Fiction

 So much  has  passed  between this moment  and the preceding  ones. The time takes  away the chunks but leaves the fragments to linger on.  It  were those afternoons when her mother used  to take day time snooze, and  she would slip out quietly  trying  at the same time,  not to wake her mother up which  could  infuriate  her  and she could end up being beaten up  badly.  She   had turned expert in opening the door and closing it after her  without noise. She would  lift the door panel  slightly and push it open without letting it creek.   Outside  the   world opened  to her,  a free world  where she could do what she wanted .The hot summer afternoons were   no hinderance. The bright blazing sky sent waves of  heat  but she was least  bothered. She would explore the entire stretch of the roof coveri...

  It was a sunny day. She could hear imperceptibly the far off  muted sounds of some dog's barking and if she  silenced her buzzing brain she could hear the suffused sounds of birds chirping in the huge trees growing outside her house. The trees had quite aged, it seemed as if they had served their purpose and were waiting for their final call like her old mother who was approaching the century yet  was still far away from the final resolution. She would harp the same tune  everyday "where have  the years  gone, one day I opened my eyes and only after some winks and yawns I have reached this far, when  have I lived where have I ripened and rejoiced and lingered in the abundance of expansive ecstasy ? She would  listen to her moans and grumbles without any response but pass a subdued smile.  She got up silently  somewhat deep in thought, opened the window of her room. The huge trees were standing there. They usually bore fragrance la...

 Could  she ever feel the same enthusiasm and eagerness  to embrace  her  daughter's new found  moorings in  her life  ? May or may be not.   Renu  had now ample time to fall back upon her raw motherhood when she got wrapped up in the bubble of  her rapturous joy while covering  each milestone of the child's growth. She was subsumed with the fervour and belief that she was the sole architect of her child's  destiny. The time  had lost its count and  was almost merged in the background. She never noticed its soft treading which marched with the ticking clock of  the growing child  who  had implicitly  been freed from the umbilical  bond and was at the threshold of writing  her  own destiny whose blue print  had  already been  laid even before her inception  in her  mother's  womb.   She realised  it  as a big joke to  have...

 The things unseen  often acquire giant proportions. The Nazis turned into  ghouls  and the Holocaust  aroused the  shock  and disgust  of what man made of man  and since then our psyche remains  lodged in the unholy fate of man !  fast forward .  A part of the world in Europe  and Middle East  is floundering.  The  cold blooded  killings of men women and children  in the warfare, their maimed bodies being carried away by the stunned half dead humans  while  some clamouring for a loaf  of  bread or anything to feed their hungry stomachs  presents the horrendous accounts  of  human atrocities. But are we shocked in the same manner ?  perhaps not.  Is  it  our mental cunning  or the deadness of our souls to gaslight our  psyche  to the present shock  in order to retain the past  to exonerate the present! 

  What happened to the time between this moment and those preceding it.  Do  they  exist  or it's an illusion? Could be! But the severe hopelessness denotes something hauntingly  corroding  your  vitals.  Is this  the  fear of the fleeting moments or the lynching past....Where do you stand in all this !

 The stunned senses of the modern man. The darkest scenes of the human atrocities  of which the common civilian takes  no note. The dead bodies compiled like  dead fish on shores in the deserts of Gaza,  destruction all around and the inhuman conditions  of living,  the devastated  infrastructure  yet the expressionless faces of the survivors who look stoic dazed and resigned to their fate . The closer look showed them like robots carrying on the dead bodies of their children  and their dear ones  as a new normal.  The same devastation on the Israel soil .It was the 7th October,23  when the death knell struck their  soil,  the vast ruination of human  life and material. The history will once again chronicle the saga of human brutality. The genocide of one era being replicated in the ensuing eras as if ordained to get into cyclic modes. So is this the  ultimate destiny of the humans?  and some patte...

 Its becoming quite clear that the talent hidden in me has turned to dust or did i have  something of worth to express which could benefit the curious minds? If not  then why this agony and restlessness! This is perhaps the compulsion of human nature to mark his presence distinct from his society to carve an exalted position. But to what use! The struggle to outshine turns into a disease which overpowers the very existence of the person who is inflicted with this malady. Its perhaps the aberration of the  human gene, a type of neurotic state which pushes one to extreme human conditions. He is deprived of the ultimate culmination of human humdrum into the absolute peace which is sublimely ecstatic,  when knowledge fame and exalted positions look meaningless and when one  achieves the oneness with the Brahmand!

