Wake up to find
that the day has changed but life has not.
Office’s still on.
The child still drones on.
Husband mutters in his sleep.
Parents call,
hoping all’s well and all,
with no hope of meeting any time soon,
with responsibilities weighing me down.
Life goes on.
Standing tall,
even when small,
on cracked ground
and storms in sight,
facing fate
with fists clenched,
and face tight.
That’s me.
Who are you?
Image by Ross Stone on Unsplash
You told me it was in my best interest–
the yelling, the barely restrained anger.
Then,
You told me it was all my fault–
the yelling, the unrestrained anger.
Now,
You tell me I deserve it–
before all hell breaks loose
everyday…
It is a long walk down the aisle. My father holds my hand reassuringly while my mom sobs in the pew. He stands with the pastor looking perfect as ever but I can’t bring myself to smile.
Is it too late to cancel?
Is it wrong to wish for something other than perfection?
I pass by her and, for a second, her entire face lightens up but, then, the lights go out again. Her red-rimmed eyes mirror mine.
Is it too late to cancel?
I picked up the flower that had fallen from her hair. It still held her fragrance.
Ever since she moved here, I followed her around, hoping she would look at me and never look away. Often, I would walk behind her, right past her, in front of her…
But she seemed to look right through me.
Then, this guy came and held her from behind. She squealed in terror. Naturally, I attacked him. But instead of supporting her saviour, she hit me with a stick and called me a ‘stupid bird’! Worse still, she kissed him!
I’ll never love again!
Photo by Raimond Klavins on Unsplash
Waiting at the bus stop,
Rain drops pelting from midnight sky,
Drenching bags, veiling the tears.
Walked in with fists tight,
Shouted, cursed, blamed, cried, fell on knees,
Begged for mercy, in church, that night.
Based on the style of Classic Hindi writer, Bihari, known for writing entire story in two lines.
I look at the clock for the hundredth time. He’s still not home.
3:21 AM: It’s futile to wait up. It is only 3 hour journey. If he was coming home tonight, he would be home long back.
4:07 AM: But his friend had said he met him at VT station…
5:37 AM: He probably didn’t find a train…
6:58 AM: But why hasn’t he picked up the phone?
8:09 AM: Is he alright? Why would he not call me back? I know he is always angry but how can he ignore 26 calls?
9:16 AM: Did he have an accident?
9:45 AM: Should I call police?
10:15 AM: His text reads, “The maid will be late.”
11:13 AM: The maid is home, more cheerful than usual.
11:30 AM: He saunters in more cheerful than usual. I rush to meet him. His hair is wet from the shower.
I quietly move to the inner room. He speaks to the maid in a low tone. They laugh…
I hold the phone
hoping you’ll pick up;
hoping you wouldn’t;
hoping you’ll recognise the number;
hoping you wouldn’t;
wondering how you could forget the number
when I couldn’t…
I hold the phone
hoping you’re awake;
hoping you’re asleep;
wondering how you could,
when I couldn’t…
I hold the phone wondering
if you have company
and who could she be;
fuming, how you could
when I couldn’t…
Raging, I throw the phone
at the wall
breaking it into pieces
like me…
Still wishing,
you had taken that call…
You stand with your family
looking at me with eyes full of hate–
angry at god-knows-what
since god-knows-when–
glaring at the lawyer, the clerk, the judge,
your mortal enemies without a grudge.
You shift the glare
to burn a hole through my heart.
Startled, I glance back without anger,
only deep loss at the part
where the last thing we ever share
is the papers you hand over
to set us both apart.
Short Stories 