Tag: Writing

Posted in Random Thoughts

To err is AI

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

I recently read a blog about a certain writer using ChatGPT as their go-to information finder. I know there are loads of us who do that because it makes life a lot easier.

However, all Generative AI tools come with a disclaimer (the tiny letters at the bottom of the document to be read using a microscope 😄): Crosscheck the information it is offering because Generative AI can make mistakes.

What they don’t tell you is that some of it can amount to outright lying!

There is a simple reason behind it. Generative AI is not a search engine. It is a tool designed to sound like a person who knows stuff. You ask it a question, and it tries its best to answer. Unfortunately, if it doesn’t have the answer, it still tries. Sometimes when it doesn’t know its stuff at all, it lies through its virtual teeth, gives false information and false citations.

If you ever saw “Peep and the Big Wide World” on You Tube, its character Quack can give you a gist of the way Gen AI thinks. Here’s a link to one of my favourite videos: Link

I am saying this because we have seen AI behaving like Quack at work, several times over. For example, we were searching for information for a high-end leadership training we were creating. So, obviously I took AI’s help. Who doesn’t? I searched for 10 techniques leaders can use to enhance a particular skillset. I had also named a set of reputable websites to search the information from. The idea was to filter down the techniques and zero down on 3-4 most effective ones. As a response to the query, I received a long list of techniques along with citations from various reputable resources.

The knee-jerk response is to add everything given by AI. But we have been trained at office not to trust AI blindly.

So, I opened the citations and a couple of techniques were not there in the said citation. I tried other links and they weren’t there at all. All the so-called “researches” that “supported them” had never happened and the statistics were forged. It was a lie–plain and simple–to increase the number of techniques to 10 as I had asked for. Had I used the data, it could have landed me into a lot of trouble with the client.

What I am trying to say is that, if you are asking AI how many cat-crazy women are there in each country, understand that there is a high chance you will get an answer with detailed statistics, and it would be a complete lie because nobody has asked me yet how many cats I own. 🤣

Having said that, Generative AI is right around 80 to 90 percent of times. It is okay to use it. With caution. If you are searching for something important, double-check all citations it is offering.

  • Does the cited book exists?
  • Is it written by the same expert or backed by the same organisation as AI claims?
  • Did they actually say anything on your subject?
  • Did they say exactly what AI is saying or is AI interpreting the views too openly?

In essence, check the engine oil, fuel, water and anti-freeze before entering the car and flooring the accelerator. 😄

Posted in My life

Family That Wakes Together and Cries Together

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Most of you might already know that I am married in a joint family. In broad words, a joint family is several generations of people living together, that eat together and pray together. It includes a lot of shared laughter and duties, and everyone helps in chores and raising children, where it is impossible to tell who the real mother or father is. ❤️

Last year, my husband’s baby brother (now 28) got married (a detailed report on learning how to do make-up without poking myself in the eye is in another post: Link). This year he and his wife welcomed their first child. 🐣

Since the last child to be born in our house was nine years back, we had developed a very romanticised version of what would it be like to have another child in the house. We had totally forgotten the tornado that struck this house the last time. 🌪️

The first three days were spent with running to and fro between hospital and home, alongside entertaining a few guests who had come to enquire. Once the mom and baby came home and we believed the worst was behind us, we realised it was just a trailer.

Mayhem ensued. 🌪️🌪️🌪️

As most babies do, he sleeps during the day and wants to discuss gravity and poetry at night. 🌃 (I believe, in the first fortnight, his father actually managed to write several pieces full of enough pain to secure him a place in State Level Urdu Poetry competition.) Everyone was droopy. 😴 There were children’s things covering every surface while we were digging for baby clothes 👚, diapers 🚼 paper towels 🧻, milk feeder 🍼, baby food 🥫, nappies 🚼, handkerchiefs, more clothes 🎽👚, more diapers 🚼🚼…

Suddenly the pristine house looked like war zone. ☠️⚠️ We were all talking in whispers 😗 and tiptoeing around, afraid to set off the landmines that covered the floor of the house. We were praying for the baby’s mom to recover completely from her cesarean procedure so she’ll be able to take complete responsibility of the child. The day seemed close enough. But she developed post-surgical complications 🏥 and we were left to care for the baby as well as entertaining the numerous guests that now arrived in droves unannounced to offer congratulations and blessings.