In the autumn of life when nothing  matters much and the rat race turns meaningless,  the deep stillness fills you ,  slowly the introspection happens . It  corrodes the superficial layers of  the conscious mind  and beneath comes  alive the world of your innocent youth ,the white brightness of the cool skies, the dreams of rosy future. The  innocent indulgences  of the  moments  seem that life is  vast and enigmatic  and  now from that  very world peeped a day which stood  clear and expansive  wherein a figure rose which i could see even now so clearly and which had  transformed  me then. For a moment my heart had  stopped beating and i was completely mesmerised by this young person .   The feeling was new to me and it was  intense.  my entire surroundings  got subsumed  by this one person . Only a strong urge took hold of me ,I wanted to follow him.  T...

Suraj was  employed  to look after  Tanu's mother.  She was an old lady of advanced age, yet  all her faculties  were intact  and with no threatening disabilities barring the old age health conditions.  She was dominating  by nature and at the same time  strong willed and  terribly self opinionated  to the extent of being self deluded.It was very difficult to  make her see any  sense. Suraj  was a  reliable worker though somewhat tardy for his age. He  was in   middling  thirties, of short built, squat  with his  head always  drooping  and  shoulders bent  which gave him a melancholic look. He dragged his feet while walking and lurked sideways. Tanu lectured him on his skewed gait and encouraged him to walk with head held high ,he would give an awkward  smile showing his yellowing  teeth and follow the advice but for a short while only. Somehow Tanu...

Reema felt the intense heat. The  room was closed from all sides, the windows were tight shut  and the whirring sound of the fan  made her  feel   giddy.  Moreover  the  afternoons  always spawned  perennial  gloom.  She  felt like a caged bird ,mentally and emotionally atrophied.   Her 24/7 maid Radha  was  a big diversion in the family.  She regaled  with the  tales of her village life. The hardships she had faced  were beyond the  imagination in  an urban life style. But here  it was very surprising to see how easily she took  to the ease and comforts of the city life. Her entire free time ,which she had in plenty, was spent in reel making. She very quickly learnt the art of  content creation and to record the stuff.  And sometimes she would  force  Reema  to join  her  in recording the video, which she avoided , but she ...

 What is the compulsion of writing for me? It is almost five decades and I am still slogging through! The allure of the word on the page is compelling. So much is being written and so much is being said so what more need I say and what more need I write? As William Faulkner said that men may go or men may come but it's the word  that  remains. It doesn't matter who wrote Hamlet or Macbeth what matters is the great tragedies  which remain for the edification of man. So is it the desire for immortality or the urge to be acknowledged  as some one unique ..Or may be the accretion  of words accumulated  through  ages  will  some day ,blast into one big explosion  giving  rise to a resplendent universe which dazzles  with  the visions of the great  minds who have   immortalized   themselves with the power of their TRUE WORD!       

 She looked  wistfully at the white blankness of her lap top . She remembered  the days when from a very young age she had ventured  into writing secretly in  her torn notebook which she would take  out  from her school bag.  Moreover,  She hardly remembered having  filled  it with  school work. Rather she had faint memories of  ever being a regular student. And those were the  days  when the parents, in the joint families, had other cares than  to worry about  the school affairs of their children. Moreover it was the responsibility of the family elders to see that the grand children were  tutored well. The schools were far away  from  home and the children had to walk down to reach them. In the way there were many distractions ,mainly they would linger on  on the  narrow  bridge which  they had  to cross  to reach their school. They often  stood there l...

 The closing ceremony -olympics-2024 an ardent wait to bask in the regalia of exotic send off ! The charged stadium stood like a skeleton stripped of its flesh and blood. The dismantling of the stately structures being dragged by the 'hewers of wood and drawers of water' who stood constant since time immemorial even after generational changes in  civilizations  when only the roles reversed  and their fate remained  unchanged  till they have  turned into mere objects or breathing creatures waiting eternally to tow the line of their masters. For them the beginning or the finale meant the birth and the toil in between and  the final culmination in penury. For them their sensibilities were blunted through their struggles for mere survival  when  the wistful singing of Lady Gaga or  Sinatra's 'My way....' fell flat on their ears.

