โ€

She tries to smile reassuringly, like she has been trying to contain tears all day, โ€œWe have a special facility for children without chaperon. She will have a fair chance at life.โ€ I try to smile back, wish her luck for the flight and beyond, and watch as she closes the gates. Somewhere behind those gates, a spaceship is preparing to fly to a new world. A precious part of me goes away with it. With a deep shudder, I finally let the tears fall.


END

If you would rather read all the stories together in the book, 7D: Tales from the Future is available for free download here: Link

Photo by SpaceX on Unsplash

Posted in Fiction

The Bouquet

I was expecting her at our neighbour’s wedding, being her first cousin. But still, it is a punch in the gut. Closing my eyes, I breath deeply to avoid doing something foolish–like grabbing her hand and running away before anyone can react…

It is a stupid thought though. Her brothers are on high alert. I can see them giving me dirty looks, like daring me to take a single step towards her. I am not going to, of course. She is off-limits now that she is married. She is tied to that man for seven lives–that mountain of a man with a huge chest and a large moustache…

Didn’t she tell him she hates moustache?

I sneak another look at her. She doesn’t seem to have noticed me. She doesn’t look any worse for wear anyway, like she is doing fine without me. So, it seems only I was holding out the candle for her.

She looks lovely, like a proper indian married woman sporting a red salwar suit, large traditional red bindi on her forehead, red and white chuda adorning her arms and a red embroidered dupatta covering her head…

She used to hate red. She was against girls being typecasted into reds and pinks. She had once made me swear that I would never ask her to wear red or cover her head after our marriage…

Our marriage…well, it doesn’t seem to be on her mind anymore now. She seems serene, smiling politely as she nods at something her aunt is saying…

She used joke that married women act all grown up in public and don’t laugh because they are not free to laugh anymore; that I should never expect that of her…

She used to be a wildflower, not ready to fit in the social bouquet.

I don’t know what to expect of her anymore.

But somethings never change. Anyone knowing her would see that she is already bored of the conversation. She was never the one for small talk. But she is trying to be polite. But her gaze is already drifting away from her aunt, looking for an escape.

Suddenly, her gaze falls on me and her entire being lights up. She starts to take a step towards me…

But her husband asks her something. The realisation returns and the light dies out of her eyes. She smiles a fake smile at him reserved for people she can barely tolerate and returns to acting like a grown-up..

She is one off the bouquet now.


Muskurata toh ab bhi hai,

Bhale gairo ke sath hi,

Us guldaste me ab wo

Gulistan si khushbu nhi.

Posted in Fiction

The Rose Print

Author’s note: Thank you, Lauren for providing the first line of the story.

The letter contained the most unexpected news I could imagine. For the hundredth time, I reread those ragged, cursive words written in a weak hand on a paper with roses printed on it. The paper is of the finest quality, worthy of a person of means.

My dearest,

I wish we had more time together, but I cannot undo the turn my life has taken. On the verge of death, I see you, and you alone, as my closest relative. This estate now belongs to you.

Love,

D. F. Allistor

I hazard a look at the life-size portrait hanging behind my bedโ€”the mischievous blue eyes seem to twinkle with mirth. I avert my eyes trying to ignore the portraitโ€”the proverbial elephant in the room. D. F. Allistor died recently, leaving this estate to me. His attorney had mailed me the letter after his death along with the documentation of inheritance.

When I first received it, I had instantly sent a letter back letting him know that there was a mistake; that I was an orphan with no living relatives and didn’t know any dead ones; that I had never been to the estate before, and neither did I know the last owner nor did I ever hear of him; and hence, I could not be the person in this will.

But the attorney was sure, “I know it sounds improbable, even to me. But while I am unaware of the nature of your relationship with the late Donovon Frederick Allistor yet, the details provided to me by him match you exactly, down to the last letter of your name, address, parentage and work history.”

This reply had rattled me. I am not a public figure, and I have no social media account. Researching about me from across the country must have taken a lot of time and resources. Yet, this relative had never approached me while he was alive, not even when I was abused by foster parents and turned into a servant of their household. All those years, I had waited for some relative to come forward and claim me. Now that I was out of that situation, inheriting this obscene amount of money and the sprawling estate seems meaningless. Well, almost…

Two years back, I had left my foster home at the first opportunity and started working at the hospital in the Hospice ward. In return, I received weekly paychecks and had a small quarter to live in. It was a tough life. The people I took care of were waiting to die and death was a frequent visitor. It isn’t fair to have to work in a place that reeked of death just to be able to survive.

I tried to stay aloof most of the timesโ€”tears were a luxury for meant for people with means. But it was difficult when some of the patients cared so much for me. They often offered words of care and caution like family. Charles had even offered to adopt meโ€”I had to remind him that I was too old to be adopted. And Martha had offered me a job at her home, but, of course, the job was only until Martha was alive, which wasn’t long. And that place was right next door to the Cancer ward, where I had met Eric…

He used to make me laughโ€”even declared his “undying love” and “married” me by twisting his ventilator tube and slipping it on my finger as a ring, joking that I would soon be a rich widow! He died last month with his bald head in my lap and wrinkled hands holding mine. I had stayed with him until an ambulance came and took him back to his city to be buried. That was the only day I had allowed myself to cry.