Meanwhile, the baby 👶who is the most serene child 👼when with his mom🤱, wouldn’t stop crying 😭 while she was gone for her treatment three times a day.

It’s not like the new dad didn’t try feeding 🍼🍼🍼 him, but he was afraid. The baby is so tiny! Father couldn’t pick up the child without shaking with apprehension and having him in his lap was enough to give him high blood pressure. Burping him was an experiment he wasn’t ready to engage in.

By the fourth day of treatment, both Mom-in-law and I were in tears. Literally.

The baby’s glass feeder 🍼 had broken late last night and he wouldn’t feed without it. By the time a new one was bought seven hours later, he had rejected all our attempts to feed using a spoon 🥣 cried endlessly and we were ready to kill someone. Men in the family who hadn’t even tried holding him since they were afraid of hurting the pint-sized bundle, were wise enough to stand at a distance where we couldn’t reach them while holding the baby in our laps.

Thankfully the treatment ended at the end of fourth day, and the new mom became the primary caregiver again. The baby, after four days of crying jag, decided to go on sweet-and-quiet baby mode 👼. We are still helping the mom in every way we can, pitching in when she is too tired (He still wakes during the night and ensues endless discussions on a variety of philosophical subjects, insomnia being the main one). But we have a system in place, food in place, clothes in place, and his father has resigned himself to the fact that he is half the caregiver, sharing feeding, burping duties (now that the baby looks bigger than a new-born kitten). We are trying to promote him to diaper duties, but…

Well, I’ll think of a plan once I’ve slept for more than five hours. 🤣

Posted in Blogging, Random Thoughts

Borrowed Dreams (Coz who is paying anyway)

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

When I wrote this post, I hadn’t posted in a week…two weeks, I think. But apparently, my stats were booming. The highest read post was my first book I wrote 4-5 years back. Weirdly enough, no one was buying. How insulting. 🤣🤣🤣 You would think that how AI is “borrowing” my intelligence, it will at least pay for it.

Well, what can I say. I have surrendered to fates. Someday when I am dead for fifty years, someone will compile my stories, publish a bestseller and make money with them. That someone will clearly not be me or my family.

It is unfortunate how so many classic writers lived unrecognised (and died as paupers). It looks like a trend and makes me hopeful for the distant future; that may be I am not so hopeless; there could still be the lifetime service award, posthumus “Padmashree” award or Knighthood awaiting me.

Let’s see…ahem…I mean…the world will see (I will be gone for fifty years, remember). I guess, I shouldn’t be telling you…we don’t know which of you is going to outlive me, and I don’t want you complaining against me in heaven that I had sold you a lie…because that is all anyone is buying from me 🤣🤣🤣

Weirdly enough, it doesn’t put me off writing. Infact, it takes off the pressure. I always had stage fear and the fact that no one will consider my work for another 50 years makes me feel relaxed. If anyone writes a thesis on the Portrayal of female characters by Shaily Agrawal, and they call me a feminist or worse, a sadist, at least I will be sitting in my own happy cloud. 🤣

My daughter might be around to face the music but she is clever enough to spin a tearful tale of the painful childhood she had dealing with a crazy mother who saw a murderer mushrooms and fighter fairies. She will make millions out of that autobiography–“Being raised by a lunatic”.

All in all, not a bad deal with hope at the horizon–both for me and my daughter. Postumus Knighthood, here I come!

Posted in Blogging, Writing Tips

Of Human Sacrifices and Other Cliché

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

My daughter was memorising an application to Principal in Hindi today about reduction in school fee–something her school teacher had them copy from the board but did not explain. By the time she reached the part where she would eternally sacrifice her Principal (Aapki sada Aahuti karungi), I was in fits of laughter. 🤣🤣🤣

I assured her it would not be a pretty sight–a grown up school Principal being thrown into sacrificial fire 🔥 by a nine-year-old girl to save a pretty penny; and that it would suffice if she is eternally grateful 🙏(Aapki sada Aabhari rahungi).

Thankfully, she gave up her plans about roasting her Principal crisp, and decided to be grateful instead. Whew! I think I just saved a life!

It is a common problem with unsuccessful writing–using archaic words without understanding them first. In our job as Instructional Designer, we are taught to write so it would make sense to a 13-year-old, which means no obsolete words, no sentence longer than 10-15 words, no page to hold more than 8-10 lines (preferably 5-6 lines).

We write to be understood.

