Tag: Story

Posted in Fiction

The Secret

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

My wife’s voice wafted out from the kitchen window. She sounds pretty pleased at the wonderful smell of fresh ‘parsley’. I smile too, knowing what would come next. Tasting! My wife always tastes her seasonings before putting the dish in the oven.

She is a wonderful cook who has too many secret family recipes and a whole lot of pride. Mother hates her—their quarrels are epic, and I am always stuck in the middle. After six years of being stuck between them, I have had enough. So, a couple of weeks back, when my wife decided to hold the Christmas dinner at our home rather than Mother’s to further infuriate the old woman, I knew there was no better opportunity to end this scene forever. With eleven people coming over for the dinner and serving as witnesses, no one can hold me liable when she drops dead in the kitchen right after tasting her stuffed duck with ‘parsley’ seasoning.

Very few people can recognise the purple-spotted-hemlock that I have smuggled in the kitchen and replaced fresh parsley–it looks exactly like parsley except for the purple spots on its stem, and tastes and smells wonderful too. Also, no one is able to survive after eating it. It hits within seconds of touching the tongue, sending victim’s muscles into hyperactivity until they are twisted in unnatural angels and all their bones break one by one, ending with a twist of neck at a degree that breaks the spinal cord.

This innocent-looking and wonderful-smelling herb has been the cause of many ghost stories in the past. I wore gloves while I collected and placed it in the kitchen. I wasn’t worried about anyone else in the family touching or tasting it. My wife gets angry and mouthy if anyone touches anything in her kitchen. After so many years of dealing with the wretch, no one will be stupid enough to touch anything. And once she dies, I will quietly remove any unattended pieces of hemlock using the plastic wrap in my pocket,

Well, my wife is already done smelling. It is about time to taste the seasoning. So, I wait for the conundrum to begin…

My wife shrieks. With tremendous effort, I hide my smile. There are, of course, other voices shouting as well—Mother never leaves her alone in the kitchen, lest she makes a mess of the dinner in front of the whole family. She can’t touch anything but she sure can point. The shrieks now sound more ghastly and other-worldly. A shiver runs up my spine—I wasn’t counting on being spooked for the rest of my life.

But it was better than being stuck forever with Mrs. I-know-everything-and-you-are-a-fool.

I make a show of getting up hurriedly and falling while trying to reach her. Meanwhile, I can hear pans falling. By the time I get up, quite a few people have reached and surrounded the kitchen. There is a lot of screaming, and someone is calling the ambulance. It is too late—by the time a doctor arrives, it will all be over.

I push people aside to reach the centre of circle hurriedly to avoid suspicion.

My wife is sitting on the side, crying in the earnest, “I told her…I told her I put in dried parsley in the seasoning because the fresh one was hemlock, but the old fool threw a piece in her mouth just to prove me wrong.”

The body on the ground has stopped moving—her neck turned around towards me like a scene from a horror movie and eyes open in a silenced scream that will give me nightmares for the rest of my life.

Author’s note: I wrote this story in a hurry because I wanted to tell you about hemlock. There is no cure for hemlock poisoning and the horrendous death it brings. It looks and smells like parsley. Recognising and never touching it are the only ways to survive.

The purple-spotted stem of hemlock is the only way to recognise it, though sometimes, it is not even spotted—that evil thing!

Posted in Fiction, Tiny stories

Yesterday

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

She stands in middle of the raucous party.

–

Do I dare?

No, I don’t.

Of course, I choose to live in the past.

It is the safest place to be.

There are no risks, no uncertainties–

just plain solid facts.

There are are a few regrets

but I can always shrug them off as past.

–

Do I dare?

No, I can’t.

Future is steeped in risk.

Can’t get there

without weathering some storms

or facing my demons!

Can’t strive, plan, fail…face fresh hurt–

Too full of blows from the past.

At least they didn’t manage to kill me…yet.

Can’t move on.