It isn’t fair at all!

All this while, there was a someone with means who knew about me and could have supported me! But he had waited until his death.

Initially, I was angry, confused and unsure of the stroke of unusually good luck. But there was no point declining the opportunity this estate presented. It came with a lot of money and no debt. It could set me up for life and help me start over, attend college and, maybe, become someone I could be proud of. The place came with a housekeeper and a gardener who were paid through a trust fundโ€”I didn’t have to be alone here. So, I left the job at the hospital and moved here.

*****

I love the place. It is beautiful and not very old. My resentment towards late D.F. Allistor is gradually dissipating. But even after being in the house for two days, I’m still unsure of my relationship with him. I always keep wondering if someone will come and make a claim for the estate, calling me a fraud and usurper.

I can’t put it off anymore. So, I broach the topic with the housekeeper about the previous owner without making it look like I didn’t know him. She seems very fond of him, “Oh! He was a fine man, ma’am. A little mischievous but he had a good heart. Always helped me when I was in trouble with my husband. Even in his death, he left a trust fund, so I don’t have to go back to him. Taken too early, I say! Twenty-four is not the age to die!” Tears are gathering in the corners of her eyes.

24? “When did he commission this portrait?”

“Just two years back when a local artist was unable to pay her mortgage. He gave her enough money without making it sound like charity.”

How can I hold a grudge against such a person? Earlier, I had assumed he was older. But taken at 24? For the first time, I look properly at the portrait with the twinkling eyes, looking for a similarity in his face and mineโ€”some family connection I never knew of. The face feels faintly familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it.

Thinking of something to say, I pick the most obvious topic, “How did he die?”

She looked at me with doubt in her eyes, “Cancer. You know all about it, of course. By the time doctors diagnosed it, he only had a few months left. He got chemotherapy and radiation done in a facility close by. The poor boy lost all his hair, eyebrows and lashes, and he was so frail in those last daysโ€”it was impossible to recognise him! And later, he went to that big hospital in your city all alone, for his parents were both dead and gone. He wouldn’t let me come because my youngest is still only 3. When he met you, he was finally so happy. He told me all about it over the phone…”

Her voice trailed away, as she read the doubt on my face, “You did know him, didn’t you?”

I could picture him in the hospital, mischievous blue eyes framed by a frail, bald face and a charming smile, slipping the twisted ventilator tube like a ring on my finger, his bald head in my lap and wrinkled hands holding mine…

Frederick…Eric…

*****

For the millionth time, I reread those ragged, cursive words written in a weak hand on a paper with roses printed on it. I look at the life-size portrait hanging behind my bed.

The mischievous blue eyes seem to twinkle with love…

Posted in Fiction, Poetry

I’ll be along | Poetry

Been too lost to speak;

Been too lost to quiet;

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.

Posted in Fiction

Bath Time

Author’s note: Thank you Theo for the first line to help me break out of my writer’s block.

The clock said it was bath time, but I was not up to the struggle this evening.ย 

Whoever made this rule about regular bathing must be tested by a doctor. It takes days to build up the cover of mud and dirt to keep those ticks away. And once it is achieved, you wash it all off for a splash in water? Sheer madness, I say.

And who would want to sit in water and wash their face ever? I shiver at the thought.

I uncurl from my bed and sneak a peak at Becky. She is still busy on her computer. Engrossed.

May be I still have a chance…

I quietly move toward the cat flap hoping Becky wouldn’t notice. When she doesn’t move or make an attempt to stop me, I quicken my pace, covering the last few feet in a mad dash, hoping to get out through the cat flap in a single jump.

But my head in stuck in the flap and I can’t move it in or out. I mew for help. Becky replies in an exasperated tone, “Not again!”

As she pulls me out of the cat flap and off the floor, I try to scratch and bite her. Resigned, she tries to bribe me, “Come on, Mama! Be a good girl and I will give you a can of Tuna.”

What can I say? Tuna has that effect on me. I calmly follow her to the bath. As Becky settles me on my bath chair, I hear her sob.

Posted in Poetry

Khabar | Urdu | Poetry | Nazm

Teri khidkiyo se hawa takra k laut jati h,

Tu zulf dhoop me ab sukhaata nhi.

Andhero me doobi hui h duniya,

Tu khul k ab khilkhilaata nhi.

Mitti me ab wo khushboo nhi h,

Tu barisho me ab chhat pe aata nhi.

Meri kabr bohot maayus h, humdum,

Mausam ab teri khabar lata nhi.

______________________

Translation:

Breeze knocks on your windows and returns,

You stopped drying your hair in the sun.

The world is slowly drowning in dark,

Awaiting your laughter to bring the spark.

The ground does not hold its familiar fragrance.

Don’t you step on roof now when it the rains?

My grave is gloomy and desolate, love.

The seasons don’t bring your tidings now.


Authors Note: A Nazm is a piece of Urdu poetry that is made of several quartets, each carrying the same thought.