I am sure you will argue that some situations require archaic words, like royal scenes and fantasy. I would like to disagree because I have just read an amazing novel–Thief in the Castle–which used every day language with a bit of formality where royals were concerned and still managed to create a perfectly believable royal scenario.

However, if you feel your audience is well-read enough to know those words, I would suggest understanding the correct usage first–don’t be my nine-year-old.

It also includes understanding the difference between a Worcestershire sauce and a Barbeque sauce (Is there a difference?); and the difference between severe and sewer 🤣.

Remember, your audience is holding a smartphone. It takes 10 seconds to search a word and even less to write a scathing review and post it on Instagram, X and Facebook in a single click.

So, if you are really that smart, or faking to be, ensure you cross your T’s and dot your I’s well. Don’t resort to human sacrifice–it doesn’t look pretty on Instagram! 🤣🤣🤣

Posted in Blogging, Writing Tips

My struggle with writing Fantasy

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

I like to call myself a story writer.

My style of writing stories is more intent on an individual’s perspective on the situation than the events themselves. Most of the times, the narrator is one of the main characters. I write about the narrator’s emotions and relationships as events unfold. Sometimes, there is no plot, just feelings…more like Poetry…

…which becomes my bane when writing Fantasy!

Fantasy requires building a different kind of world around us where I need to explain what things look like. But being inside a character’s head who is already part of the world, they can certainly not be surprised with the flying jellies and candy bars hanging from trees (Okay, that one could make a good story…). So, why would they even think or talk about it? It is like make an Indian talk about their visit to the streets of their town–it is their daily life; they ignore it.

Also, since my writing focuses on relationships, it is difficult to make a character think of both their world and their relationships at the same time.

Therein lies my biggest challenge.

In one of my recent Fantasy stories (The Ceremony), I was creating a society where the Queen held all the power over the King. She goes out fighting while he raised their only daughter to be the next Queen. The scene is about the day their daughter chooses her Consort that will allow the Princess to become the next Queen, pushing her father out of royal circle.

Expectations about relationships change in light of the society and, speaking from inside the characters head, I had to make it sound like facts of life and acceptable. All the facts that fit for a mother in a patriarchal society were fitting in here for the King.

I kept changing perspectives from third-person narrator to the King to the Princess to the Consort-wannbe because no one can know the whole story or what is going inside another person’s head. And the entire narrative changed with it based on his relationships with the world around him.

It was an experience learning how the same situation can feel so different to different people. And the story wasn’t long enough to justify multiple perspectives. So, I had to stop at one point and take a stand about who our narrator is. Considering it’s a Fantasy, I had to “stay in the character” and keep adding Fantasy references that would feel natural, though I did not go to Victorian language for creating dialogues (I was tempted to but it is beyond my skillset).

It was a struggle that kept me occupied for months.

What is your struggle when you write your pieces?

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 Fiction

Alone

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Disclaimer: The story has some content about abuse and some violent visuals, which might be disturbing. Discretion requested.

The tree standing alone in the middle of the field calls to me. Through tunneled vision, I can see myself approaching it, wanting to touch its shining leaves with reverence. But every time I come close enough, wolf’s howling wakes me up, as usual.

While I am used to this nightly howling since I was a baby, I am beginning to begrudge it lately.

My father can never know about the dream. He never allows anything outside the ordinary for me. He considers me evil incarnate because of my eyes—one brown and the other blue. The only reason he didn’t manage to kill me the day I was born was my mother, who had shielded me with her body, tolerating his rage alone quietly. I still can’t look at him straight in the eyes without being punished for being “scary”, and I am always just a breath away from being beaten into pulp.

So, he must not find out about the tree. Talking about a magical tree would confirm his assumptions about me.

But the dream is insistent, catching me every night and leaving a longing so deep that I can’t stop myself from looking for the tree around the village. Maybe, if I could see it in reality and touch it, I would see the silliness of it all. I can’t find it though, and the longing is growing into a deep ache every day, until I feel like I can’t fit into my own skin.

I have to talk to someone…

Anyone…

My mother is sweet. She often tries to shield me from my father’s beating—not that it stops him from taking a swipe at me. Worse, he then turns on her and beats her senseless. But she tries anyway, every single time. I trust her to understand.

So, today, I have returned home a little early while my father is still out cutting wood for the fire. Once he returns, he will beat me again for ditching him early… But it’s nothing new and, at least, I will get some answers.