–

Do I dare?

No, I won’t.

I sneak a peek at her across the hall

while trying to ignore her.

She smiles in my direction.

I frown at the pain in my chest

in the hole filled with resignation.

Ah! I forgot to breath!

–

Do I dare?

Don’t I stand on the mountain of hurt

collected in years past?

Will I be able to get past?

She is looking here expectantly–

a smile playing on her mischievous lips.

–

Do I dare?

May be…

I smile back and step forward…

The past still hurts.

Well, one baby step at a time.

Posted in Fiction, Nature stories

Roots

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Once again, it is time to pull our roots and move on. A sense of déjà vu grips me as I plan where to go and how to go unnoticed. It is even more difficult now than the last time. As per the Vampires, we will need to take the back roads to avoid being seen or captured on the numerous cameras that dot the main roads. If it was just me, I wouldn’t have bothered. Once you have lived for a thousand years, you lose the wish to struggle for life. But there are young ones to consider. They were not around the last time, and I wouldn’t wish them to have the same memories we elders do—nightmares, I would call them.

It is difficult to believe that it has been four hundred years already. We were living in that quiet forest for thousands of years. The peace had made us complacent, and we hadn’t bothered to keep up with the world. Otherwise, we would have noticed when the river nymphs shunned the dirty waters and when the dead fishes started washing ashore. We were lulled into a false sense of safety, only to be rudely awakened by the sounds of horse carts.

There had been no warning, nor a declaration of war—they just fell on us with saws and axes. It was a massacre. They had picked the strongest and tallest of us first as we stayed limp in our places, still waking from our deep slumber. We were all stuck–our root had grown too deep, and our stems and branches were unmoving by the long disuse. It took us hours to get feeling in our roots, shake the soil around our feet and get away in the dead of night. We neither had the numbers nor the strength to retaliate.

The humans must have wondered where all the trees had all gone while they slept.   

So many of us had died that night. Many others were gravely injured not capable of moving. We had to leave them behind to be chopped to pieces the next day. That day is still branded on our hearts for eternity. It took us decades to settle down in this new place; to start a life without fear; to stop waking up waving our branches like lunatics, fighting unseen enemies.

No, I wouldn’t impose those memories on our saplings. I wouldn’t be caught napping again.

As per what the birds have told, the humans plan to cut down and flatten this space where we live–they plan to build living spaces for their never-ending progeny. Well, they can take the land, but they wouldn’t touch us again. We can fight back—we have been practicing on windy days, moving our branches around and pulling out our roots to kick. But it is pointless. Humans will keep coming back with reinforcements. It makes more sense to move away. We will leave tonight.

Yes, we will need to push the young saplings to move—they are too intelligent for their own good and too sassy to deal with. They are moaning about the new place and adjustments, quoting a thousand reasons for why they shouldn’t leave, threatening us with tears. Well, they can cry and complain all they want once they are safe and alive.

The Vampires have offered to show us the way. These good people have always been our allies. They have been quiet neighbours who have slept hanging from our branches peacefully every day, leaving at night to eat and returning at dawn. Since they know their way around the city from their nightly hunts, it is easier for them to guide us than birds. The birds and squirrels will come with us, of course. They cannot let us leave with their nests and eggs and they cannot carry them elsewhere.

As the Vampires described them, the thought of the dark, smelly alleys infested by ghouls left me shivering. The narrow spaces with tall buildings on both sides will be a tight fit for most of us. Some of us may have scratches all over, others will have to leave branches behind. At least, we will live—if we make it to the end undetected, of course.

Because ghouls wouldn’t let us pass easily. We have denied them living space for far too long. But we could not associate with someone who moans all night, throwing things around and being a pest—there wouldn’t have been any sleep at all. So, of course, they will see this moment as a chance to vindicate themselves. They would probably fill our way and throw things around to create noise. Thankfully, the Vampires have promised to stand on our side adding to our numbers if the ghouls pose a problem. Together, we might win without fighting, which is imperative to our survival.

