The Young Writer

 Buddha suddenly woke up one day when the rest of the town was fast asleep. He could feel the stiffness in his body. As he loosened his crossed legs, he heard his bones creak and groan like rusted metal parts of an abandoned chariot. How long had he been like this? How long had he been asleep? —he couldn't tell. He looked around but he couldn't make any sense of his surroundings. It was too dark and silent. A gentle blow of the air ruffling the leaves made him realize, he was seated under a tree. This sensation felt oddly familiar— like something he had already done, in another lifetime perhaps. What was not familiar was the bone-chilling cold the air carried with it. Intuition told him the gentle wind was supposed to be soothing. Something was not quite right. He stepped down the stairs and came outside the shade of the peepal tree and turned his gaze to the only source of light, the sky. In the island among the clouds, he saw some stars. With nothing else to...

It was the last time he saw her. She had, for some reason, taken off to Burma. She was there in search of some long lost relative or something. He couldn't remember why exactly. It had been a month since she had last called him. It worried him, not for her safety or anything like that. He was worried she might have moved on, found someone new, someone better. On the day she left, he had created quite a scene. He had hurled insults at her— " You good for nothing bitch, you go, GO find your dog. You twat just fucking go." He didn't quite understand why he had selected those particular set of words. He had always thought of himself as a decent man. He had called her a few times and had tried to apologise. She seemed to be done with him. It was his fourth attempt and he was frustrated that she hadn't yet forgiven him for the scene he had created in front of the whole neighbourhood. It was not the first time he had done that. Just before she went off to Bombay, the pa...

The Commandant woke up to the news of the Officer's death. The machine which he, the Officer, held so dear had perished in the ordeal. The last iota of the previous Commandant had finally evaporated. The Colony could now turn a new leaf. Due process could now take centre stage. There would be Justice. The Soldier reported that the Explorer had fled the scene after putting the Officer in the Apparatus. The Condemned Man attested to the Soldier's claim. They had chased after him up to the port and had narrowly missed him. The Explorer had ferried away after putting a man through a horrible and unfulfilling death. The Explorer had murdered a man whose only fault was that he had done his job diligently. What could the Officer have done? What he did in his life was no fault of his. The Colony had a tradition and the Officer had kept it going. And, for that the Explorer had ordered, in a language, they were not familiar with, probably French, the Officer to lie down on the be...

In the valley of desperation, lived a man neck deep in debt. Tomorrow was the day he was going to lose everything. The night was long and arduous with sleep coming only in drips. Covered in the thick blanket of darkness, alone in his room, his material possessions which would soon no longer be his, ceased to exist in the absence of light. Heavy was his heart and the bed was struggling to cope with the added weight of helplessness. The man would move ever so slightly, taking a deep struggled breath each time. The bed creaked with agony. He put aside his now-dark quilt, stood up slowly and moved towards the window. Time clung to him. Every movement, every moment was draining him. As he reached the window, he reached for the breast pocket of his jacket, took out a crumpled stick of cheap beedi (cigarette), straightened it, put it between his thumb and the index finger and put it between his dry lips. With the beedi  barely hanging, he started looking for the moon. Darkn...

What is love anyway? Is it ignorance? Is it denial? Is it compatibility? Is it sacrifice? Whatever it is, whatever it maybe, one thing is clear- Once you fall in love you overlook each and every flaw in the person you love. As far as you are concerned that person is the best (and that may even be).It doesn't even matter if that person reciprocates the feelings or not. It doesn't matter if the person hurts you. Even if love hurts you every day with all the hurt in the world, you never learn to hate. Maybe that is good enough—the absence of hate. *** "Love is for fools, for those with a feeble heart.” I was no such fool or, so I thought. *** "How can anyone cry watching a movie? I mean, really, how?” “I don't know. Ask someone who does. " “Well... I just did. " "Wtf!" "Dear John... " "What?! I don't even watch "love stories"." “Ha-ha. Nobody does, nobody.Well at least those of with ...

When my grandpa was still a boy, the  peepal  tree stood tall on the  chautara.  The three circular stoned steps leading to and surrounding it, was the resting place for the people of the village. The shadow it casted provided shelter from the scorching heat to the villagers and passers-by. The people returning to, and from the city rested to their hearts content on the  chautara.  The tired passers-by, who were often hungry when they arrived at the  chautara,  ate the lunch they carried in their backpack. The  peepal  tree, although stood alone on the mid-hill, was never actually alone. The people resting on its lap always provided it company and the  peepal  tree reciprocated the  favour . Even when no one was sitting with it, it was in the hearts of many who had had the chance of passing by. Fifty years later, the village has now turned into a  bazzar . The once six distant houses are now in t...