…………………. Mrit feels a pain, he can’t tell what from, in his left temple, a strange feeling of desperation as if he is getting late for something and an equally vague agony as he hears his mom from other room telling him that it is time for his bed. He really wants to see the cartoon serial, his favorite to the end and it will be only a few minutes longer and he decides to let her keep calling until he has seen the end of the episode and to later excuse himself by saying that he didn’t hear her.
(A Short Fiction by Sidharth Vardhan April 15, 2017) Shaheen had looked forward to the meeting with the kid, her nephew, Sahil with hope. The only time she had seen him was two years ago before leaving the city for studies. He was only a few days old back then – a beautiful tiny mass of skin that didn’t seem to have much of bones inside it, which seemed so vulnerable that it scared her. She remembered how when her sister, Fatima, had offered the baby for her to hold, she had felt a shiver run through her body just a moment before Fatima had dumped the baby in her hands, overly-conscious as she was in those first few moments of the responsibility that was suddenly thrust into her hands, an image had popped up in her mind where she saw her hands tremble and seeing the baby fell towards ground. The vision ended before the baby had reached the ground but the terror it created lasted for a few very long seconds. She had stood there not wanting to show how she was feeling, looking at her hands which held the precious thing and willing them hard not to
(A short storyFirst written on January 31, 2017) 1. The sky there wasn’t cut short into by the buildings surrounding one and thus it wasn’t a mere roof of open streets as was the case in the city that her son had taken her to when she was no longer able to live by herself , her legs had already started turning into what they were now – logs who won’t listen to her will, she wondered why didn’t they decay as they would if she was dead – the only sign of life they ever gave was the feeling of intense pain she would suddenly start feeling in them every now and then. It actually didn’t seem strange – the fact that she was now suddenly walking, after being bed-ridden for so long. How long? A year or two or three, she didn’t remember either. Her dream-self didn’t remember that she could no longer walk, and so it walked – though it also felt that helplessness which her immobility had created in her but as that feeling of helplessness didn’t seem to have a reason behind itself, the dream-self didn’t show any curiosity towards this helplessness. … One didn’t
(A short story by Sidharth Vardhan November 29, 2016) Rama treasured these moments of solitude. Away from people for whom he was a god, he could be himself – a human being. ‘The war has ended’ he told himself but the thought refused to cheer him up. What, with all the lives lost? And in his goodness of heart, he was feeling sorry for Lankans too. After all, how were these Lankan soldiers any different from anyone who feels duty bound to save his house from invaders?
I see people still seems to be thinking that my I just tell tall-tales. Now if you visited my town, you would have known the fame I have for my honesty, they swear on it –if they want to praise someone’s honesty they will say he is as honest as our great lord Manchurian (since that the title they use for me) or if they want to assert truthiness of something, they will say ‘believe it as if our great lord M. has said it.’ The Roman people were even better- they named a whole month after me – of course it later deteriorated from Munch to March but hey, it is the gesture that counts. And of course Johnny Depp, whom I was just talking with, could have told you – but he is won’t be seen with me. He says he feels eclipsed by my presence. I said if it is any consolation DiCaprio feels the same. Of course sometimes one have to lie, I mean if kids comes to me and say how much they like Arybhatta for inventing Zero or Vinci for his paintings or Mozart for music he created – I can’t help nodding while
I have discovered that a lot of people are taking what I have said as mere tall tales when, in fact, if ever I was guilty of lying then it was because I couldn’t do away with my habit of modesty. For example, this once, back in very old days – it was just a week before I handed those commandments to Moses; I participated in this village wide game we were playing where you have to throw rocks, and person whose rocks hits the ground furthest would win. May be I just happened to pick up too big a rock but I lost the game. Now tell me, would I be a tall-tale teller when I say I was a distant last in among hundreds of players? My throw was, in fact, so terrible that rock never landed; it just stayed out there in sky – people call it moon. Funny name! isn’t it, for a rock? Once I was on this ‘moon’ – I often go there in search of solitude; when what I see is this vehicle lands near me and a man comes out of it in a clownish white silver dress and starts saying some
It is, you see, difficult to stay connected with old friends. That is why I once created this website where you could find and meet your old friends. I was in a good mood that day and since it hardly took me an hour to create it, so I gave it to this young boy – try as I may, I can’t recall his name Mark something, he was pissed off after his GF broke with him. I can’t recall his last name zuck … berger … bug… Anyway I wouldn’t have mentioned it if this same website was not used by some of my enemies to exaggerate my little powers and thus ridicule them. If there is one thing I can’t tolerate – it is deviation, even slightest deviation from truth. One of them said that I once lifted an anaconda with a single hand to save a child in its grip and threw the beast away. It is such a stupid lie – How can people believe that? I could barely lift the animal with both my hands. Anyway it spoiled my mood and I happened to be presiding this interplanetary conference that day. When representatives of Pluto
(A Short Fiction) “I think the story starts when, as a kid, I was a neighbor of this family of slaughterers for a short while and, though they did their work within walls of their house, still sitting inside our home, we could hear the cries of goats, full of pain, as they were being slaughtered. These cries would go on for several minutes. It was unbearable for my family to hear those cries day after day. Personally, I found their reactions more annoying. I have never liked these kind-hearted people. Animals have always been slaughtered, and most of them never show concern except when it happens right in front of them, which is when their hypersensitive imagination starts working and they suddenly grow compassionate. Their compassion creates an inconvenience when things happen in their backyard, an inconvenience which they will have removed. They can’t care less for animals. They won’t mind if it happens at some distance, away from their physical presence. And this is true generally, even when we are talking about the suffering of humans too. There is a reason Europeans do not want immigrants from middle-East. There is also a reason why it needed an hours-long
(A Short Fiction) Part I 1. Twelve years later, V___ wakes up tormented by the nightmare. An unsatisfied, undesired feeling that will not go away – all these years and, for no reason that he can think; he has tried hard to remember if he had talked about, thought or alluded to her yesterday; anything which might have caused the dream but, no, nothing whatever comes to mind, then why should she be intruding into his dream again and giving him restless mornings? 2. He still remembers how he had been rude to her initially; perhaps what he felt was the result of guilt from same. Yes, that will make sense. The left-over of the feelings are the waste that is most harmful to the environment of the psyche. But what could he have done? Just last year he had changed school as he had come to stay at his grandparents’ home after his mother’s death following a long period of illness (his father had died a few years back). He was a highly reserved skinny new admission to the school with a tragic background and so he got attention for all the wrong reasons. There must be a look of sorrow
(A short story first written on June 26, 2016) For generations, we have lived in this jail, in this hole – so long that we might as well have imagined that this is the only world, had it not been for the stars, visible in the oval blanket over our head, which show us the glimpse of the unknown worlds. And stars are the hope, every child in this hole is taught to look up towards them and somehow they fill us with this hopeless hope that keeps the life going. But why are they there? Forever there, filling us with temptations to make fruitless efforts to grab them. Are they just another addition to the suffering of this hole? Why were we given hope? Are there better worlds which hope teaches us to look forward to? Or is hope just another part of the punishment? Perhaps it is neither, rather it is the jailer who makes sure we don’t try run away from this hole. And it is successful, isn’t it? After all, how many of us ever try to escape? This hope keeps us from trying to escape.