Because fighting will ensue noise and if the humans wake up and look out of the window, they will find an entire redwood forest standing on their backroad. There will be hell to pay! 

So, we must go quietly. There is a “nature reserve” that the Vampires have told us about. They say that humans do not touch the trees over there—something about the law protecting the “nature”. It will be sad to lose the company of the Vampires eventually, though. They will have to return to the city and find new accommodations. The poor beings cannot survive too far from their habitat—as their sole source of food, an abundance of human populace is a must for their survival.

Also, they don’t fare too well around Fairies that apparently infest this nature reserve. I can already feel the little pests crawling up on my body, making home on my toadstools and throwing raucous parties all night. There will be no sleep.

Sigh! It will be a new territory and we will have to forge new alliances. Well, we will cross that bridge once we’re there. For now, we can just hope to survive.

Posted in Nature stories

My Neighbour: The Adventurer

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

To call me an adventurer would be an overkill. I am just your regular guy who loves lying in the sun on a free day. But these busy bodies I have as neighbours…

Well, let’s just say they just don’t appreciate the art of doing nothing.

Here I was, minding my own business, lying on this metal contraption my neighbours had brought in recently. The white tyre cover is irresistible and I was lying down on the surface warmed by the sun earlier that day. The neighbour, of course, was infinitely jealous by my comfort and switched on the front light.

Not easily rattled, I paid him no mind. But then, there were the moths on the front light!

I mean, who in the world could resist these delicacies? So, I moved up and made a snatch for one of them but before I could catch it, the moron started the dratted machine.

And I was flying!

I was racing through the roads at a reckless speed that reminded me of the time when that Eagle picked me and cousin Gill from the white wall. Gill didn’t make it. I had to leave my tail behind.

The thought made me sick…

All the while, I was clutching the damned light with all I had, praying to the God of all Lizards to make this stupid contraption stop. These kind of things should come with a disclaimer–a large yellow banner saying, “Stay Away! It Moves!”

Why couldn’t this guy tell me that it moves? Or at least he could have asked me to move before he started it. I always knew that humans were not friendly to our lizard-kind but discourteous too?

Humph! Well, finally it stopped and stayed put for a while.

It wasn’t a bad place. Seemed like a feast was going on around several lights–loads of insects and lizard brethren about the place. Very nice people. Adjusting too. Shared the spoils with me and everything. I even met a girl I really liked–lush curves and a tail with a really unique pattern. I think she got it done at a shop. It suits her.

I wanted to stay but I couldn’t for long, though. The guy was already moving towards the bike. This new girl told me the name of the metal contraption. She thought I was really brave to ride that metal monster! I wish I could stay!

But I hadn’t told mom I was travelling and she would be worried out of her mind, especially after cousin Gill. So, when the guy started leaving on the metal contraption, I hitched a ride again, willingly this time.

As the wind swept over my face when I wasn’t in shock, the whole thing felt mighty fun. May be, the whole “art of doing nothing” was overrated. May be, I will hitch a ride again tomorrow and come back for that girl…

Mom wouldn’t be pleased though.

But who cares?!

Posted in Random Thoughts

Close

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: Thank you, Pete Springer, for the first line as an inspiration. I wish I could have done more–the line held so much promise. But lack of time (a working mother’s curse) lead me to translate it in the most obvious way possible. I will, however, use it again in future for a story.

Disclaimer:

I am not this person,

never was and never can be,

at least I will never admit it.

Even my closest friends

didn’t know the real me.

Curious yet aloof,

old yet new,

loving yet jealous

of all that’s you.

Your dress, looks, admirers,

achievements light a match,

while I smile adoringly,

and call you such a catch!

A locked trunk

buried in the attic

beneath the cieling-high

pile of fond times together–

do you know really know me,

dearest friend,

or me you?

