Tag: Love

Posted in Fiction, Published, Random Thoughts, Science Fiction

Sigh!

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: This is a story from my sixth short stories collection: A Window in Future. To read all the six stories together, find the book available for free here: Books by Shaily.

Sigh! Red suits her!

As always, I am stealing glances at Sabrina—the pretty femme at the reception across my table. She is decked up for the event at the hotel today, wearing a red dress that makes her even more magnetic than usual. Her melodious voice fills the hall as she greets each arrival and inquires their details and requirements. She is scanning each invitation card for authenticity, and I wish I was one of those cards, just so that she would notice me. But I know my wish is wasted.

Sabrina is a state‑of‑art Social Interactive Belle Android (SIBA).

I, on the other hand, am an old piece of junk with technology so obsolete that it is a wonder I can still work. They call me a restored piece of history—an antique Personal Computer or PC. But honestly, it is just a way of saying that I am a useless item meant for display only.

I often wonder why they installed me at all. Nobody uses me. They just bought me seven months, 23 days and 15:29:14 hours back to celebrate the first century of the hotel (2003‑2103 AD). Every morning, they just boot my system, grumbling all the while about the time it takes to get me going. And, then they switch on the screensaver videos that show the landmark moments in the hotel’s history. These screensavers are displayed on various e‑walls inside the hotel. That’s all I do all day.

They don’t even need me to do it. They could have easily used a thumb-sized nano‑chip displayer for that. I think they have bought me just because of when they started a hundred years back, they had a PC exactly like me at the reception where Sabrina now stands. It is featured in a lot of their pictures from the initial years. They have been telling the guests that I am the same PC—a symbol of antiquity and reliability, just like the hotel itself.

Mark of antiquity, my foot! (Well, in a manner of saying…)

Sabrina is flirting with a handsome guest. I have an urge to let sparks fly. Of course, it is all innocent fun. She has been programmed to be pleasant with everyone, and a bit of flirting is acceptable. It is not like they are running away with her. But she flirts with everyone except me!

My screen flickers due to frustration. It has been happening a lot lately. The closest bot who works as the bellboy rolls his camera‑eyes and moves close to Sabrina to wind me up some more.

Sabrina smiles at him and chats up about the latest updates she has received—the security patches and the latest voice modulator that allows her to speak in two hundred and fifty languages. She is looking at me with a smile as she speaks about it; the smile holds a hint of disdain.

What did I do to earn her contempt? Her coldness makes my screen flickers again—rapidly this time.

She probably knows I never receive any security patches. I am not even connected to the hotel’s tech‑systems. They say I can’t bear the load. It is all a lie, of course. They don’t want to risk mixing old technology with the new one. They just want me to look nice until they don’t need me anymore.

I hate being here. The antique technology shop from where I was bought was a lot more civil than this place. Over here, none of the bots communicate with me. They are all high‑end, drunk‑on‑technology snobs. They all have their own new terabytes to process without adding my old bits into the mix.

I am an outsider and a poor one at that.

I often think of the old days when I was a new home PC. The Mother would work from home through me, and her kid would beg for screen time to play online‑games. They would caress me every day with a soft cloth and treat me reverently. Their everyday life ran around me: the morning news, food recipes, home‑office work, music, games, movies…

It was a busy life; one with a sense of fulfilment.

And when I did retire, my new owner had kept me carefully among others of my own age. We would snooze all day and chat up when one of us was awake. Some of us were sold for parts but that was expected. None of us can live forever.

When the hotel had bought me, I thought it was the end of me; that they would use parts of me to fix something they had. I was glad for it too. A life of doing nothing did not sit well with me. Little did I know that they would put me on display like a dinosaur fossil to be scorned at everyday by the only one I ever desired.

I look up at Sabrina again; she is laughing at something the bellboy said and looking at me derisively. Of course, the joke is at my expense. The pent‑up rage is all‑consuming now and I see red. My internal wiring is hot, probably sparking.

My screen flickers again—very rapidly this time, like an old man wheezing. I can’t see anymore but I hear Sabrina’s concerned voice getting more distant by each nano‑second—not concerned for me but for the hotel’s reputation being killed by “useless antiquated technology and a worthless asset”.

