Posts Tagged ‘short story’

Dus Kahaniyaan is back, with 2 more stories as promised. Although, promises made regarding timely publication could not be dealt with. Date problems, u see.. 😛

In case you wish to read Dus Kahaniyaan Part 1, click here!

The Accident
— Mohit Jain

“Sit at the back, Kaushik! How many times have I told you to not to drink beyond your limits! I am fed up of carrying you home after every damn party we attend. When would you learn”, Sneha erupted a volcanic burst as they reached their car after Mr. Mehta’s party.

Kaushik Bhatnagar was an eminent businessman, dealing in cotton exports. He was widely known in the region of Kolkata. People called him “the cotton king”. Sneha and Kaushik had been married for over 15 years now, living a blissful life, with 2 kids, a boy of 12 and a girl of 7 years. The only differences they had ever had were all for one reason, Kaushik’s drinking or, one could say, the excess of it. This was one such instance.

“Let me drive! I am not drunk”, Kaushik retorted, snatching the bunch of his car keys from Sneha. Poor Sneha’s timid body could barely stand the push of “overflowing-from-the-seams” Kaushik’s burly frame, and gave up without much resistance. The steering wheel turned crazily under the weight of Kaushik’s arms. The car zoomed ahead like an overzealous bull devouring any litter that came its way. “Slow! Kaushik, for god’s sake, slow down! You will kill someone.” pleaded Sneha. Kaushik was too engaged to hear a word, and carried on with his callous drive.

The LED ticker displayed 2200, as he passed by the unusually quiet market place. As he raced past the Natraj Dance Academy, they heard a loud clatter approaching. “The Imperial Cinema’s evening show must have just ended”, she thought. “Kaushik, slow down a bit, there might be a crowd waiting at the next right!” prayed she. But Kaushik had no mood of being lectured, and pushed the accelerator with all his might. “Nooooooooo”, a shriek emanated from desperate Sneha’s lips, as she saw their car hit a cycle. “Bloody kids, can’t even ride a cycle!” cursed Kaushik, as he put all his weight on the race. The rear view mirror carried fading images of a child lying on the road, dripping in blood, and a mob circling around. The salt of Sneha’s tears had completely eaten away her makeup. Kaushik’s hands palpitated, but he kept driving, albeit a little slowly now.

In 10 minutes they were at the “Bhatnagar House”, a magnificent villa located amid the plush greens of “La Exotica”. Charan, their servent came running to open the door. “Charan, bacche so gaye?”, asked Sneha. “Memsahib, baccha log to bakery gaya tha, wo Imperial Cinema ke pas! Aane wala hoga!”, he hesitated to say. She looked towards Kaushik, and stood there dumbfounded. Behind him, the television screen blared loudly “Breaking News! Hit and run case! 2 kids die on spot! Identified as children of Kaushik Bhatnagar, the cotton king!” The ticker below carried a question, “Do you think business rivalry led to their sad demise? Sms us your opinion on 56161.”


The Irony
— Mohit Jain

The cotton of the stained cloth rubbed fiercely against the front right window pane of the cherry red BMW X6. In three swift circular moves, Amit had managed to carve a clean portion to have a look outside. A starved kid knocked at the window, chanting an incoherent plea for food, other arm pointing to his hallowed stomach. He howled at him and shrugged him away. Observing the long array of cars around solemnly, he cursed under his breath. It had been over an hour, and he longed to reach his home, to see his wife and his 14 months old granddaughter, Sukanya.

It was then that his eyes caught him walking across the pavement. He walked slowly, with a patterned limp towards the newly erect M.S. Subaiya building. Of course, he knew him! The images flashed on his windscreen, clear as crystal.

They had been classmates, 30 years back. Amit and Mahesh! Mahesh had always insisted, “Study Amit! Fooling around would not get you anywhere.” And he would invariably respond, “Studies are for the average. I am made for bigger things.” During one such argument, things had got heated up, temperatures rose, and Amit ended up throwing the iron chair on Mahesh’s leg. “You go and study! See how luck plays out. I will be big one day”, he had said. The limp had persisted since then.

