The Entertainer

The shower was one place where she just couldn’t resist singing. Her melodious voice danced over the notes, with the flowing water keeping the rhythm. Her voice obeyed her every command, and the song itself seemed to bring life into the world. It was a wonderful way to start a wonderful evening.

All except…

“Would you cut out your singing and hurry up? You’re making both of us late!” screamed Anuradha from the other side of the door.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m almost done. Give me two more minutes,” said Samaira, while her reflection looked at her accusingly.

‘I should be an Entertainer. I’m supposed to charm people with my voice. Why doesn’t anyone get that?’

The evening was slowly turning into the night, and she was ready to take on the world. With the song still singing itself in her head and her heart, she walked to the Prakash Photo Studio. She needed some glamour shots for work, and Prakash (as it was fondly called in that locality) was the one place to get them from.

She spent an hour at Prakash. When the shots were done, she looked at them. The gentle hint of Kohl in her eyes, the black waves of her hair, the heart shaped face, they all told her that she was, indeed, beautiful.

‘I should be an Entertainer. I’m supposed to charm people with my beauty, with the ladylike grace that I possess. I wish someone else would see that for a change.’

On the street, she heard the sound of ghungrus coming from the local Dance School. She remembered how she used to go there as a child. The long hours she spent, dancing to the wonderful music. She remembered how wonderful and free she felt at that time, to move like she wanted to.

‘I should be an Entertainer. I’m supposed to charm people with my graceful movements, and the gentle taps of the ghungrus on my feet. I wish I could have that stage, once, where people would appreciate that in me.’

She reached her “Office”, her place of work, and met Greg. She didn’t know Greg’s real name, and he didn’t know hers. In the “Office”, she was Sam.

“Sam, your client’s waiting for you upstairs. He’s a Russian man, with big bucks, lots of it. Make sure you entertain him well tonight.”

She looked into the mirror, and the reflection spoke to her.

‘I am an Entertainer. I charm people with my body, and the things I do with it. In here, I’m Sam, and I fuck for a small fee.’

***

Image Courtesy pericomart(busy.. excuse me)

The Truth

This story has been inspired by a post written by Shruti. You can find the post here. I hope I've done justice to the situation here, and I hope that things turn out great for that family.

~~~~~

His mother looked into the mirror, and wondered how she would ever tell her son that he wasn't her flesh and blood, that he was adopted. She wondered how she would look into his eyes, and would admit the fact, that she hadn't carried him in her womb for nine months. She loved him, as anyone would love their own child. Still, a splinter in her mind caused her to wonder if that love was enough, if her love would be considered second hand.

She walked into his room, and saw that the little boy was getting ready to go somewhere. She couldn't ask where he was going. She somehow wanted him to stay, wished that he would say something to make the whole matter easier. Something like that silent hug of his, which always made things so much easy for her, without the need of even a single word.

He was having trouble with his shoes. Even at the age of 11, it amused her sometimes that he had trouble with mundane things like this, when he could solve complex math problems in seconds. Standing at the door to his room, she smiled while he tried the shoe on for the umpteenth time, without the slightest sign of impatience or frustration.

She knew she had to tell him something. She knew the time had come. She knew if she hid this from him any longer, there was a chance that he would hear about it from somewhere else. She knew that for him, it could prove to be disastrous. She told herself over and over again, that it was best if it was her who told him the truth.

She wondered how she would bring up the subject. She wondered if he would want to go out, as he was planning to, after he heard the truth a few moments later. Time was running out though, she had to find the right words any moment now; he almost had his shoes on.

He tied the laces, and stood up in front of her, a big smile spreading on his face. "I did it finally!" he said. "I'll be back soon, just going out with a few friends."

"Ashmit…" his mother began.

"Yes, Ma?"

Her courage failed her at the last moment, leaving her at a time she needed it the most. She couldn't look into his eyes,  and as she said to him "Don't be too late," she rushed off to the kitchen, lest he see the tears in her eyes.

***

Image Courtesy carf

That Damned Shortcut: Part 2

This post is the second chapter in the story of how a shortcut affected the peace of mind of five college kids. In case you haven't read the first part, Click Here. Cheers...

~~~~~

While Siddharth got busy making sure she was not hurt, Ira, Amit and Parul looked around to see what had caused her to faint.

Amit was the first one to notice what was a bobbing lantern coming at them through the banana trees. Scared to death, he merely pointed his finger towards it.

From among the banana trees, out came the bobbing lantern. It was held by the most ancient arm that anyone from that group had seen in all their lives. The five of them sat petrified in the car, while the figure moved slowly towards them. Although they couldn’t see the face, they could feel the unseen eyes of the black figure on them. A few feet away, the figure stopped, and they got a glimpse. It looked like a man, wrapped in a black blanket, a hood hiding his head from view. The lantern, swinging from his hand, cast deep shadows on whatever bit of face they could see of him. His face was wrinkled to the extent that it seemed pieces of it would be falling off. All this however was left unnoticed, once they spotted the moon shaped scar on his left cheek, and the two sunken circles where they knew the watchful eyes rested.