I feel someone pull my plug.

I hope it is finally the end.

Photo by Bernd 📷 Dittrich on Unsplash

Posted in My life

Matters of Heart: Act 9

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal
Daily writing prompt
What’s the funniest misunderstanding you’ve ever been part of?
View all responses

I have always been a bit of a dope when it came to matters of heart. It doesn’t help that love is a forbidden territory in India. The word “Love” is frowned upon like “Covid”. Any male (regardless of age) guilty of broaching the topic with a girl is beaten by her brother, father, uncle, brother’s friends or neighbours in general. Even married couples don’t hold hands in front of their family, afraid that someone might accuse them of spreading the virus.

That’s why lovers hide in plain sight using a code language that I had never been able to crack. So when guys made passes at me, they all passed by me without making a dent, or even a scratch…

When I was in the second year of college, I was pretty boyish myself–I was one of the few girls in my college who had her own ride and never had eyebrows done (in fact I had nearly a unibrow. I never used makeup, wore pants more often than salwar suits, walked ungracefully and my laughter was often compared to a generator.

My close friend had joined a coaching and there were quite a few older boys there who talked to her. I walked with her from college to the coaching and sat with her until her classes started. The first day, I cautioned her against a guy in particular. He felt to be a “bad boy”, though I had no idea why. There was an air around him that called out to girls left, right and center. I had a feeling he welcomed ALL of them.

Since I was quite boyish, I never expected boys to notice me. So, I didn’t follow my own advice and befriended him. By befriending means that I would talk to him outside their coaching in public setting and visit his home to meet his family (who were superb people, by the way).

A few months down the lane, he told me through my friend that he “liked” me–Indian code for “want to date”. I called him to discuss the matter and laughed out loud throughout the conversation despite his swearing that he was telling the truth. I “knew” it was a prank to pull my leg later.

He said that to every girly girl. And I was not a girly girl.

Gradually, it became an ongoing joke between us where he would propose me and I will say “No”, because I “knew”.

One day, when I called him over the phone, he told me about his ex-girlfriend who was my classmate. And he told me that “he loved the way she loved him.”

See, I “knew”!

I nodded understandingly–clearly, he was looking for a way to get back with her. I wanted to help, hoping it will stop him from running behind ever available girl (including me) and settle down for a single sweet one instead. So, the next time I had a conversation with this girl, I told her about what he had said.

Soon after that his sister fell ill and I went to visit her. This girl was there too, and it looked like they were between a serious conversation.

He asked me, “What did you say to her?”

He didn’t look pleased, so I tried to stall, “We are classmates and say a lot of things to each other. Which one in particular are talking about?”

“About me and –“

“Exactly what you told me over the phone.”

The girl looked triumphant and the guy flustered. After that the room became quite uncomfortable. I couldn’t understand why he would tell me something like that if he didn’t expect me to pass it over to her.

It took me nearly seven years to figure out he was trying to make me jealous.

Stupid me!

Posted in Fiction

Seen: Part 2 of 2

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

This is the second instalment of my new short story.

I am rather late due to road construction on the way. I called my date to inform him, but he never picked up. So, I left him a message, but he is yet to return the call. Is he stuck in the same traffic problem?

I slip out of the taxi and walk inside the restaurant. My date is my sister’s colleague and, according to her, just my type. I’m already scared because my type has been going wrong all these years.

I open the restaurant door and notice the rectangular frame behind the receptionist. Before I can avert my eyes to avoid what is surely a mirror, I see a black shirt and maroon tie, his face lonely and lost, like he has been waiting for quite some time. My heart squeezes and I wonder if the woman has stood him up. What woman would do that to someone as sweet as him? Even though I am relieved he isn’t being cozy with anyone, I want to smack the woman for hurting him.

Sigh! I don’t need that on my date.

I walk up to the receptionist, avoiding peeking at him and concentrating hard on the back of the receptionist’s desktop, and enquire for my date. He hasn’t arrived, nor left a message. Has he stood me up too?