He honked to scare away the pigeon settling on the bonnet, while his gaze followed Mahesh’s endeavor. He saw him leaning forward, but the crowd obstructed any further view.

The 12th results were out and Mahesh had topped the district. Amit sulked at the far end of the assembly queue, as their Principal Sir greeted Mahesh, “You have made our school very proud of you, son. You will be very successful, one day”, and hugged him.

It had been 24 years since then. “Did he care about the results now”, he thought to himself, tuning in to FM City. It played some advertisement about some new apartments coming up. “Crap, these radio channels, there is no music these days”, he murmured. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mahesh approaching him. A sense of satisfaction engulfed him, paving way to a smile, a relieved smile.

“Driver, take me to Carter Road! There is just one more inauguration to attend, and then you can call it a day”, said Mahesh, absorbing himself in the comfort of his BMW’s back seat. “Yes Sir!”, said he, turning the key in.


(I would publish 10 stories, 2 a piece. Your stories are invited, jus’ keep them short, within 500 words, and a mandate is a twist in the tail of the tale, however predictable and clichéd it might be.)


Seventy & 3

Posted: November 21, 2009 in Creative, Romance
Tags: , , ,

I feel sad to see my desolate blog. I thought I had started well on my 2009’s resolution, but i guess i fell short, far short. Anyways, as the year starts to dusk, I am back, hopefully for a longer stint. This is a 125 words story I wrote for HT love story contest, 2 weeks ago. Not really win win material, but i sure can devote a li’l space for it here. So I go..

The banyan tree outside the temple had been her abode for a long time. Through her half open cataract eyes, she had seen many people come and go, some carrying hopes, some remorse and some gratitude. That afternoon, as she woke up to a chuckle, an innocent pair of eyes looked straight into hers. There was something about him that pulled her up from her half sleep. It was love at first sight. He would come everyday, and jump straight into her arms, embrace her, kiss her, play with her hair. They talked in unintelligible syllables that only they understood. It was almost divine, their love for each other- his first, her last.

I was just 3 back then, and I still miss her. Amma!

The Wait
— Mohit Jain

“He had waited 9 years, for today. The stained walls had been his abode, a shield from the obnoxious smelly world outside. His only companion was too absorbed weaving its net by the small window that opened to the same ghastly world, unaware of the solitude it was about to incur. His eyes were smeared red from the wrath he had accumulated inside, a volcano desperate to erupt. His sweaty palms were crushing the iron bars inside them. In 25 minutes, he would be a free man. The mere thought of Tulsi covered in blood, rejuvenated him. He felt a current pass through his veins, a current of celebration.

The revolver in his pocket was getting restless. He looked at her, one last time, he smiled to himself; all calm, hands folded, eyes closed, soughing a tone he woke up to every morning, when a kid. He thought to himself, her Krishna would not come to her rescue today, or for that matter, no one would.

The revolver hung still affixed at her forehead, no motion, no sound. The bullet waited impatiently, eager to know its destiny. He thought he saw fear in her eyes. But, he saw none. He hated her guts, then, 9 years ago, and now. But he was aware of the difference. The revolver had switched hands between then and now. And that comforted him. In 25 seconds, he would be a free man. He thought he heard footsteps, closing in, by every second. His eyes rolled back, agitated, scared, smeared red with fear, the revolver not still anymore. He knew well, it was now or never. The eyes flipped back, glaring at his prey. He thought he heard a shot. He was…”

Rashmi’s 6 year old daughter, pounced onto the remote, and switched to Channel 6. “It is POGO time, Mamma”, she said coyly, smiling. She smiled back at her, surfing through the newspaper, looking for the schedule of repeat telecast of “Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi”.