“Do all of you see a man there, who’s easily 200 years old?” whispered Amit into the silence. Ira shushed him without looking at him. Parul, who was trying to revive Minisha, left her on the floor of the car and sat petrified at the appearance of this man.

“We have to get out of here. Amit, start the damn car!” said Siddharth in the palpable silence.

“Sid, the car’s not starting. You think I’d be here if I could help it?” said Amit in the bravest voice he could summon.

“Be quiet you two, no need to attract attention,” whispered Ira.

“Ira, look around!  There’s no one else here, I think we’ve got all the attention possible,” said Amit.

“What if he wants to harm us?” asked Ira, a strangled whisper being all that she could come up with.

“Ghosts don’t want to hurt anyone, unless they’ve done the ghosts some harm. I read it somewhere,” Sid spoke from the backseat.

“Shut Up!” said Ira and Amit together, turning back at Siddharth, half angry, half scared witless.

They never thought that there would come a day when they would start believing in ghosts.

The man moved forward. Slowly, he came towards the car, the lantern still bobbing eerily in his hand. They waited with bated breath, wondering what would happen. He stopped right in front of Amit’s window, his cold breath fogging the window, even though the weather outside hadn’t been that cold. The man stood there for a full minute, then a long bony finger emerged from beneath the depths of the black blanket. He rapped the window thrice, and pointed back along the road. Again, he rapped the window, and again he pointed back the way they had come.

 The moon decided to show up for the night, and threw light upon the true terror that had spread in that little car. Amit turned the ignition, and this time there was a feeble lurch in the car, and a faint gurgling sound came from the engine. One more time the blanketed man rapped the window, and pointed.

“Come on, don’t give up on me now. I don’t wanna die here, not tonight, not in a stupid Banana Plantation!” Amit almost screamed at the car.

And voila! The engine suddenly throbbed to life. Sweet relief shone on Amit’s face, as he put the car in reverse to get out of there. The figure, seeing that they were fleeing the scene, followed them with outstretched arms.

“Get the hell outta here Amit! Pedal to the metal!” screamed Siddharth from the back seat.  The tyres screamed, but Amit relentlessly pushed the car to its limit, till the road from where they had started was visible again. They turned on to the busy street, stopped the car under one of the many burning streetlamps, the wonderful light washing over their white, scared faces.

“What. Was. That?” Asked Ira in the stunned silence.

“What the heck was that dark thing moving towards us in the darkness? Was I dreaming?” asked Minisha, having finally come back to her senses. Parul still couldn’t talk, while Amit had beads of sweat sticking to his head.

“Never again, am I going to take that sort of a shortcut. I’ve had enough of Ghosts for this lifetime!” vowed Amit, and they headed down the well lit road back home.

***

The man on the road finally removed the blanket that he had put on to scare the kids. He had a smile on his face, as he remembered how as kids, his gang of friends used to scare innocent travelers back at home.

“Felt good to do that after such a long time. I’ve still got it,” said the old man to himself, and walked back home, laughing as he thought about the scared faces of the poor kids.

~~~~~

This is a story that has been co-authored by Isha Chawla, and the first part of the story can be found on her blog... although I'm assuming that you came out here from her blog itself!

Mirror

"See that Blade there?"

"Yeah, that's dad's used blade. What about it?"

"I've always wondered something."

"The reason why the blade is so cool?"

"And so efficiently deadly."

"Yeah. If I had a choice to be an object, I'd be a blade."

"Me, more like anything metallic."

"Like a sword?"

"More like an arrowhead. It's somehow deadlier."

"That's just how you look at it."

"I can talk about the most random things on earth, can't I?"

"Oh yes!"

"Wanna hear something else that's random?"

"The real meaning of Random?"

"Yup. I finally figured it out. It's when there is an equal probability of every topic under the sun to be chosen for discussion."

"So random means that right now, there is an equal probability of me talking about dinosaurs as there is to talking about disco lights."

"Or schizophrenia."

"Yeah." A pregnant pause, and then the conversation continued. "You think the schizophrenia I had is cured?"

From the other side of the door, his mother banged on the door and said, "Dev, stop talking to yourself and come downstairs. Breakfast's getting cold."

~~~~~

Many thanks to Juhi for the Awesome Award, and Phoenix for the Honest Scrap award. I'm really grateful guys, you rock! Cheers to you…

***

Image Courtesy libraryman

The Little Incident at a Big School

He couldn't believe he had done something so wrong. His father, well known for his raging temper, would be furious at him. He just knew it.

Sitting in the school bus, while the bus drove consistently through the traffic jam, he wished that something would happen, and he would never have to go back home. He hoped that he would never have to face his father, after the incident that happened at school.