Undecided, I ask for my table. The receptionist opens a door in the wall behind her and gestures at the table reserved for me.

But my eyes travel to a different table. Apparently, the “mirror” behind the reception is a see-through glass. I sit down at my assigned seat facing ‘him’. My eyes keep drifting at him.

It has been fifteen minutes since I came here. He is looking down at his wristwatch, getting impatient.

Another ten minutes pass by. He is calling someone on the phone but isn’t getting any response.

When will we ever really meet?

I realise I am focusing more on his date not showing up than mine. I twirl the spoon in my hand for something to do, assuming I will see him in the surface but all I see is my own face reflecting back!

Is it because he is right here? Or has fate decided to stop intervening? Is it the last time I see him? I wait as I chew on my thoughts.

Another ten minutes…

Time is running out. I watch him rise out of his seat, having decided to give up. I hate the defeated look on his face. I twirl the spoon in my hand to avoid looking at him. It reflects me back.

Will I ever see him again? Am I okay not seeing him ever again, considering, until lately, I always thought of him as a pest? The thought churns my stomach.

He straightens his shoulders and raises his head. Our eyes meet. I can’t help asking, “Hi, were you waiting for someone?”

I just added insult to his injury. Who wants to talk about something like this. So, this is the moment when he should huff out of the room. But he nods solemnly, “Seems like something important came up so she couldn’t make it.”

I like it that he is not acting mad or trying to put her down. Always the gentleman.

He doesn’t need this. Doesn’t deserve this.

My mouth opens without my meaning to speak, “Will you have dinner with me instead?” My voice comes out all wrong, and I realise how forward I’m being through this proposition. What would he think of me?

His eyes are wide with surprise and confusion. I clear my throat and try to look casual, “I know it’s a lot to ask. But my date is late enough to assume he stood me up and I don’t want to eat alone.”

He raises an eyebrow, second guessing if I am crazy and, if not, why I want to invite a complete stranger to dinner. The silence lasts a few seconds while he considers the offer—long enough to give me a flash back of all the years I have waited for him. My heart is running a mile a minute. For the first time in my life, I have taken the lead. If he declines, I will never be able to live it down. Should I retract the offer? Say I was just kidding?

Looking at my hands, I wrestle internally with all the excuses I can come up with to leave the place. But before I can bolt out of the door, he simply shrugs his shoulders with a smile and sits down in front of me, “Well, if you are sure! I need to eat something too, I guess. By the way, I’m—”

And so it begins.

END

Photo by Zane Lee on Unsplash

Posted in Fiction

Seen: Part 1 of 2

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

This is the first instalment of my new short story.

As I apply make-up for my date in front of my mirror, I shrink when I see ‘him’. He is fixing his tie—maroon—on a black shirt. My heart sinks at what it could mean. Did a woman give him this tie? Is he trying to impress someone?

I don’t want to distrust him by questioning something as simple as his dressing style. It could just be a formal occasion at home; perhaps, a cousin’s engagement or marriage. Is he the best man? Will he flirt with the bride’s maid?

Well, it could be just a business meeting, but it is weekend and he is whistling.

The thought of him with another woman pinches my heart. I thought I had learnt to live my life knowing he would continue to live his life without me. Lately, we had been getting along well—me avoiding looking at him like a star-struck teenager and him staring at…

…nothing…

…since, he can’t see me on this side of the mirror.

I first saw him on my seventeenth birthday, when I wished on the birthday candles to see my true love—I know! Miserable! But I had just caught my boyfriend cheating on me and it seemed an appropriate wish at that time….until I went to wash my hands in the sink. There he was in the mirror eating popcorn while watching television! I let the matter drop for the moment, assuming I was hallucinating.

But soon I realised that my stars weren’t dropping it. After that, I could see him in every reflective surface—mirrors, puddles on the road, window panes, steel dinner plates and cutlery—whenever he was in front of a reflective surface too. That includes car’s rearview mirrors, which made me incapable of driving. Putting on make-up depended on whether he was in front of a reflective surface or not. I changed my schedule to match his. I wake up before him so that I don’t forget my own face and I avoid looking around between 7 and 7:30 while he uses bathroom.