Posted in Fiction

Safe

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: Based on my real-life incident. Life has a way of showing us, doesn’t it?

My father had warned me that if I didn’t crack the exam for the University-affiliated girls school, he will have no choice but to send me here. I could now see why he had warned me. I was horrified when I had to don a salwar-kurta uniform complete with white, starched dupatta rather than the smart pleated-skirt uniform I was so habitual of. But as I stepped inside the high walls of my new Inter college, my mortification was complete.

I had been blessed to be born in an upper-middle class family. My father was a Class 1 State employee who was frequently transferred to different cities. He always ensured we received the best possible education. As a result, I had studied in some of the priciest private schools around western Uttar Pradesh state of India.

But as he said, I had left him no choice this time–the private school that I had joined in the second year of high school had a very bad reputation with too many stories about drug abuse and boyfriends. (In India, boyfriends and drugs come in the same category of nasty.) With my brother out of the city, my father couldn’t have someone to ‘take care’ of me at school, so he decided to move me to a ‘safer’ school (a girls-only school, to be precise). Not many girls-only schools were available and I had failed the entrance test for the only other option. So, here I was, full of horror, thinking of what my future held in store for me.

As soon as I entered the place, a creepy sensation took over. If the place was like this during the day, I can only imagine how it felt at night. Good that they didn’t have any night classes. According to the popular legend, the place was a dharmshala (public resthouse) for around a century when it was converted into a school in 1957. Not sure if the story was true, but the place really looked the part. The place was built in a really old design with very high walls and paint that was already darkening inspite of the recent paint job, thanks to the combination of dust from main road and rainy season. The first thing that I noticed inside was an old peepal tree that served as the centre piece of the front courtyard. (In India, peepal trees are supposed to be haunted.) The entire place had a dark foreboding feeling about it, as if it was haunted. As I stepped inside the door leading to the classrooms, it felt like entering a tunnel. The said tunnel was rather short and opened, within a few feet, in a corridor around the open internal verandah. But somehow, everything felt darker, as if colour has been sucked out of my world. I wondered how I will manage two years when even two breaths felt long enough.

When I reached my classroom, all the seats still standing were taken. The rest were broken and moved to the side so a lot of girls were sitting on desks. The classrooms were built around the internal verandah and were supposed to be light and airy. But in reality, they were too dark to aid any studies. The tube-lights were all out-of-order. The only sources of light were the two doors in each classroom. Even though there were two large windows on the other wall, the net on them was coated with decades of dust. The only fan was weighed down with dust and wasn’t moving at a speed worth mentioning. The floor was made of bricks, but you couldn’t really make it out considering the amount of dust settled on it.

What else could you expect out of a semi-charity school. The fee was a measly Rs. 60 per year (nearly half a pound a year). My books and notebooks costed another couple of pounds–very inexpensive even from Indian standards. Naturally, 99 percent girls came from families that couldn’t afford their education anyway.

I was in shock.

All my previous friends still studied in schools where a single book costed more than my entire year’s school fee and all the books combined. I was sure, had they seen this school, they would have disowned me. Also, this school was Hindi medium. To someone whose only pride was her command on English language, it was a rather strong push down the totem-pole into nothingness.

But the alternative was missing the school year and preparing better for next, which really wasn’t an alternative at all. Cursing myself for not making a better effort at entrance exams, I took a seat on the back desk.

The first lesson was Hindi literature, and the teacher was insightful. It was impossible to take notes sitting on the desk and book in my lap, but I managed to write in page corners. Listening to those ancient verses, I could almost forget where I was. It was nothing like what I had studied in English-medium schools.

Once the teacher was gone, there was a scramble to find the next classroom, I found myself quietly following a group that seemed to know where they were going. The classroom was on the upper floor and cringe-worthy–small, no lighting, fan hardly working but the teacher was amazing. That inexpensive book worth 5 Rupees (around 5 pence) held the kind of knowledge that I could die for. And end of the period, I was talking to some of the girls while walking with them to the next class.