He could see the homeless children under the flyover, and wondered what it would be like to run away from home and live like that. He noted the exact place of where the children were, so that he would know where to come when he ran away. His mind wandered away, as he thought about the prospect of running away from home – he would never see his parents again, and never see his dog. He would never lie on his bed again, or read the books that he had grown up with. If only he hadn't been that stupid, things would never have come to this state. Thinking all of this brought tears to his eyes, but he didn't want the rest of the kids to notice his tear stained eyes.

However, notice they did. Pretty soon, there was a group of children surrounding him and pointing at the silent tears flowing down his cheeks.

"The Little Baby's crying. Wonder what's up with the Little Bitty Baby today," said one voice.

"Shut up!" he screamed at everyone. The kids laughed, while his face burnt with shame. "I said, shut up!"

"Or else what?" said one of the Big Boys, with a snigger. He wanted to get up and punch the Big Boy in the face, but he felt weak about the prospect of going back home and telling his father what happened at school. He wiped his tears with the back of his hand, and started ignoring the comments of the other children. This wasn't that tough, as he couldn't focus on anything much.

Before he knew it, he was at his stop. He didn't want to get down from the bus, but he knew that he didn't really have much of a choice. He couldn't exactly stay in the bus forever. He took a few tentative steps towards the door of the bus, at the end of the line of the children waiting to get off. The Big Boy was still laughing at the tear marks left on his face, and he again flushed with guilt and shame at what had happened.

He got off, but found that his legs refused to take him back home. What would his father's reaction be like? How much would he scream at him? Would his father hit him for what he had done? All these questions were chasing each other inside his head – when suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Krishna, what are you doing here? Don't you want to go back home?" It was his father. Seeing him materialize so suddenly and unexpectedly, Krishna burst into tears, right there in the middle of the street.

"What happened to you? Why are you crying so much?" his father asked, "Come on, let's walk back home, and we can talk about this on the way back."

Krishna, however, was too scared to say anything. He couldn't stop crying, now that he knew his father had found him. He knew his father would be very disappointed at him, and probably ever forgive him for what he had done at school. All the way back home, his father tried to talk to him, but Krishna couldn't tell him what had happened.

It was only when he got back home, back in the familiar surroundings that Krishna was able to open up and admit what had happened at school that day. "I lost that pencil you got for me yesterday Baba, I didn't mean to. Someone must have stolen it from my pencil box while I was out. I know it was there in the pencil box when I left for the games period, but when I came back it wasn't there. I'm so sorry Baba, I didn't mean to lose it…" Krishna couldn't look at his father's face anymore.

"Are you sure the pencil isn't there in your bag?"

"Yeah, I've looked everywhere in the bag, it's not there," said Krishna, a little surprised at the calm voice with which his father was talking to him. He couldn't help feeling a slight bit of relief at the tone of his voice.

"Well, alright, we'll go and get you another pencil in the evening. How does that sound to you?" said his father, with a straight face and a gentle voice.

Krishna ran into his father's arms. In spite of the straight face that he was trying to keep, a small smile escaped from his father's lips.