I wait for my mother to light the fire in the kitchen before asking the question, trying to be casual, “Mother, do you ever dream of trees?”

She looks up, startled, “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering…”

She hesitates for a moment, “Well, just one. It’s a memory really,” she admits sheepishly. She can probably see the question on my face, so she adds, “The faery tree at the eastern end of the village…”

Of course, why didn’t I think about it? People in our village avoid that area at all cost because of the tree’s reputation. Could it be my tree?

Mother’s brown eyes, so much like my right one, are far away, “Years ago, I went there when I was married for a couple of years. I was tired of your father’s daily beatings and accusations for being barren. So I went there hoping to die. But I met a stranger instead.”

I don’t want to hear anymore, but my mother goes on, like a dam has broken, and she is unable to contain the flood.

“For hours, we sat under that tree, just talking and holding hands. By the end of the day, he promised to stay with me forever. I never went there again,” she sighed and continued, “Sometimes, I dream of us holding hands under that tree—more often on the days when your father beats me. It gives me hope that I have promise of an eternity with the man who never told me his name.”

Words tumble out unbidden, “But why didn’t you return to him?” She would have been so much better off with him…anyone who wasn’t my father would be better…

“I was still married to your father till death parts us,” she sighed. “Anyway, you were born nine months later. Sometimes I wonder if he was fae—you look so much like him, but I don’t know how else he could be your father unless—”

“You slut!” My father’s voice rings through the doorway. “You bore this bastard son of a monster in my house! I’ll kill him! I’ll kill you both!”

Shaking with rage and raising his axe, he strides towards me. His face is contorted with passion like I’ve never seen before. He is going to kill me, kill us…

I cower in the corner, shaking and eyes wide with fear, waiting for the axe to fall. But my mother covers me with her body yet again.

“NO!”

Senses overwhelm me—the tang in the air tells me that mother is bleeding before the blood trickles down her chest on my shirt. I am not sure how, but I can hear her pulse slow down.

Grief and pain—physical pain like I had never felt before—send ripples through my entire being. For the first time, I wish I am the monster my father always made me out to be. I sway where I stand, angry beyond words.

Through tunneled vision, I see my father taking a step back, eyes wide, raising his axe over his head again to kill me.

For the first time, I hit my father back…with claws…on a hairy hand…a paw…

His body falls where he stood as his head flies to the wall, blood oozing freely from his severed neck.

I wheel around on all fours to check on my mother. Her pained brown eyes are looking at the door as she smiles, relieved. The blue-eyed wolf I’d heard howl all my life is right there, whimpering now.

Mother whispers with an effort, “I always wondered…eternity…meet you…tree…” Her eyes roll in her head, heart still, pulse dead.

The wolf howls like someone had driven an axe through it too. A few heartbeats later, it dissolves into nothingness in front of my eyes.

I can still hear a howl though, shocked to realise it’s mine. I wonder for a moment and then run on all fours towards the eastern end of the village. Something tells me when I reach my tree, my mother and my true father will be waiting for me.

This is a photo-prompt story. Thank you, JR Korpa (on Unsplash) for fueling my imagination with your photograph.

Posted in Blogging, Writing Tips

Rain Rain, Don’t Go Away

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

I have always been interested in cultural reference in literature and how it shapes it, specially when I read someone explain Haikus that they have at least one line of “unrelated” reference to nature or seasons.

Why would a ninja (yes, ninjas often wrote Haikus) with super-high intelligence waste time in writing a piece with “unrelated” reference to nature? Doesn’t it sound weird before you even process this information? Could it be because the person writing the Haikus definition did not understand these references?

Is it because they have never really been close to the culture itself?

Seasons are related to survival of cultures that started long before irrigation techniques were invented. They are interwoven into poetry that started soon after, when people had time to ponder. Seasons bring comfort or discomfort and directly add to our joy and sorrow.

For example, in India with its oppressive heat most of the year, the smell of wet earth is considered one the most beautiful aromas. It brings out our joy. A lot Indian festivities are built around rainy season. It also brings out our loneliness when we don’t have anyone beloved to share it.

When a Hindi song explains feeling joy in raindrops, you might wonder how could we enjoy feeling chilled–that’s cultural gap.

I just found out that Indonesia has only two seasons: Rainy and Dry–they form the basis of their poetry.