They were as different from my previous friends as possible. Most of them came from conservative families, seeking to keep their daughters ‘safe’. Some had very less income. They could not have afforded education without this school. Some of them had too many siblings and wore hand-me-down uniforms that they would hand down to their younger sisters someday. Some of them were even untouchables by caste. They had dealt with the lack of means early in life.

But somehow, this knowledge only rose their esteem higher in my eyes. They had been pushed in a tight corner, but they are making an effort to get out of it. They had dreams too–they were pursuing Arts because some of them wanted to join Civil Services, like my father. Others wanted to be teachers, or perhaps Professor in a college once, not if, they crack the NET exam. The school also had a Science section where students harboured dreams to become Doctors, Engineers and more. Some of the girls wanted to be housewives, but it was a choice and not submission on their part.

The best lessons I received in life come from this school, both inside and outside the classroom–about unfairness of life; non-uniformity of money distribution and life below poverty line; about creativity and ambition that cared for no obstacles; about not being defined with price tags on dresses. The teachers and classmates–a lot of them long-time friends–made it worth it.

Yes, the place is actually haunted. Once, some invisible being had locked me in the courtyard washroom at the end of the lunch period and was tickling my spine. I was scared shitless and could not even gather a scream for help. I would have been stuck for a long time with my invisible companion. But I was blessed with friends who cared and came looking. Of course, they knew about the ghost. A couple of them had been in my sitution too. That day, we all sat on the chabutara (raised dais) of the haunted peepal tree and laughed about it.

And for all my father’s effort, he shouldn’t have bothered–there were more boys stationed outside my new girls-only school than inside a co-education.

Well, at least there were no drugs!

*Disclaimer: Note that India has a lot of government schools. Most are well maintained. This one is semi-charity and an exception.

Posted in Fiction

Museum

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Not sure why I went inside museum that day. Was it boredom? Loneliness? Morbid curiosity? Or just the hope of seeing Cleo again?

It would be fair to say that he was neck deep in Egypt…or may be deeper still. He was absolutely in love with that place. In fact, the first time I had met him was inside city museum’s underground Egyptian section. I was bored with no plans and had gone alone. I was admiring the gold throne when Cleo had approached me and offered a tour of the section. He did not even introduce his friend, who had smiled and left us alone.

He seemed quite well informed on the subject of ancient Egypt and his enthusiasm was contagious. He talked like a 13-year-old on a trip to football stadium. Soon, I was skipping along his side from display to display. He had stories about each piece-the pottery and the potters; the carving and the carvers; the sacrophagus (the ancient Egyptian caskets) and the mummies hidden inside–the king and one of his slaves. He was intelligent and witty and had a quirky sense of humour. He was chivalrous but not overbearing. He treated me like a queen, and no woman can ignore that kind of attention. When at the end of visiting hours, he asked me to visit again, I could not help but promise to return the next weekend.

So, for seven weekends, we met at the museum. We laughed and talked. I told him about my life at college, my dorm room and crazy roommate. He told me about his childhood antics, crocodiles on the Nile, pyramids and Egypt. He was holding back his present life though as if he wasn’t ready to share it yet. He didn’t tell me what he did for a living and if he had a family back in Egypt.

It worried me a little, but I wasn’t the one to probe. And we had time.

His interest in me felt genuine though. When we held hands as we walked through the museum discussing different displays, I could feel that he was as reluctant to let go of my hand as I. Sometimes, he would look in my eyes with the look that made me wonder if he was going to get down on one knee and ask me to marry him. I would have said “Yes” without doubt, even if it meant moving to Egypt with him.

But he never asked the question in words and I didn’t know how to begin that coversation–especially since we were never alone. He wouldn’t leave the museum–he lived on campus, or so he said. He wouldn’t come out with me for dinner, lunch or even coffee. He always had something to do, something to show, something to talk about, which was not his life or our future. He didn’t even have a mobile phone number, so we couldn’t connect unless I visited the museum.