And they lived happily ever after.

~~~~~

Had my exams going on, which is why I couldn't write much in the last few days, or read much of the stuff that the other bloggers have been putting up on their blogs for that matter. Noticed quite a steady flow of traffic on the blog in spite of that… thanks for keeping so much in touch with the blog. Also, much thanks to Preetilata for the award, my first Blog Award I might add! :D Cheers to you Preetilata…

***

Image Courtesy dhyanji

55 Fiction: Free

The kite flew up in the sky, but it was tied to the ground with that bit of string. The gust of wind wasn't enough to take it wherever it wanted to go.

And then, the string snapped. The kite was free, to catch the breeze and fly where it wanted to go.

It smiled.

 

What is 55 Fiction? It is a fiction story, with all the basic elements of a narrative (plot, characters, setting, conflict), in 55 words or less (A non-negotiable rule).

***

Image Courtesy macropoulos

The Big C

The two men sat at the bar of the dingy little pub, a beer clutched in each hand. They didn't know each other, but it's said that no one's a stranger in a pub. Soon, they started talking.

Akhilesh had been in the Kargil war, and had survived to live the tale. It had emboldened him in a lot of ways, to the extent that sometimes, he thought himself to be invincible.

Bimal had had a quiet life. Working in a government job most of his life, he hadn't really had the most exciting of lives. He had worked hard most of his life, and it was only during the last few days of his life that he started frequenting the pubs of Delhi.

"Big fan of Foster's I see," said Bimal, as Akhilesh started on his fourth bottle. Akhilesh wasn't all that much in the mood for a chat, so he just smiled gently at the old man sitting next to him, trying to ignore him. "I've somehow been a bit too loyal to the Indian brands; Mohan Meakin's to be more precise," continued Bimal, "hence the taste for Golden Eagle. You've tried it?"

Akhilesh still ignored Bimal. However, there's something about having a drink or two that really makes you not care if someone's listening or not. This was almost the case with Bimal on this particular night. He'd downed seven bottles already, and was on his eighth.

"I've earned the right to live life precariously I think. God himself gave me that sign, by showing me that I don't really have those many days left in my life anymore. I should make the most of whatever little days I have at my disposal." These lines got Akhilesh interested, in spite of his best efforts to ignore this man. Bimal noticed that he had finally gotten the audience he was craving for; he cleared his throat, and told Akhilesh the punch line of his little story.

"I've been diagnosed with the Big C. The Doctors say that I've got a year more to live, maybe a little less."

***

Akhilesh had not been a stranger to death. Being in the army means that you are surrounded by it, and you don't have a choice. Yet, somehow Bimal's story was like an iron fist to the stomach. The fact that winded him more was that he didn't even know this man… and yet he was affected by his illness, in some weird way. That night, Bimal and Akhilesh didn't drink much once they got to talking. Bimal spoke about his life, about all the things that he had wanted to do in life. He told him how he had believed that old bearded man who had told him he would live till at least a hundred and ten. "I've been robbed of thirty years, I should sue!" Bimal joked.

He talked about his many loves – for the woman he had married and shared his life with, for the colors of the world, for the sunrise, and the sunset. He opened Akhilesh's eyes to his love for life itself.

Akhilesh listened to every word that Bimal said, and the talk sobered both of them – so much so that they didn't even sway once while they walked to door, a first for Akhilesh. Akhilesh used to think himself as a selfish man. That night he surprised himself, when he found that his eyes were moist as he walked into his little flat, and he knew that it wasn't for himself.

***

Akhilesh and Bimal started meeting regularly. Since he was starting to get weak, Akhilesh would visit Bimal's house. One day, Akhilesh found Bimal staring at a big blank canvas, a palette of colors in front, and a brush in his hand. The canvas seemed to be begging for the first stroke of the brush, yet Bimal couldn't deliver. "I've already ruined four canvases. I've always wanted to be a painter, yet nothing I make on the canvas makes any sense. Have you done anything of this sort before?"

"I have no idea how to paint. I've never done it, nor have I ever been interested in it. I guess you start by some random strokes, and just go on after that", said Akhilesh

Bimal touched the brush to the canvas for the first stroke, but something was lacking. He couldn't do it, the stroke came out all wobbly, and the next few strokes were the same. In the end, Bimal gave up the idea for the day.

"There's juice in the fridge, in case you want some. I had to get rid of the beers, my system can't take it anymore", Bimal told Akhilesh.

***

Bimal tried his hand at painting a number of times, but there was no success. Soon, he found that the simple act of going outside, standing and attempting to paint was becoming more and more tiresome for him. From then on, whenever Akhilesh came to visit him, the unfinished painting used to be the first one to greet him. Bimal had told Akhilesh that he would move it somewhere else, but Akhilesh insisted on letting the painting be exactly where it was. He convinced Bimal to keep the painting where it was, and also instructed the caretakers not to move the painting – no matter what Bimal said.

Bimal was growing thinner with every passing day. It was evident that he wouldn't last long, but he still looked forward to the time Akhilesh would come over, and talk to him for a few hours. He had a number of visitors, but to him Akhilesh was different. In his presence, Bimal felt different too, almost the same way he did when he had met Akhilesh the first time at that bar of the dingy little pub.

"I wish I had the talent enough to paint the myriad of colors on the sky, on those special days. If only I had heeded what my mother had told me a long time ago, and had gone for those painting classes…"