There are also other cultural gaps, like when an Urdu writer spends pages and pages of his book writing pieces on his girl’s eyes, you wonder why he isn’t talking about her other body parts. Surely she has lips…nose…fingers…toes…legs and arms. May be because he never saw anything except her eyes because of the parda system.

Likewise, when an English writer writes about warm hearth and cozy houses, Indians have a problem in understanding how being warm could make you comfortable when we make it a point to open as many windows as possible. Most of us have never seen a fireplace in person, not even a proper oven. We also don’t have Autumn in most parts of India–we don’t understand it. We cannot visualise Autumn colours, falling leaves, gathering for the harsh winter and saving for a rainy day.

I recently saw a book, brilliant idea and amazing plot, where the writer tried to replicate Chinese culture. While the storytelling itself was amazing, there were parts that didn’t fit–some of the cultural references were wrong–minor misses that felt like a wood splinters stuck in skin. I couldn’t help thinking about them until enjoying the book became impossible.

So, the point is…

Actually, I don’t know what the point really is…

May be, this is just a reminder that not everyone will understand our stories unless we explain a few things better; and that if we are writing about another culture, we should get the cultural references right–even minor one. Also that if, as readers, we are missing context, it is good to research the culture or just ask the writer. 😀

What do you think of missed cultural reference?

Posted in Fiction, Published

The Bracelet: Part 2

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: This is second installment of the title story from my latest book: The Bracelet and the other short stories. I would recommend reading Part 1 once again to gather the momentum of memories that led you to this point. You can find it here: The Bracelet: Part 1.

He is here. But why has he brought so many others along? Has his family arrived for our marriage as he had promised? But their faces are not friendly. In fact, they are downright angry. Why are they carrying pitch forks?

My familiars rush to meet him at the door, but he scowls and pushes them back inside. He motions at me to come out with him. I comply.

As I step out, someone grabs my hands from behind and I cry in pain. My love…he speaks something that I can’t understand. It is English, but so different from the way he usually talks. He asks me about the father of our unborn child. Flustered at the implication, my voice shaking, I shout, “It’s you!”

“And that,” he says, “is my confession.”

I can’t understand where this is going. He had come to me two weeks back, and I told him about the baby. He was surprised, but he had never questioned the father of the baby. That day, I had reminded him of his promise to marry me as soon as his family comes, and he had agreed.

Now, he holds a book and quotes questions from it. He asks about witchcraft…I tell him he already knows I’m a healer. I had treated him when he was dying of fever. I say I love him. But he shouts me down and asks me to answer only in ‘Yes’ and ‘No’.

The questions blame me of witchcraft and of forcing him to impregnate me. No matter whether my answer is a ‘Yes’ or ‘No’, they incriminate me of being a witch either way. So, I try to remain silent, but it earns me his knee in the stomach, every time…

I writhe in pain, while my mind is on the baby. At this rate, he’ll kill our child! I beg him to have mercy on the unborn. For a second, I see guilt in his eyes. Then, he pushes me inside the cottage and closes the door.

Hope surges through me. Have I been spared?

I hear a lock click outside. Smoke fills my nostrils—they have set my cottage on fire! Out of the window, I see them waiting with pitchforks with bloodlust in their eyes. If I get out somehow, they will simply slice me in pieces and throw back in here. There is no hope for me.

My familiars are scared and freaking out—clawing down the door and the now‑closed windows, all on fire.

With shaking hands, I go to the miniscule back window meant for the pets to go out when needed. I hastily pull out the bracelet from my hand—the little effigies I had carved out of cat’s‑eye stone to tie the familiars to me. They don’t have to die with me. I try to throw my bracelet with all my strength out of the tiny hole. But the smoke has blinded me, and I can’t get a clear shot. It falls back in.

I am on all fours, gasping for breath and coughing. I order the cat to grab the bracelet and get out. I tell them all to leave. Ordinarily, they would have complied.

But they don’t. They have covered me from all sides the best they can. They are trying to protect me with their power, but they aren’t strong enough. I feel their frustration, their heartache, their loyalty, their friendship, their love…

…their never‑wavering devotion while the raging fire consumes us all. I can hear my familiars think of the man who deceived us into loving him; trusting him; giving him our all…

Their pain is my own as our lungs burn and hearts heave. How could death be so slow or so tormenting? I can’t find my knife to kill us. Someone had already removed it while they questioned me.