Three weeks back, he told me he was moving to Egypt; and it seems that he had known the fact for a long time. Apparently, a certain part of the Egyptian display the museum, including the mummies of the king and his slave, had come from a private collector. His family had acquired it from the black market a couple of centuries ago without the consent of Egyptian government, as was the norm in those days. But a team of Egyptian researchers had traced them back to the correct tomb a few years back. They had discussed the matter between the two countries and were moving the collection back to where it belonged. Cleo was leaving with it, back to where he belonged.

And I wanted to go with him. Though I knew nothing about him, his job, his life back in Egypt or his family but I knew it wasn’t just a holiday romance. We had barely touched each-other and yet, I could feel my heart breaking over the news.

That day, the love in his eyes said everything, even if he wouldn’t. Even as he spoke of different layers in society, of commoners, of priests, of nobles, of princes and kings of divine origin and of slaves who worked under them and were buried alongside their master to serve them in afterlife, I saw in his eyes something akin of a desperation–a burning question, as if he was seeking permission to say something. I had asked him what it was, but he had simply shrugged. I could see he was holding back.

I couldn’t bear his silence now because we were running out of time. He would leave for Egypt, and I would never see him again. I wondered if I should propose him instead but so far I had only guessed his intentions. I had no clarity. What if I was wrong and I didn’t mean as much to him as he did to me? What if he had a wife waiting on the other side of the sea?

He still wouldn’t talk about his family and friends or what he thought of our future together. He wouldn’t even come out of the damned museum for a short walk with me.

Angry, I had walked out that day. He had stood at the gate looking at me with desolate eyes, but he hadn’t stopped me.

It was a difficult fortnight. I couldn’t eat or drink. Sleep defied me, no matter what I did. I even went on a date to take my mind off the matter, but it felt like cheating, even though, logically speaking, we had never been together–just a few friendly meetings at the museum. But all I could think of was of Cleo’s fingers wrapped around mine; and how I would lose him forever.

The eve of the movement day arrived with announcement of the big news on Television and Newspapers. They had called it an act of international goodwill; an Egyptian king and his treasure being returned to his people. It would bring a lot of tourism and, in turn, employment to the cities around the tomb where he will be placed back. Cleo will probably play the tour guide there or whatever he did for a living. The thought alleviated the ache in my heart so much that I could scarcely breath.

He was leaving…

Without me…

I sat huddled in my bed all day, not eating, not sleeping, not responding when my roommate asked if I wanted to go out and grab lunch. I just wanted to be left alone, so she complied. But loneliness pricked more than ever. He didn’t have a phone but he had my number. He could have called. He chose not to.

He was leaving…

Without me…

May be it is better his way. I wouldn’t be able to afford the tickets, passport and visa to Egypt. God knows whether Cleo has enough money for the two of us. May be that’s why he…

He was leaving…

Without me…

I am not sure how I reached museum. I don’t remember making a decision to. But my feet ached as if I had walked all the way. I only realised I was there when the guard at the main gate stopped me. Apparently, the museum was closed earlier than usual because there were certain Egyptian rites to re-coronate the mummified king before the big movement the next day. The coronation was obviously a marketing strategy to raise the excitement and, in turn, tourism to his tomb. The museum staff has been given the day off and only select few Egyptians were allowed. A dread settled in my gut along with hope–Dread that I wouldn’t be able to meet Cleo. Hope that he must be here. He wouldn’t miss such a rare Egyptian event. He must have found a way to get in. I had to get in too, somehow. When begging for an entry got me nowhere, I decided to change tactics.

I had noticed a small hole in the wall on the other side of the museum on my walks with Cleo around the place. It can serve as a foothold to jump in. There was also an emergency exit, which is always open.

So, I walked around the wall and used the foothold. It was too small, and I could only get a toe in, so I left my shoes behind and jumped in barefoot. The emergency exit was open. With all staff out, I was free to explore.