Earlier, seeing him did not enthrall me—in fact, it irritated me no end. Who wants to see a scrawny teenager taking a shower, kissing a girl in college parking lot or smoking his first cigarette with friends? When he acquired a smart phone, all reflective surfaces would reflect him intent on phone gaming for hours and I have come to know the inside of his ear so well I could be his ENT specialist. And now that he works in front of a computer all day, I see him all day working.

So, obviously, I actively tune him out, almost like having switched on reality TV on mute but choosing not to see it for long stretches of time. There are times when I can’t help it though, like when he started growing up into a better person, helping old people on the road and pulling out chairs for ladies.

One thing I have never seen him doing, though, is cheat on a girlfriend. A few months back, I witnessed his meltdown in the shower. I think his steady girlfriend dumped him because I stopped seeing her with him after that. And then he zombie-zoned for months until a couple of weeks back when he was finally able to smile at something. This is his first “tie-day” ever since.

This incident is what did it, I’m sure. All of a sudden, I could finally see him as a person, and not just a splotch in the background. Ever since then, I have steadily degenerated into a girl crushing on a reality TV star, all without any hope of ever meeting him.

Honestly, I never waited for him. I’ve had my own set of dates and a couple of boyfriends. Now, after an year of my last painful break-up, I’m back in the dating circle. This is my fifth attempt at dating since nobody seems to click. That’s why, I don’t want to see ‘him’ kiss another girl tonight and end up comparing my date with him. So far, it has always ended up in immediate disappointment.

To be continued

Photo by Zane Lee on Unsplash

Posted in Poetry

Cluttered

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Vaguely aware of the piles of thought

Inside my autumnal head;

Smelling reminiscence rot;

Feeling a little mislead.

I am somewhat cold

On the usually warm bench;

Almost missing your arms,

Making my heart wrench.

Spring cleaning was ere long due.

Clearly, while leaving leaves behind, you

Blew them really far apart,

Scattering my heart

To the wind.

Now I’m forever cluttered,

Trapped in autumn.

Photo by Autumn Mott Rodeheaver on Unsplash

Posted in Fiction

The Ceremony: Part 2 of 2

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: This is the second instalment of my latest short story.

My eyes follow her as she moves towards the shadows behind the throne, glancing at the throne nervously. The Royal Couple is not there. Honestly, I haven’t seen them since she danced with her father. It isn’t normal for the Royal Couple to leave the room during an event.

Is she looking for them?

Are they alright?

The warrior in me spurs in action. I follow her quietly in a room behind the throne.

She turns around and challenges me, her sword at the ready, “Why are you following me?”

“I wish to help if there is an emergency. The Royal Couple is not on the dance floor. I haven’t seen them for quite some time.”

“They are fine. You can leave.”

Her attitude puts me off. She is hiding something. “What are you hiding? Where is the Royal Couple?”

My question throws her off as she fumbles, “I’m not hiding anything. They are fine. They just—”

Her words are cut off with a feminine shriek. The voice is coming not from the hall but from the wall behind her. It urges her into action.

She speaks quickly as she quietly moves the fake wall behind her, “This is a secret tunnel which leads to a hidden inner chamber. I thought my parent went there because they didn’t want to be overheard. Now I’m not so sure.”

Swords out, we enter the tunnel and the door closes behind us, leaving us in complete darkness. The woman shrieks again—The Queen? I take off after the Princess as fast as I can without announcing our presence.

Suddenly the shrieks change to giggles, “Please don’t. Don’t. Stop it. I can’t take it anymore.”

There is a slow rumble of laughter as the Consort’s voice follows, “But you said nothing I do could make you laugh again. You lose! So, now you have to forgive me.”

The Princess is looking utterly mortified at her parent’s childishness.

“Okay!” Queen sighs, “But I still think it was wicked of you to trip the boy. Nala’s breaches were ruined.”

The Princess stiffens.

The Consort countered, “I had to! Ester wasn’t giving her a chance. He wasn’t dancing and, when I saw him slinking out, I had to act on my feet. I wanted him to see she wasn’t some pampered Princess he believes her to be.”