We burn together and I feel the crippling pain inch by inch…our hair, our fur, our feather…

Burning rage fills me as I feel my babies of magic die one by one just as clearly as I feel my unborn baby die within me…

My hollowed‑out heart lets go of that thread that ties me to life. I wish to die here and now. I beg the Gods for death…

Too slowly, I feel life leave me… Deep down, I know that when they find my body tomorrow in the museum, I’ll have one burn scar—on the wrist that now wears the bracelet…

END

Photo by Manpreet Kaur

If you would rather read it all together in the book, The Bracelet and other short stories is available for free download here: Link

Posted in Fiction, Published

Broken: Part 3

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: This is third installment of a short story from my latest book: The Bracelet and the other short stories. You can find the other parts here: Broken: Part 1 and Broken: Part 2.

On the morning of the fourth day, I gathered wildflowers that grew within the temple yard. A tiger was manning the boundary. It gave me hope that my ‘friends’ wouldn’t be able to come tomorrow, and I wouldn’t have to go back. I could stay here forever, seeing her every day. I held the flowers lovingly in my arms until she came, afraid to put them down lest they’d get dirty.

When she came, I all but jumped up. She placed the basket in the same place and looked at me. I meekly held out the flowers. She accepted them quietly with a smile that almost made me swoon. She turned to leave. I couldn’t hold back anymore. I might have to leave soon. How could I go without knowing her name? Or rather, how could I go at all?

“Please don’t go,” I begged her.

“Do you need anything else from me?” her voice was teasing.

“I…I don’t even know your name,” I blushed to the roots of my hair like a schoolboy.

“I thought you’ll never ask. People call me Kyarr,” she replied.

“Oh! I thought Kyarr was the deity here.”

She kept smiling.

“I…My ‘friends’ are due to return tomorrow. I was wondering…thinking that…I…Would you…” I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. What if she says no? What if she considers it an insult? I know nothing about her. She could be married. She looks young but people marry early in this part of the world.

Heck, even I’m married! What was I even thinking?

She waited for a few seconds. Then, probably realised I wasn’t going to finish. So, she simply said, “I know your friends come tomorrow morning. I guess, it is the last time we meet.” She was still smiling.

“Would you like to come with me?” I blurted out, then lost all the courage and looked at my feet.

“I can’t. I’m needed here. But thank you for asking.”

It hurt to see that there was no pain in her eyes. She was smiling as always while my own heart was ripping up in pieces. “Will you at least stay the night? I just want to look at you until I leave,” I knew I was transgressing some social boundary, but I couldn’t remember what…

“I can but you might not like how I look. That’s why I haven’t been staying here for the past three nights.”

I could hear the warning in her voice, but I was past caring now. If it was the last time I was looking at her, I didn’t care if a few hair came out of her bun as she slept. Now that I think of it, I can’t remember how she wore her hair—Was it a bun? Pig tails? Or did she leave them loose over her shoulders? She’d still be the only one I love.

“I insist.”

She shook her head, giving up, and sat on the stone throne on the pedestal. Then she gave me that smile that melted my knees…

…and turned to stone—a magnificent stone Tigress.

*****

My helpers returned the next day and told me the goat was still very much alive. I told them about Kyarr, but they didn’t believe me. They said Kyarr, the stone Tigress, has always been there on the pedestal. She was the temple deity.

They said the curse was turning me mad like all those before me.

*****

I would like to believe them and forget all about her, but how can I?

Even though I have returned home, my dreams are full of tiger calls, and my every waking moment is spent thinking about her. Somehow, her being a tigress makes no difference to me. She’s still the one I love.

Often, I see her walk away from me. I call her. I beg her to stop, but she just gives me a smile that would make me follow her anywhere. And then, she keeps walking until I can walk no more. Once I fall, I crawl behind her until I faint. And when I wake up, I find her gone.

My bleeding feet and knees don’t hurt. My heart bleeds knowing I’ll never see her again. I tried booking a flight to return to my Kyarr, but my wife—I can’t recall her name now—she won’t let me go. I think she’s jealous. Could you please make her understand, Doctor? You do believe me, don’t you?

The doctor looks up at me with eyes filled with pity. He stops the recorder and makes some notes in his pad. He signals a male nurse to escort me to my padded cell—my cage from where I can’t escape and walk until my feet hurt and crawl until my knees bleed…

End

Author’s note: You can find the free PDF version of my latest book: The Bracelet and the other short stories here: Link.

Photo by Mike Marrah on Unsplash