Category: Stories
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a morning of many nights
destitution is no virtue it is a curse that makes a man (or for fair gender representation woman, transgender, non-gender-conformant, and all those phrases which try to respect individuality but differentiate and while i vehemently extend my support create a difficult conundrum for a writer who cannot, in every sentence, while referring to humanity, go…
shishirkc
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One in a million
The wave, turning inside itself, rolls over to the shore and splashes the playfulness on the million sand particles. Each drop of water looks for its one in a million sand particle which with its heat can evaporate it on a summer afternoon because the evaporation will not push it to oblivion but to vapors…
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The Fire That Burns Some
– The mother of my great grandfather had come riding on the arrow of fire that cleared the wilderness. She was spotted by the son of a local tribal king and they both got married and together sowed the first seeds of this village. – Is this true? – Yes, it’s true. The local PWD…
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Frame – Press Release
Disorderliness, no more the default normal Raivata, Inc. launches Frame, a device to reduce net local Entropy MUMBAI. Sep 13, 2035. Raivata, Inc., the pioneer in metaphysical industrial solutions has launched Frame, a consumer device that allows reduction of Entropy, the degree of disorder, in a local system. It allows its users to reduce the…
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Butterflies
There will come one day, when the pain between my legs will go away. One day, this numbness will recede. Butterflies will flutter their wings and the smoke of unsolicited desires will clear out. New lovers will kiss through the night. I will be you, and you will be me. One day. — There are…
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Stories We Tell
When he was 4 years old, Krishna Malik declared in the living room of his house with much aplomb and banging feet (that hardly produced any sound except a soft thump on a bed of cotton) that he wanted a speaking doll. This was taken by his mother and father with not much enthusiasm, and…
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You Should Never Count The Hours
Of all the things we did together, I am always reminded of the day when we tied our towels around our necks. Mine was blue, his yellow with Donald Duck on it. It was winter and the bed was aplomb with fluffy blankets covered in cotton covers – a perfect setting for becoming superheroes with…
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Death of a conversation
Act I People have masks, mostly two, but few have masks counting which you will end up in your dying years still counting and pondering about the time you wasted counting them and still will not be able to see an end to the count, uncountably finite. When she came to my place, drunk as…
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A Crowded Family
It was a bright day, they say, when I was born. Cool yet bright, comfortable to the senses of the human body. Although, I was brought into the world in an air-conditioned room, and would have been done so on any other day too, but I feel the comfort of that particular day symbolises the…
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The Day Both Cried
The Man A strong breeze plucked the leaves from the branches, and they landed, swinging in the air, in front of me and over my head. I unbuttoned my blazer, crouched, picked one and twisted it around its spine. It was late in the night, late enough for people working overtime to be back at…
Shishir Chaudhary 