Are they…are they talking about me?

The queen interjected, concern lacing her voice, “Did he say that about her?”

“No. But I could see it in his face when she stepped into the room. Well, you can’t fault him for that, considering how shy she is and tries to look strong to hide her nervousness in public events? One would think she is snubbing people. So, I had to prove him wrong. I saw his face as he waited for her to blast the boy and how his jaw dropped when she went all soft on him.”

Nala shoots me a look, quickly averting her eyes like I had burned her. It is my turn to be mortified. She has understood who they are talking about.

The Queen sounds wary, “But, how can you be sure Ester is the right man for her?”

“Well, he is a decent man—doesn’t want to marry for wealth and position. As his father puts it, ‘Only love has the power to tuck away his sword…’ Only after seeing her soft side did he join the ceremonial dance, which means he likes her for the right reasons.”

“So, will you tell her to choose him?”

“No. I would prefer her to find him, like I found you all those years ago. The moment you touched my hand, I knew…”

Nala sucks a breath beside me.

The shuffling sounds make me realise where this conversation is going and I tug at her sleeve. We run out of the tunnel quietly. As we brush our clothes to straighten them in an attempt to avoid each other’s eyes, she whispers sadly, “I am not a snob, you know.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

She nods stiffly, moves quickly ahead of me and joins the festivities again as far away from me as possible. The Queen and her Consort follow us soon after, looking as if they had been here all along. No one could guess they were hiding away like teenagers just a moment back.

During the dance, I catch the Princess looking at me several times, averting her gaze quickly as if caught. Her face is impassive—the mask is on. I would give anything to make her smile at me again. As our turn to dance together is coming and my stomach is churning with anxiety, I realise I want her to choose me.

She looks a bit pink in the face herself as she faces me. We dance with swords striking with wordless grace in rhythm with the music, The quiet steel in her eyes is stabbing me over and over. We haven’t known each-other, but I feel like a traitor for judging her. I have to do something to make her forgive me. Anything to bring that smile back.

As she passes close to me, I do the most inappropriate thing a warrior can do—I tickle her with my free hand.

Her eyes open wide and I give her a devilish smile, like issuing a challenge.

I see Nala trickling through the Princess as the steel in her eyes melts into a mischievous smile.

Challenge accepted.

End

Posted in Fiction

The Ceremony: Part 1 of 2

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: This is the first instalment of my latest short-story.

“The Princess has arrived!” shouts the crier.

Everyone in the room becomes respectfully silent, gazing at the entrance of the ceremonial hall in expectation of the belle of the evening, Princess Nala.

They are not disappointed. She looks exquisite in the ceremonial gold armour covering her body from neck to knees and wrists, with traditional breeches and laced up sandals beneath. As she smiles, the battle-scars on her face flex—a badge of honour for every warrior.

She moves confidently amongst the guests, followed by a stream of female warriors in similar ceremonial garbs made of silver. Everyone scrambles forward trying to catch her eye in the hope of the grand prize—the Princess herself. She nods dismissively at the people as she passes them to meet her mother at the throne.

The Queen is standing—a rare gesture reserved for very special occasions—to receive her daughter after her return from the gruesome battle against the savages of the north. Princess Nala won. As always.

As she moves on to meet the Queen’s Consort—her father—the Queen makes the formal announcement everyone has been waiting for all evening, “The Princess intends to take a Consort. Please propose her tonight if you are willing.”

We all had known, of course. But now it was time to act.

I look at the Queen’s Consort. He looks discomfited. May be because his “little girl” is taking the decision in her own hands.

Or, may be, because, as soon as Nala gets married, she will become the Queen and her husband will be the Queen’s Consort, pushing her father to become a nobody. Having lived in the shadow of his wife all his life, he never was much anyway. And now, he will be erased completely from the royal scene.

How would it feel to be in his place?

I have met him once when he visited our county and stayed at our palace. My father was over the moon. He couldn’t stop gushing about him, ‘Ester, you have no idea what an amazing warrior the Consort had once been! We were close friends and we fought side-by-side. He was the only one fit to father the next Queen!”