"Don't think so much. You've done a fairly good job with that canvas outside. We can always tell everyone its modern art", said Akhilesh.

They chuckled at that small joke, and then Bimal went back to looking outside of the window, at the red hue painted over the skies, at the beautiful sunset.

***

It was on a beautiful, cloudless day, that Bimal never woke up in the morning, and missed the sunrise. The funeral was arranged at the place Bimal had chosen, a little bit away from the hustle bustle of the city. A mokshadham in the suburbs was where Bimal had wanted his body to be cremated, be one with the earth and the skies, with that last puff of smoke. There were quite a few visitors, some of whom cried. Akhilesh wondered how many of them knew how much Bimal had wanted to paint, but couldn't do that till the end.

While coming out of the crematorium, Akhilesh chanced a look at the skies. It was exactly the way Bimal had described he wanted it to be – the hue of the skies, the mix of blue with violet, yellow with red, the distinct orange in the sky that made it look unique. He was the only one in the whole crowd who smiled when he saw that scene.

"There's your masterpiece, Bimal. You finally made it", said he.

 

***

Image Courtesy Deltasly

The Cosmic Joke

It was a big night for the two roommates. It had been about a year since they had moved to Delhi, and started living the big-town lives. Now, they wanted to take things a little bit forward – they were ready for a girlfriend each.

So, they planned out their dates for the night. They would do it together. Ishaan was the sensitive one, while Nandu liked to live the precarious life. Ishaan was in love with a girl, at least he thought he was. Nandu knew that he liked someone, but he wasn't that sure about love. Unlike Ishaan, he didn't think about spending the rest of his life with his girl…

They had gone out for dates, but none of them knew if they had the right to call their respective girls their girlfriends or not. They wanted to though. Call it peer pressure, but almost all their classmates in college had had at least one girlfriend in their lifetime. For Nandu, it was more for his self respect than anything else, that he wanted to get this girl to be his girlfriend. So they went out, with a purpose this time.

Nandu had a good time in the evening. She was quite pleased to meet him, and they went for a movie, dinner, and a nice walk after dinner. They found that in spite of a lot of differences, they indeed enjoyed each other's company. It was quite late when Nandu finally dropped her off at her hostel, and went back to his room.

Walking into the room, Nandu found that Ishaan was hopelessly drunk, and by the look of it, even more hopelessly sad. The door to the balcony was thrown open, even in the chilly Delhi winter night. Ishaan had tried to jump from the balcony, judging by the almost incoherent sobs that came from Ishaan, lying curled up on the room floor. It took considerable effort on Nandu's part to get Ishaan off the floor, and on to the chair. Two strong cups of coffee later, however, he seemed slightly less dazed. He recognized Nandu, and said his life is over, and there's no real purpose for his existence anymore.

Nandu, who had never experienced such emotions, sat there, quite unsure of what to say. Having nothing better to ask, he said "What exactly happened tonight, that almost literally pushed you over the edge?"

"I told her exactly the way I feel about her. She said she understands, but she needed time to figure things out. She said she'll let me know what her answer would be, and now she's not picking up my calls. She's going to say no to me, I just know it. I don't even feel like living anymore. You know how I feel about her; you know how crazy I am about her, how much I love her," said Ishaan, almost succumbing to his sobs again.

Nandu really didn't know what to say to this man. He thought he had known him, but apparently he hadn't. All he could say was, "Consider yourself lucky man. The girl I fell for turned out to be a lesbian."

***

Image Courtesy BloOwITt

Broken Butterfly

The boys were bored, and they wanted to have a bit of fun. Having decided that they really wanted to have a bit of fun, they moved outside looking for something that would keep them entertained for a little while.

The pretty little butterfly had just started its day, and was flying around in the cool breeze. The world seemed flawless and beautiful to her, reflecting the myriad of colors on her wings.

Soon however, the boys spotted the butterfly flitting from flower to flower, and decided that she must be the object of their entertainment. And so, they chased her. The little butterfly was terrified, and found that she was outnumbered, and surrounded. Whenever she would try to fly away, a swatting hand would slap the butterfly back towards the ground. The beautiful wing was battered and broken pretty soon, and the butterfly almost lost her pride, her wings.

The butterfly was soon exhausted by this, but for the boys the fun was just beginning. The butterfly was hurt, and she protested. The boys didn't listen. The butterfly pleaded to the boys to let her go, and yet the boys did not listen. They toyed with her, till the time they were satisfied and the butterfly was broken, shattered.

The boys turned to leave, leaving the butterfly with its broken wings on either side. "Wait. Before you leave, can you tell me, what was the point of this?" asked the butterfly to the boys as they were leaving.

"You mean, metaphorically?", asked one of the boys, and they went to sleep with big grins.

***

Image Courtesy tenderlung

Moonshine

He had a handsome coat of Jet Black fur, which shone when the moonlight struck it. He was a sleek creature with everything to admire about him. Yet, he was disliked for what he was - a black cat in a Hindu household. He had been born there, raised by his mother in the backyard, behind the big pile of little things the family considered Junk.

He used to wonder why they screamed so much. There was a little girl who was always somewhat dirty, but he liked the little girl. She was always nice to him, and fed him table scraps, and gave him a saucerful of milk every night, along with little secrets of the house that she was scared to tell anyone else. Secrets about her, about the little things that she saw and felt everywhere… secrets that the rest of the world was scared to believe.