The Fall
— Mohit Jain

“Gawwwwd!”, she screamed her lungs out, as she plummeted down, deep down, wholly at the mercy of gravity. Her body was flying away from her, straight down. She could not stand the pain she felt on her back, the pain she felt in her mind. Her eyes were shut, too afraid to see the world from a perpetually falling gaze. She wasn’t sure if they would open ever again. She felt her heartbeat on her right palm, matching the pace of Michael Jackson’s steps. Something hit her on the side, her left hand twisted across her chest, writhing with pain. She let out another shriek, so loud, it echoed back to her. She would not survive today, she told herself.

She thought of Rahul, it was just few seconds ago she had seen him last, just before she was pushed through the blind ruthless valley. It was Sunday, and like every other Sunday, it was the day, Rahul and she would go on a long drive, chatter endlessly about the week’s errands, and go to some place fun. She wondered if this was her last long drive, if her last words had just popped out seconds ago, and if this was her last place of fun. Her legs did not carry her weight anymore. She hated Rahul. She hated gravity. And, she hated Newton, in first place. She prayed for her life, to no avail. She felt a sudden jerk pressing her down. In nanoseconds, she hit the bottom with brute force, skidding through the flat hard surface, and crashed straight into the blue, legs waving into the air.

“I am alive”, she cackled to herself, quivering with fear. She had survived the ordeal. She was happier, braver.

She felt a warm familiar pat on her wet back. It was Rahul. She pocketed her fingers into the comfort of his palm, and walked towards the Water Pendulum. “They call it the most scary water ride at WonderLa water park”, he said. She nodded, smiling. But she wasn’t scared anymore.


(I would publish 10 stories, 2 a piece. Your stories are invited, jus’ keep them short, within 500 words, and a mandate is a twist in the tail of the tale, however predictable and clichéd it might be.)

Night Of Terror

Posted: August 6, 2007 in Humour, Mystery
Tags: , , ,

I woke up with a startle. My petty plastic wrist watch exuded green radium glow that was struggling to cover up the dark. Jus’ 2 hours back, I had turned 11 yrs and 1 day. Exhausted from last night’s birthday bash, I had taken to bed a little early than usual, cheerily absorbed in memories of how delicious the pineapple cake was; how many(the number did matter at that time) my gifts were; how colorful the balloons looked imprinting my name on the wall; how happy my parents were, my friends were, I were. Lost in my innocent thoughts, i had slumbered soon after.

It couldn’t be a thief. I knew someone had crawled over my legs. I had felt his weight thawing onto my weak small legs. My heart began pumping heavily. The open window doors hissed a screech to the antics of the strong wind outside sending a chill down my spine. The window had been left open, by mistake. Big mistake. It was too dark to see anything except…

I saw a gory black human shadow move behind the door. I wanted to shout but my voice stumbled inside my throat. I wanted to run but i was too frozen to move a fingernail. My blanket was overwhelmed by the obnoxious smell of my sweat, it had never tasted before. It had been a few minutes. They seemed like hours, though. I was still shivering, still frozen, still still. And, shockingly, so was he. The figure hadn’t moved an inch since then except for a slight fling here and there, behind the door itself.

Who is he? Why is he here? Why is he not moving? Could it be a ghost?

The questions bombarded my tiny brain. The last one struck again. Could it be a ghost? I heard Yes from somewhere within. I fretted at the thought. The blanket was soaking now. I closed my eyes. I prayed. I covered my face. I prayed. I opened my eyes. I prayed. The night went on with intermittent interruptions by the noisy deranged January wind, inattentive of my acute horror.

Like every morning, “8 a.m.” triggered the rhythmic pulsations of my radium watch, scorching my every single peacefully resting bone. People aptly call it an alarm. It, indeed, does alarm me. This morning it seemed like a saviour. I pounced out of my bed and apprehensively, flipped open the gate slowly and slightly. Dad’s overcoat flung across my face from behind the door where it had enjoyed its night of terror. I stood dumbfounded as I heard the maid shouting from the kitchen.