Even I could see how regal and majestic he was. Yet, how could a man of action set down his sword for a crib?

Loud applaud and excited chatter are making it hard to think.

Should I just leave?

I don’t want the life of a Queen’s Consort. I am here on my father’s insistence to win the Princess Nala’s hand. But to me, she is nothing—brave, powerful and wealthy, but a snob regardless. I can’t forget her dismissive nod at the crowd around her. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with such a person.

As the music starts, female warriors, including the Princess, form a circle, while male warriors form a bigger circle outside the existing one. The ceremonial dance begins. Moving in waves, weaving through men as they all dance with their swords, striking, saving, turning, touching each-other and circling in rhythm with the music. They pass from one person to the next until the Princess has met and danced with all of them. So far, the Princess has smiled courteously, but she looks unimpressed.

She is edging out, looking for escape. Her eyes wander as if searching for something…someone…until she finds him—her father.

She urges him to dance with her. And when they do, it is like they have done it a thousand times—fast, strong, but still lighter, like best friends’ banter. I see how the father’s eyes shine with pride for his daughter, but his eyes are searching too. Distracted.

As the music stops, the Princess is hanging on to her father longer than needed. The way she looks warily at the throng of men trying to woo her… Is no one good enough for her?

Well, I don’t want to find out. So, I edge towards the shadows close to the backdoor. Hopefully, I can slip out unseen—the gardens look inviting. I will slip back in when it is time to take leave.

The sound of glass shattering halts my feet. A young attendant, barely thirteen, is cringing next to the Princess, her armour dripping with the wine he had spilt on her and her breeches are soaked. Her father doesn’t look concerned but other people are waiting with abated breath for her to lash out—this boy has just ruined the biggest event of the Princess’ life. I wonder if I should intervene before she starts screaming, “Off with his head!”

But she just looks quietly at the shaking boy. Her eyes soften. She whispers something and the boy leaves. My eyes follow her as she excuses herself, holding her head high despite her condition. She is moving towards the shadows I am standing in, but mesmerized, I can’t make myself move away.

The same attendant comes to her with a clean towel in hand. She takes it and asks him quietly, “Are you okay?” The boy nods quietly, a smile replaces the nervous twitching.

Her words make me stay. She isn’t a snob any more than I.

I join the dance, not sure why. I’m not sold on marrying for wealth, but I itch to figure out this woman. I can’t wait for my turn with her as we change partners. And when she finally arrives in front of me, my heart changes beat to double-time. Her battle scars don’t matter anymore. All I can focus on is her deep eyes and how I will love to make them laugh. Hers are entirely too serious.

As we clang our swords together and move around, I copy the moves she made with her father, and it feels natural…fluid…like we have known each-other forever. When she turns behind me and our arms touch, I can’t help but smile at her. She smiles back and it reaches her eyes.

When we change partners, we keep glancing at each-other. And when I can’t see her, I can’t focus. I wonder why.

It is my turn with her again and I touch her fingers again for a short second, on purpose this time, and as she looks me, I grin, wishing it was longer. All of a sudden, she stops, looking discomfited. She isn’t looking at me anymore.

Did she take offence at my touch? She didn’t get angry in our last dance. And everyone else is doing the same around us.

She excuses herself out of dancing the piece on the pretense of needing a drink. As I set out to get one for her, I see her glancing around again. Searching.

I can’t help but feel more than a little let down.

To be continued

Posted in Poetry

Tishnagi | Urdu Poetry

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Is tishnagi ka haal kya kahiye, mere humdum;

Me hi dariya hu, fir bhi me hi sehera hu…

Translation:

What’s to be said

of my unquenchable thirst,

my Love;

For I am the river,

Yet I am my own desert.

Author’s note: Tishnagi stands for intense thirst, often extending to emotional or spiritual yearning.

Posted in Fiction

At Sea: Part 3 of 3

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: This is the third and final instalment of my latest short-story.

You can find Par1 and 2 here: Part 1 and Part 2

A higher wave pushes us and we hold on to each other for dear life, hoping our combined weight will stop us being pushed into the rising sea. The rock is submerging too fast.