The mother had a shrill voice, and it irked his ears whenever the sound fell onto his ears. Every time he heard it, he used to slink away into the shadows somewhere. There was something accusatory about the way that the mother used to look at him, and at the little girl when she was with him. However, the little girl always used to smile whenever she was with him.

"It's important that we move from here. You've seen how Disha is always with that bringer of ill into the house? It's because of that evil omen that she is the way she is!" the mother screamed one evening.

"You really don't believe that now, do you? We live in the 21^st century, and it's high time we realized that all this nonsense about ill omens and evil doers, none of that is true," the father said

"Are you now trying to deny the fact that our daughter is mad?"

"Don't call her mad. She's getting the best medical treatment there is. She's living with us, and that means we have the opportunity to love her as much as you can. You heard the doctors, more than anything else she needs all the love she can get. If she's happy with that cat, what's the big deal?"

"I don't like the way it looks at me, the way it runs away whenever I come near it. It's almost as if it knows it's doing something wrong. Disha doesn't know right from wrong. It's important that we move. I'm telling you, we'll move and you'll see how much of a difference it makes to Disha's health and…"

"Enough! We're not going anywhere. There's nothing wrong with this house, or the Black Cat that lives here, or the park in front of the house. It's a wonderful place for Disha to grow up! I don't want to hear anything more now; we are not going to move from here!"

Two weeks later, on a chilly evening, the bags were packed and the family moved to a newer locality. The reason they cited to the neighbors was that it was closer to the medical facility where Disha was being treated.

That night, the Black Cat waited for the saucerful of milk, and Disha's secrets. It didn't come though. With a sigh, he settled on the fluffy cushion that no one used anymore.

The full moon still shone brightly into the night, and his Jet Black Fur Coat shone. But that night, Disha missed the sight that made her the happiest in the whole world.

***

Image Courtesy helorits Miller.

55 Fiction: A Sibling Thing

The two sisters fought bitterly. The elder sister was leaving that night, and the siblings weren't talking to each other.

They knew they would miss each other very much, but would never accept it.

Just moments before the final goodbye, the younger sister said something adorable. "Didi, tu mujhko apne dahej mein lekar jayegi na?"

What is 55 Fiction? It is a fiction story, with all the basic elements of a narrative (plot, characters, setting, conflict), in 55 words or less (A non-negotiable rule). I haven't written something along this line for some time now, so this one might come across as slightly rusty.

55 Fiction: Neer...

The clouds were dark, but not really willing to part with the droplets that made it what it was.

The parched earth yearned for the water floating up in the sky.

Too long the earth waited; too little the water fell to the earth.

The gods smiled and said, "53 droplets are enough."

What is 55 Fiction? It is a fiction story, with all the basic elements of a narrative (plot, characters, setting, conflict), in 55 words or less (A non-negotiable rule). I saw this on Preetilata's blog White Window. It seemed a good idea, so I'm giving it a shot myself…

A Loaf of Happy-Bread

They knew her as the Mad Lady. No one really knew her real name, but she had always been there. It was a dark and cold Friday night, and she was walking down the road, keeping herself to herself (like always), and as she walked on she heard a man fighting with a woman. She stopped, just out of sight from them, half hidden in the narrow alleyway she had been walking down a few moments back.

The man was tall, it seemed he was twice as tall as she was. The woman was quite small, it was her voice she heard at first. A shrill scream of rage in the night. She was shouting at the man.

She leaned in, she didn't want to intrude on their privacy or anything. She just wanted them to stop fighting.

"You come back at all sorts of hours, and you expect me to be quiet? Who do you think I am, your pet poodle?" she screamed at him.

"What I do is not your business. Come with me quietly to the house, and make some food for me. Don't you understand, I'm hungry? I've been working all day long, to make enoufh money for the house!"
"Working! I know what you call working! You're nothing but a lazy man. All you do is sit on your butt all day long in the factory, looking at the hard working men there."
"I'm the foreman, that's what my Job is. I have to supervise them, you stupid woman!"
"Supervise them? Are they a herd of goats? Supervise them my foot!"

They were walking quite close by to her, but just like everyone else in the locality, they didn't really notice her standing so close by. But then again, what reason would they have to notice the mad lady who walked the lonely streets.

The Woman tripped, and dropped a loaf of bread. It rolled, and came to a halt at her feet. She picked it up, and could still hear The Woman fighting with her husband. She knew they weren't very rich, and what that loaf of bread meant to them.

She started walking, faster than The Man and The Woman. When she caught up with them, she just started walking behind them. They were still fighting, but she didn't hear them this time. She was staring at the loaf of bread in her hands instead. It was still warm from the baker's oven. "A warm loaf of Happy-Bread!" her mother used to call it, and her father would smile too. This was a loaf of Happy-Bread as well. If They got the bread, she knew they would stop fighting immediately.

She called out to them, and they stopped. They were scared of her, but then they saw she was carrying the loaf of bread.

"I told you, you must have dropped it. Now The Mad Lady has picked it up. Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to make enough money to buy that loaf of bread?" he told to her in an angry whisper.