The place felt weird and darker, probably because of the lack of the usual staff. And once the adrenaline wore off, I was slightly scared to be alone. I could smell incense in the air along with many other smells I could not understand. A different sense of dread clutched my heart–I shouldn’t be here. I should have waited outside along with the guard. I wished Cleo was here alongside me to fill the silence with his chatter.

As I walked to the Egyptian display room, I wondered if I should go back and wait outside but I couldn’t make myself give up. Cleo was so close, I could almost smell him, or was it the insense? The fragrance was stronger closer to the Egyptian display and so was the sense of dread. I opened the door just a sliver and peeped in.

The room had a pile of large shopping boxes packed on one side. Two sacrophagus lay open.

It seemed they were play-acting. Cleo’s friend was sitting on the throne in a regal dress. A fire burned in the middle of the room. Another man was reading a book aloud. I shifted a little and saw several people sitting on one knee, head down, listening. Cleo was there too, not hiding like me but out front. His clothes resembled that of a slave as he had once shown me in a display. His face was just as desolate as the last time.

The sound of the book closing with a low thump drew my eyes to the reading man. He was now walking to the throne with a crown. Once he placed it on the man’s head, everyone bowed with their noses on the floor. Cleo did too.

Nothing made sense.

The man with the book spoke a few versus again and looked expectantly at the “king”. He nodded regally.

And his face and hands started to shrivel. Horrified, I wanted to tear my eyes off him, but fear held me still. Before my very eyes, bandages replaced his royal garb and he went limp. One of the men in the congregation picked him up gingerly and lay him in his sacrophagus. Unable to comprehend, I looked at Cleo for some kind of explanation but someone had picked him up too and placed him in the other sacrophagus.

Posted in Nature stories

Young Morning

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Face red, arms wide,

sun jumps in the lap of sky–

dew tears forgotten.

chirping and chatting,

pushing back the white

swaddles of cotton

covering her dainty pink feet–

as the world rises yet again

to their princess greet.

Posted in Nature stories

My Neighbour: The Single

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

I lay there alone sighing, hearing the two of them in the next room showing off their newest bed cover–chatting around obnoxiously happy. Unfortunately, that particular cover comes only for double beds. I, however, am still single.

I hate being single! Being the only one in the room sucks!

Well, to be honest, I am not exactly alone here…

There is this metal almirah who is really cold. Her nose is so high up in the air, I wonder if she lives on Ozone rather than Oxygen. She thinks of us wood-forms as far beneath her status. It doesn’t even creak when you ask a question. Just the swish of the key and click of the lock when the humans open and close it–not even an opening groan that steel almirah’s are so famous of making.

Not that I am prejudiced against all metal-forms–the chair is nice enough. It must be the soft seat and comfy backrest that put her at ease.

The study table is friendly–all wooden, nice and warm. He often bumps into me since he is my immediate neighbour.

But they are both together–the table and the chair. And I really can’t deal with how they behave all lovey-dovey and keep trying to touch each other every now and then.

Then there is this tiny side-table who sits on my other side and keeps chattering all day. The number of times it opens its drawers! I’ve never seen such a chatter-box–stating random facts about the pigeons and butterflies out of the window and singing nursery rhymes with birds. Sounds cute for a short time. But, admit it, it does get a little over much after a couple of hours, at least for a bachelor like me.

Sigh! So, well, I am not really alone, but it is not the same thing as having someone who is with you. Being single sucks!

Posted in Fiction

Status Quo

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: Thank you, Stevie Turner for providing the fist line to help break my writer’s block. I hope Pete enjoys it.

Pete would never have thought it could happen to him.

The day was just another rainy day that were so common in his village. It was a life of too much time on hand where weekdays felt like weekends with no deadlines in sight. Retirement was so relaxed, Pete sometimes wished for a little excitement–something…anything that would challenge status quo. The morning walk with his dog was squelchy and uneventful as usual.