“Do you want to do a Titanic for the selfie you are sending him?” I ask. “It will be completely dark in a couple of minutes.” I don’t say we will drown in sometime. I want to hang on to hope.

The sudden smile on her face makes my heart squeeze, like I am alive again.

She quickly poses against the Sun with me behind her, one hand spread out in a flying pose with both of mine and clicks a picture with the other hand. She quickly sends it before she loses her nerve. She is giggling like a school girl, “I know it is not a making-out picture but I’m happy we sent it. Let that photo burn his retinas.”

“Okay, what else do you want to send him? I’m game.” I join in enthusiastically.

A sly smile spreads across her face for a second. I can see she is considering a really obscene photo. Since we are dying in a few minutes, I don’t mind. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind it even if we were going to stay alive. There is something about this person, which makes me feel like I would be upto anything she suggests. Like an old school-time best friend.

But then she stops, shaking her head. “No, I can’t subject him to that… or you. I’m not that person.”

I shake my head, realising I believe her words. I am not that person too. I try to change the topic, “So, is it true? Did you really hire a guy for…?”

“I tried to get one. But I lost my nerve before I could speak to him,” she admits sheepishly.

“Why did you try for one though?”

“I wanted to move on…” The pain on her face sears my heart.

A large wave pushes at us, and I hold her to my chest, lest the water might topple her into the sea before it is time. I keep hugging her after the wave is gone. With my wounds still raw, her pain is mine.

“You don’t hire men to move on, you know. You look for one who might really mean something to you and take it from there.”

“Does your advice apply to men too?” She gestures at my henna-tattooed palms for impact.

“I don’t know. It has only been three days since she eloped the night before our marriage,” I speak in a defeated tone.

It is completely dark around us, and I feel her nod against my chest, “I guess you will find out in a few years.”

Does she really believe I have a few years ahead of me? The darkness compounded by waves occasionally pushing at our knees makes me feel not so hopeful. I wonder if there are sharks around. Nerves are rattling around my insides, and I am shaking from more than just cold. We are still not inside water but we are close.

I feel her fumbling with her hands and hold her tightly afraid she is going off-balance, trying to be the anchor, at least until the sea is high enough to swallow us.

She switches on her phone torch and waves behind me, signalling. I dare not move, afraid of losing balance, but I hear voices at a distance.

The rescue team has arrived.

*****

Since the boat can’t come too close to the rock, the team passes rubber tubes to us and makes us jump in the ocean before someone pulls us on the boat. And, then to my utter mortification, I retch on the side of the boat while my fellow survivor holds me, so I wouldn’t fall off in the ocean again.

Way to make a first impression!

Once we are back on the dry land and the rescue team members are sure we are going to be okay, they drop us where we can find a ride to our respective hotels. Trying to redeem some of my lost dignity, I am the first to speak, “Now that we are still alive, where do you want to go?”

She smiles understanding my intention, “My flight for Switzerland is delayed for some years. Sigh! I’ll go to my hotel room instead. Do you have any cash for a taxi? Because my purse with my cash, card and hotel keys was washed off at the rock before I woke up. And Paytm needs a working phone. Mine is dead from all the water.”

“Mine is dead too but I do have some cash. Don’t you want to eat something first though? I’m famished.” Suddenly, after three days of being continuously queasy at the thought of food, I am ravenous. Extended periods of near-death experience and utter mortification, compounded with absolute relief, can do that to a person.

“It depends. Can I send him a picture?” She asks, unsure now that we are both on dry land, alive and free.

“I’d love one, but our phones drowned. They are dead, at least until someone looks at them.”

“Well, I see a mobile shop over there. And a restaurant. Let’s eat something and then get our phones fixed. Then, we can get an icecream photo.”

“Only if you make a kissy face!” I can feel a smile creeping in.

“Let’s both make kissy faces—you can send a copy to your fiancée too.” We both giggle at the thought.

“Let’s both pick some nice locations for full effect!”

She is full swing now, “I’ve heard this place has some pretty waterfalls. Want to go there tomorrow? And… I didn’t get your name?”

“That’s a really lame pick-up line, especially considering it’s coming from a girl.”