"This is not a regular loaf of Bread. This is a loaf of Happy-Bread. You can feel how warm it is, the heart is still inside it. I think you dropped this a way back, ma'am. Here, take it. But remember not to break the Happy-Bread's heart when you eat it. Just smile while you're eating it, and you'll see how much warmer it gets."

She handed the loaf of bread to The Woman, and melted away in the dark alleyways. She was Happy, even though she didn't have the Happy-Bread.

A little boy’s letter to his father who’s been away for a long time in the Army

Dear Pappy

I hope this letter reaches you soon; the last letter took ages to reach. I keep thinking about the time when you were here, and how things were.

Things still happen around here at home, even though they tend to be a little slow. Maybe when you come over and give everything a hearty push, things would become fast again.

The goldfish you got for me has grown up a lot. I had to move it out of the little bowl it came in. I’m sending you a picture of him; I don’t know what to call him yet. Can you help me with that?

I used your old fish tank to house the fish in, I hope its ok. I cleaned it out nicely, but Mama said not to clean it too much. Do fishes really like to swim in stinky water Pappy? Don’t they have noses like us?

I’m really starting to get the hang of the fiddle lately. Mama says I’m becoming quite good at it, even though grandma doesn’t really enjoy it. She says I would be better on the piano with, with the long fingers that I have.

Mama says even you play the fiddle. Do they have the fiddle where you are Pappy? I’d like to listen to it when you come here, and you can hear me play it too!

Yesterday was really hot here. Me and Michelle made lemonade and had a little sale right outside the house. It went really nice; everyone loved the fresh squeezed lemonade. Michelle had a lot of fun as well, even though she drank nearly half of the lot herself.

Pappy, I saw in the news, there was a man looking just like you and wearing the same kind of dress, driving around in a big Tank. Do you also drive around in a Tank like that? Don’t you have regular cars there?

Mama doesn’t like driving without you. She always says that you’re a lot better at handling a car than she is. Is that true Pappy? Did you really teach Mama how to drive a car? Can you teach me as well, when you come over?

John’s here Pappy, he’s taking me to play baseball today. Remember, we still have to finish the last game when you come here next. When will you be coming home Pappy?

I told Michelle I’ll be writing a letter to you, and even she wanted to write something. She couldn’t find a pen, but wrote something for you with Mama’s lipstick. I couldn’t understand what she’s written, but I’m sending that along with this letter. Michelle told me you would understand what’s written there.

Come home soon Pappy, we miss you a lot.

Love,

Joey

P.S. Mama told me to tell you that I pray every night before dinner and before I go to sleep.

The Nightmare

The rain was pounding on the window, and it was this that woke Max. He was scared of the rain, but there was something else that scared him more. The nightmare.

The turning wheel.

The sweat still clung on to his face as he groped around in the dark for his glasses. They were on his bedside table, he knew it.

It was perhaps unreasonable to expect a four-year old boy not to be scared of a nightmare.

So he screamed into the night. Screamed till his parents from the next room came rushing to his aid, screamed till he was safe in his mother's arms, watching his father pace the room. Yes, the wheel can't get him now, not with his father standing guard and his mother's arms around him.

"What happened, Max? Another nightmare?"
His mother's voice warmed him, even when the drenched clothes were sticking to him.
"Yes Ma, the wheel... it was coming again Ma..."
"Shhh... Max its okay. We're here now"
His face got buried in his mother's lap once more.

"Son, you gotta be brave. For me. Can you do that? For your Dad?"
"Yes, Dad. I'm brave", said his mother's lap.
He had to pretend to be brave again. Even if he knew he was scared inside...

A year passed. Max still saw the wheel. It still began to turn sometimes.

He was past the stage of crying into his mother's lap now. Past the stage of pretending to be brave and actually be brave. He was, after all, five years old. One whole hand.

The nightmare returned again. On a summer night, when the windows were thrown wide open, when he was alone at home. The wheel stood motionless, then it turned, slowly, gathering speed...


The doorbell rang. "Mum, Dad, you're back!"

He unlatched the door to find himself staring at his uncle, with a policeman behind him. He could barely see the crashed car behind them, as though it belonged to a different time, a different place.

“Max, you have to be brave. Your parents had an accident. They… they’re not coming back. I’m sorry… you have to be brave Max…”

His Uncle’s hollow voice shook the shattered glass of the broken car. His tears rolled down his cheeks, dampening the “W” of Welcome. The rest were untouched.

The funeral happened the next morning. His parents missed it, as they were sleeping in wooden boxes lined with fluffy pillows.

His mother’s lap looked so comfortable. He wished he could bury into it again.

His father looked brave, even as he slept. He wasn’t scared of the darkness or the tunnel underground.

The wooden boxes swallowed his parents and the earth swallowed the boxes. It was time to return.

He sat in the car, the doors slammed shut. The engine throbbed to life

The wheels turned…

A Day in a Picture Frame

… He woke up

The shrill ringing of the alarm clock was the first thing that pounded on his eardrums. Groggy, sleepy, with wild, tousled hair, he hobbled out of bed. He saw a dark stranger staring back at him in the mirror, a boy he didn’t think he knew…

A few intimate moments with a rush of water, and he was ready for the day… at least as ready as he could be. The morning bus came to pick him up, another day, at a place where her mother had promised he would “feel at home…”

She had disappeared the same way that promise did, the same way all promises do…

“Hey Buddy… wazzup?”
“Hey man… listen, we have a game today… wanna come?”
“Did you see that awesome babe in sixth grade man? Want me to set you up with her eh??”