“Bibiji, billi saara dhoodh pi gayi kal raat. !! “
(“Ma’m, the cat drank all d milk. !!”)

A smile flashed across my unbrushed teeth.

It wasn’t an ordinary friday evening. I had just stuffed a pile of newly churned out 500 notes(off my first salary) into the shallow discomfort of my 11 yr old tattered rusty wallet, that now started to heave heavy joyous sighs like an 80 yr old on an instant high after a nicotine dose. I walked towards the Marathalli market intending to change the face of my wardrobe that now more or less resembled the remains of my college wardrobe.

The market was brimming with human shrieks all around as if the whole town was paid that very day and to cross the limits of coincidence, all had decided to change their wardrobes. Only that could explain the sorry state of the Pantaloons factory outlet. After around 35 unsuccessful attempts of wooing salesman’s attention, I gave up and walked out for a stroll.

And there amid millions of monotonous tired faces, i saw her: her face bearing the freshness of morning lilies; her beautiful kohl lined restless eyes as if searching for someone (for a moment i wished hopelessly, it was me they were looking for); her exquisite curves cherishing the warmth of a camel brown, velvety wool-cashmere coat; her feet, a powerhouse of energy, making their way towards us lesser mortals(i was too absorbed to check but i can assure u their were hundreds of us gaping at the splendiferous beauty). And then the unexpected happened. Her gaze reciprocated mine. I hadn’t the tenacity to persist and i shifted mine towards a nearby bookshop, wondering if what i saw was a mere hopeful illusion. I hadn’t the tenacity to resist either, so i checked again to make sure. It sure wasn’t an illusion. She almost halted, her gaze affixed at me, and then she resumed her stride straight towards me, this time with more vigour and interest. Perhaps I was the lucky one..

It definitely wasn’t an ordinary friday evening.

Seconds later, as she walked past me, i stood still, hypnotised by the fragrance of her sandalwood rose perfume. I vaguely remembered what had happened; her dark silken hair flew across my face, caressing it, as she came tantalisingly close; the fake fur of her turquoise green scarf cut through my finger gaps; and then the touch. Ah ! the divine touch. I remembered feeling the warmth of her palm onto my back. And then she went, abandoning me, mesmerized and lost.

I suddenly felt lonely in the crowd. So I called off my ‘wardrobe upliftment’ plans and walked back home. The weekend wasn’t a cheery one either. The days comprised of innumerable trips to the Marathalli market in futile hope, that further spiced up my misery. The nights were not dark enough to provoke me to sleep. Even the dreams had altered their timetable as if to tease me. The world suddenly seemed a confusing place to live in. The longest weekend of my life finally ended, leaving me dry n yet hopeful( i m a die hard optimist..).

Monday morning was a usual monday morning. I rushed through my morning chores and somehow managed to reach my stop in time. But my cab had beaten me again, this time by two minutes(i came to know later on..). After 10 minutes of incessant ‘lift-pleading'(i told u i m a die hard i keep trying), I boarded an already over-burdened bus dancing to the tunes of a popular(that, i presume ) kannada (that, i presume again..) song. The conductor soon recognized the fresh entrant n rushed towards me for his 5 Rs coin. As I fiddled with my back pocket, tryin to locate my 11 yr old companion, Mom’s words started echoing in my ear, overhauling the bedlam around me..

“Beta, never keep too much money in your wallet, and why dont u use ur front pocket to keep it ??”

I now cursed myself for overlooking her concern then. And suddenly the pieces had started to fit.

Friday evening, the crowd, the resplendent lass, the fragrance and the touch……..

  “bazaar mein wo humse zara sa lag ke chali gayi..
   agli teen raatein hamari yunhi jag ke chali gayi..
   chouthe din jab jebein tatoli to pata chala..
   kambakth zebkatri thi thag ke chali gayi..”


As I gawked at the fleet of radiant black n brown(i could hardly differentiate..) Gucci wallets secured under a glass cover, I thought of her and wondered, who the divine touch meant more to.. me or her.. ??