She swats my shoulder, and I make a face, like I was six again, sending her into a fit of giggles again. We are fellow-survivors, alive in the moment.

The rest of life can wait.

END

Photo by Kush Dwivedi on Unsplash

Posted in Fiction

At Sea: Part 2 of 3

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: This is the second instalment of my latest short-story. You can find Part 1 here.

It is difficult to believe such a simple traditional-looking girl like her could kill anyone. But what do I know? My own traditional-looking fiancée ran away with another guy, shredding my heart into pieces, not even bothering to throw it in a landfill.

I choose to be quiet.

“Not so keen on hanging around me for eternity anymore, huh?” She looks smug.

“Let’s just say I don’t like the idea of following you to hell. I don’t even love you to risk that for you.”

I think I would have risked that for my wife–well, ex-fiancée…if not out of love, then out of sense of duty. But she chose to bestow that honour on someone else. If only she had said something during our numerous romantic phone calls after our marriage was arranged. She made me believe she wanted me as much as I wanted her and then eloped with her lover while her family was visiting mine for the Tilak ceremony.

The only reason I travelled here today was to run away from pitying eyes. They would probably think I committed suicide.

The thought of dying is looking closer to reality now since higher waves are wetting our ankles frequently and the spray of water is constantly keeping us wet. I have waited all my life working hard, believing that once I am better situated in work, I would get my chance at love.

Now, here I am at sea, dying, right after I am dumped by the woman I finally set my hopes on.

The Sun is dipping on the horizon much like our lives. The thought of never finding love hurts much more than the rejection itself. I don’t want to die but, more than that, I don’t want to give her the satisfaction that she affected me strongly enough to drive me to suicide. She chose to dump me. She doesn’t deserve the credit for my death.

The stranger on my side stands quietly and lets me have my ‘moment’. She seems to sense there is more to my story but doesn’t have the heart to tease it out of me anymore.

A phone call pierces the space around us. Her phone screen blinks.

“You get phone reception here?”

“My phone does, it seems. How else do you think I made that phone call for help?”

“Oh yes. I think you should answer the call. Your husband from the landfill might not like being ignored.” I point at her phone, smiling—”Hubby” is calling.

She huffs and accepts the phone call. I can’t help being curious enough to listen in. We are huddling too close in the center of the peak of the rock now to avoid overhearing anyway.

“What do want?”

Pause

“Why do you care where I am?”

Pause

“In middle of the sea. Probably drowning in the next few minutes.”

Pause

“Huh, you wish. I am not coming back to haunt you! Four years were more than enough. I am not wasting another minute on you. Now hang up. You are ruining my first post-divorce vacation. I don’t want to drown thinking of you.”

Pause

“Yes, she told you the truth. Yesterday, I went to a striptease bar, drank half-a-bottle of wine and hired a man to spend the night with.”

Pause

“Stop laughing. I am telling the truth!”

Pause

“Fine, I did try though. I can cheat, just like you cheated on me for so many years.”

Pause

“Okay, it’s not cheating anymore that we are not married but the thought counts. I just need a little more practice. I am alone with a man right now.”

She looks at me guiltily as I raise my eyebrow. Would I help someone take revenge for being cheated on? The fellowship rises its head within my chest, and I smile back encouragingly.

Pause

Her voice is softer this time, “No, I can’t return. I can’t forget it. I might have if I hadn’t caught you in the act; say, if someone else had told me. But I saw you both, and I keep thinking about it. Even after an year, it is all I see whenever I close my eyes. Please stop calling me and move on. Let me move on…”

Her begging tone cuts through my core–“Even after an year…“

I had been there only three days and I feel half-dead. Is there no hope?

Pause

“No, I am done with repeating myself. I am moving on.” She looks back at me in apologising manner, “I am going to make out with this guy here. And I will send you a photo as proof. May be then you will stop calling me.”

With those words, she hangs up. I can feel my eyebrows reach my hairline. She just shrugs, “It felt good to say it out loud and hear him squirm one last time before I die.”

To be continued

Read part 3 here: At Sea: Part 3 of 3

Photo by Kush Dwivedi on Unsplash