Why couldn’t they leave him alone? They all were after the same old selfish desires after all… he did not like the conversations, because he did not want any friends. And so, he had no friends. Only acquaintances…

He knew how his day would be, the way all his days were. Nothing was a surprise to him, it was the dull mundane life that was the only thing he could call his own, and he was strapped on to it. It fed him, and in return he fed it.

It would be six grueling hours before he could be back at his Aunt’s place, a place he was condemned to stay by a big burly man wearing flowy black robes, sitting behind a big ebony table, a hammer in his hand. So tiny it looked in his hands, yet a single blow from it had the power to silence the other Men sitting in the room, deciding on his fate.

Lunch time, an added insanity to already insane corridors of the school. The cacophony reached him where he was sitting in the class, alone as usual… the sounds of laughter throbbing his eardrums. The visions of a drunken madman, looking quite similar to his father… but the eyes were different, as they looked at him. A bony finger pointed at him, the mouth opened into a derisive laughter… aimed at him…. The hand raising the revolver to his mouth, kissing the barrel of the gun… a deafening explosion followed by a red silence...

There was nothing much left for him at school anymore, but he had to survive it… one day at a time. This he did, one day at a time… waited patiently, staring quietly at the wall clock, watching the seconds tick by, the sand of the hourglass slowly slipping out of his hands…

Painfully, the day got over… and it was time to go back to the building which the man in the black robes had termed his home… a simple room with a simple bed with simple bed sheets, all of it a contrast to his complex life.

It was that time of the day again when he could hit the bed, put his alarm clock in place, and let his nightmares get back into action. He dressed, brushed his teeth, said goodnight to his Father and his Mother, and fell onto the bed.

He slept…

The Tale of a Boy

This is a story, a tale, a saga, of Michael, a regular 13 year old boy, who was known amongst his friends as Mike. A boy like all else, having dreams, and some nightmares as well.

On the bright Monday morning our story launches off, Mike was running late for school.
"Stop wolfing down your bacon like that, sweetheart," his mother said, peeping from behind the kitchen counter
"I'll be fine Mom, don't wanna be late for school"
"There's always time for a decent meal, to be had in a more civilized manner..."
"See ya later, Mom"

And he was off, to the start of a brand new day. He passed a bunch of boys playing Football at the park, too engrossed in the game to notice anything else in the world. For a fleeting second, Mike wanted to be out there, to run and play like those boys.

It never happened.

He reached school, a few minutes late for his Biology class. He just hoped Grandpa, the nickname for elderly Mr. Joseph Bing, wouldn't mind him being late.

"May I come in, Sir?" said a timid voice at door of Grandpa's class.
"Mike, I'm sorry, you're late," said Grandpa
"I'm sorry Sir; I promise it won't happen again"
"But sonny, there's a decorum that has to be maintained”
"Please sir, this is the first time I'm late ever!" Mike almost begged, "Just this once, Sir."
"Oh, alright then. Take a seat next to Ms. Cathy Jones here. And mind you be on time next time!"
"Thank very much, Sir"

As he settled down beside Cathy, the new student of the class, he couldn't help but notice that she was very pretty. Their eyes met, she smiled, and said "Hi," her hand extended. Mike shook it, and was teleported to a ballroom, soft music playing, Cathy's hands in his, both dancing a slow, sweet tango

It never happened

He was amazed how fast Biology class went by that day, and he had to endure the rest of the classes, waiting for recess, so he could talk to Cathy again.

Finally, the bell for lunch rang, and Mike moved slowly along with the crowd. As he started with his lunch, Ronald, the school Bully, appeared, as always flanked by his cronies; the Trilogy- Steve, Peter and Martin.
"Easy Target," whispered Ron into Steve's ear, pointing at Mike and grinning.

"Well hello, softy," Peter said, addressing Mike. "In case you haven't noticed, you're sitting at our table."
"I don't mind if you guys sit here, there's plenty of room for all of us," Mike said, looking up.

Ronald looked as though he had swallowed a wasp. He recovered quickly though, and in a flash had Mike by the scruff of his t-shirt, and thundered "Listen Punk! Dare to talk back at us like that again, and I'm gonna rip you, limb- from- limb." He threw Mike bodily, who landed painfully, five feet away.

He visioned himself getting back up on his feet, sprinting towards Ron, and getting him with Muhammad Ali's famous One- two punch.

It never happened.

The next class was Geography. Mike's class was studying Mountains of the world, and the teacher had brought a video about a mountaineering crew. As the class watched, mesmerized, at the amazing feats the crew conducted, Mike drifted off into his own dreamworld, where he was the leader of the crew, the best and most skilled mountaineer in the world. He scaled sheer rock faces with ease, conquered snow capped mountain peaks, risking his life to reach the ultimate pinnacle of his dreams.

It never happened.

When class was over, he saw Cathy leave school, walking with a boy ("Her brother," Mike thought hopefully), and in a moment, inside his head, he was walking her home, side by side, talking all along, bonding with her as he had never done with any girl before.

It never happened.

All because Michael was a slave to his wheelchair... forever...

Four Feathers...

Once upon a time, in the hustle bustle of a city, stood an ancient mosque. On a bright sunny morning, the tip of the dome of the mosque became the stage for a drama unfolding. The Dome became a battlefield between a pair of hawks and a pair of crows. Each was fighting the other to gain control for that position, and were ready to slaughter the other for the sake of victory... yet life for the humans below remained the same, the chaos of a busy marketplace, people walking about supremely unconcerned about the four birds fighting for their lives and their pride up in the freshly laundered blue sky...