They were on their way back when he saw something lying on the road–a small round surface reflecting the grey sky above him. He bent down to look at it. It seemed to be a small pocket watch, clearly an antique piece. It had too many hands and looked one of a kind.

He wondered who dropped it. They must be worried out of their mind. The piece was worth a small fortune. He mentally debated whether he should leave it there for the owner to return for it or if he should take it to the police station just in case the owner had made a complaint.

Still undecided, he bent further to get a closer look. The brass exterior was slightly worn by the years and his hands itched to pick it up and see up close if it really was as old as it looked. So, he picked it up and almost dropped it out of surprise. The piece was pulsing faintly like a state-of-art racing car ready for a ride. The glass front had a tiny latch to open the face. He wondered if it was meant for the visually impaired so they could touch the hands to read the time. Or may be it was meant to adjust the hands, when needed. None of the many hands had moved so far–may be the watch didn’t work anymore and the owner threw it out, not knowing the value of the piece.

He opened the latch to adjust the time, though it was difficult to guess which one of its many hands was the hour-hand and which one was the minute-hand. So, he just touched the most decorated hand assuming, like on all old clocks, it would denote hours.

He felt a rush of wind, but it died down as soon as it started. In fact, he would have sworn he had imagined it if the leash in his hand wasn’t still swaying in the aftermath of the wind. Suddenly gripped by a fear like he had never felt before and he let the watch fall on the road. He knew something was terribly wrong and all he wanted to do was to rush to the wife he had left behind an hour back.

So, he tugged at his dog’s leash to get going but his pet wouldn’t budge. It started barking, trying to pull away. Wondering what caught its attention, he turned to face it and found that his dog was gone and in his place was a dog of a much younger age.

He looked around and the neighborhood looked different; well, not exactly different but greener and sort of younger. The Oak tree on his right seemed to have put on much more leaves than it had in the past few years–

Maybe, he was hallucinating. Or may be it was all a weird dream, he decided. The dog was sniffing him now. Seeming satisfied with its enquiry, it gave Pete’s hand a quick lick and started tugging the leash towards Pete’s home. Pete would have liked to go back to the park where he probably switched his own dog’s leash with this dog. But he was anxious to see his wife. Something in his gut told him that he will not like what he finds there.

So, together they rushed towards his home. He didn’t meet anyone on the way which did nothing to assuage his fear. When he reached, it was difficult to believe what he was seeing. The house was brighter, as if freshly painted and the garden was a riot of colours with flowers growing all over the place. It hadn’t been like this for several years since he quit gardening because of his backache. It couldn’t be his house. He was certain he had taken the wrong lane. He moved backwards, lest he was charged for trespassing.

But before he could take more than a couple of steps away, someone ventured out. His wife? Has she done something to her hair? She didn’t have an appointment at the beauty parlour, did she? Her skin was tighter around her face and her hair were more blonde than gray, as if the several previous years didn’t happen at all.

And she was looking at him in concern, “Oh my, Pete! What happened to you?”

He pinched himself to bring himself out of this dream. When nothing happened, he swept his eyes across the yard to find something to read. He had heard that if stuck in a nightmare, trying to read brings you out. So, while his wife kept asking questions with a worried expression about his out-of-breath countenance and sudden wrinkles, he spotted the newspaper on the coffee table under the portico where he always left it. He opened it. The front cover talked about Donald Trump winning Presidential elections in the US and how he would replace the current President Obama. How was it possible? Joe Biden had become the President of the US last year. Another election wasn’t scheduled for another five years!

He checked the date on the new paper: 21 January, 2017. The paper was new though…not something that carried 7-year-old news. His wife was still asking the same question he had no answer to. The truth dawned upon him and he rushed back to where he had seen the watch, his wife in tow.

The watch was gone. He had just got his forever wish. His life’s adventure had just begun.