 The little girl raced through the  narrow  service lane  which took her  to the bank of  the  nearby  stream.  The gurgling water  glistened  under the  bright afternoon Sun. It being the  summer  afternoon , it was quiet  all around. The little girl was always fascinated by this stream mainly  because of  the stones that lay at the bottom of the stream whose clear water  made them visible to the eye  in all details. The stones  no longer  looked like the dull grey stones lying around  on the bank but took a life of their  own. She would sit closest to the stream,  at the same time, being   cautious of the  moss covered slippery steps  of the bank. These were the idyllic moments for her.  She sat there  unperturbed  with curious  eyes looking  at the flow of water over the  shimmering stones .The clear water rippled fo...

 i need to stop thinking. Thinking means entering the past  and  pushing one into the abyss of  recall and recoil.  They had reached the  place  where her son  was  residing.  It  was quite a long route from  the airport to  this  place. It was doted on both sides with vast stretches of empty fields  and sparsely lined trees on both sides  of the road. The open and the vast areas  veered a little towards barrenness. It was a long haul from the airport to her son's residence. They got down and after paying the  cab driver, who all along  played  Hindi  songs, and giving them furtive looks for their  appreciation, perhaps  he could fathom that they were Indians, having  driven a lot of them ,since vast number of Indians  immigrated to  America  constantly. But it was quite surprising to  her,  being new to this country, and at the same time she w...

 The wicked human instinct comes in the way of the sanest minds who otherwise  would come up in the illusions of winning the race of life.  She looked up at  the book open  in front of him, her head was aching and she couldn't concentrate, but as per his schedule , which  she had set , she was to finish  fifty pages of the book each day.  It  was a huge book , she once again checked the remaining pages, still five hundred were left ,she  paused and tried to recall what she had read so far,  ...it was a seamless narration in a stream of consciousness  vein  with no  adherence  to the rules of grammar. She closed the book and consulted the google to find more about the author  in order to get dissuaded , but the critics there had   glorified  the author for his unique style which  was inimitable. She  went through the book  very slowly as to not amiss a word and waited for the spa...

It was all stillness outside. Not a single hawker  could  be heard today.  Everyday their shrill voices  caught her attention, and  she would , sometimes ,be disturbed. The extreme  summer heat  which was unbearable,  could almost scald them in the  hot Sun, yet they were there to eke out  a living in  such harsh weathers . But today it was  quiet outside. She asked her husband the reason behind it. He  told her that it was due to the Eid, the  festival  of muslims. But there should  be other venders  too, of other communities, to that he replied that they were few in number. And other businesses  too, small and  big were being  taken over by this community. The  resplendence  of the festival of Eid  brought joy to the people  who gathered in  the open markets  outside  the huge mosques . It created  an  enchanting world of  colour and gai...

It was a stormy night. It was raining hard, the thunder and lightening  almost blinded them. They were rushing towards the airport. The mother was in a sort of shocked state while her son was trying to navigate the route  with the passing flashes of the lights of vehicles or the chance  lightening , the rain and wind was lashing against the wind shield of their car.  With Every  passing moment  she had the  sheer hope  that her son would cancel her  ticket and they would  go back together . Yet he was driving in a  frenzy  working the wipers faster to make the vision clearer..It was pitch  dark outside,  and  thunder  and rain  turned the atmosphere fearful.  The lightening  seemed piercing but at the same time made it possible for her son to find  the right direction.   Hardly a word passed  between  them and there seemed a complete disconnect between them. She looked...

Meeta  is  in her seventies.  She is  full of  zest  for life and seeks every opportunity to be in the company of her friends. Her salt and pepper short hair goes well with her plump fat body. Her style of dressing accentuates  her care- free demeanour . Her age doesn't hamper her in anyway. She  often cracks  jokes which generally veer to obscenity, to make her friends laugh , which for a moment unsettles them ,but then they go with the flow. The instinct to deride  looks  meaningless  at such  an age.  Meeta   had lost her husband lately  and her only son  lived  in the U.S . She cultivated a large number of friends and revived the distant family  relations. She was awash with money and threw lavish parties. Generally all her friends are  retired  house wives  facing the same empty nest syndrome. They had  now ample time  to indulge their fancies  which the...

 The  restlessness was  corroding the core of her being. It was always  there  nagging her  but  lied dormant and muffled  in the humdrum  of life.   Nina was  fixedly looking at her lap top screen. She might have read  the news about the achievement of  Payal Kapadia several times ,she getting the Grand Prix  award  at  the Cannes Film Festival .Her beaming expression mirrored the flashes of consummate victory  and the actors  of the film creating a  dancing  halo at her back.  They were like the artisans , the marginalised workers who  create   monumental marvels  yet  are relegated to the background. It was not  Payal's womanness  that was being celebrated  here but her acumen as a female  director which perhaps liberated her from the shackles of nurturing  the  subtle art of pandering to the male ego, which is the  ...