The museum of almosts

In the heart of a bustling city, hidden amidst the hustle and bustle, there stood a peculiar building known as "The Museum of Almosts." 

Its walls held stories of dreams that were almost realized, hopes that were almost fulfilled, and paths that were almost taken. 

People often visited the museum to reflect upon the roads they didn't traverse,  dream about the choices they could not make. And then a part of them would always stayed behind, turning into yet another artifact for the others who visited to witness and behold. 

Such was the museum of almosts. It was always almost there, and sometimes it wasn’t.  

Nobody had told Aanya about the museum. She was on her way to work when she spotted it one day. 

“Strange,” she thought. “I take this route every day but I don’t remember seeing this here.” 

As if magically, she found her feet drawn by an inexplicable force towards the building. She gazed up at its grand facade, its windows sparkling with the sunlight, as if inviting her to step inside and confront her own "almosts." 

She hesitated, unsure of what she might find within those walls. Was the summer heat causing her to have hallucinations, or was it the whispers of her own heart that had led her here? 

Aanya had always been pragmatic, never allowing herself the luxury of regrets. Life had forced her to make tough decisions, and she had forged ahead with determination. But lately, a sense of emptiness had seeped into her being. It gnawed at her, challenging the certainty of her chosen paths. She wondered if the relentless pursuit of her goals had left her with a void, a sense of longing for the roads not taken.

Growing up, Aanya had been a meticulous planner. Each year, she would fill her personal diary with carefully crafted to-do lists. From graduating in engineering by 23 to landing a job at a multinational company, her ambitions were neatly mapped out. Marriage, children, and even becoming the CEO of her own startup were all part of her grand plan.

She had almost achieved everything on her list, but now, a strange wistfulness washed over her. The goals she had  pursued suddenly felt incomplete, mere "almosts" on her journey. 

Standing before the museum, Aanya  wondered if there was more to life than just ticking off boxes. Summoning her courage, she stepped inside. 

The museum was a labyrinth of rooms, each filled with artifacts symbolizing the moments of almosts. It welcomed her with soft lighting and hushed murmurs. As she wandered through the exhibits, she noticed artifacts that spoke of unfulfilled aspirations and missed opportunities. 

Each display held a story, a tale of an almost that had remained just out of reach. Each spoke of the wisdom gained from near-misses, the lessons taught by the paths not taken. In one room, she saw a painting with brushstrokes that fell just short of perfection. In another, a collection of manuscripts waiting to be published.

As she explored, Aanya encountered others who, like her, were grappling with their own "almosts." Their stories echoed through the halls, mingling with a shared longing and a search for fulfillment.

However, amidst the poignant displays, she discovered a glimmer of hope. She realized that life was not about reaching a predefined destination or achieving all the goals on a list. It was, she understood, more about finding entirety and contentment in each of her "almosts."

Aanya stepped out of the museum with a newfound perspective. She would embrace the beauty of the unfinished, the magic of the journey itself. Instead of dwelling on what could have been, she would savor each step she had taken and every choice she had made.

On her way home, Aanya looked out of her car window. This time, the weather and the susurration of trees no longer carried nostalgia or regret. They whispered possibilities, reminding her to embrace the wonders of the present. They urged her to find joy in the journey of her own beautifully imperfect, ever-evolving life. 

Her happiness would no longer be defined by the checkboxes on her to-do list, she decided. She would find fulfillment in the entirety of her  almosts, while leaving room for the spontaneity of the unknown. She would cherish the beauty of the journey. 

As she turned to catch a final glimpse of the museum through the speeding car window, she saw it fading away in the sunlight.  

Its purpose had been served for now. 

©️ Priyanka Naik

#BlogchatterBlogHop: 'The traveller' - a short story.

The last thing I remember was gazing into the abyss when I lost  control and slipped. By the time I regained consciousness, I found myself spiraling down a dark vertiginous tunnel, clueless of where I was heading.

When the vertigo finally stopped, I realised I had arrived at the end of the passage. It was marked by a door. On it was engraved the name, ‘Hawkins Research Institute’.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. I had reached the much rumoured about  research facility based in our town.  Located underground, the lab promised utmost confidentiality and was said to conduct brealthrough experiments of an undisclosed nature.

The adrenaline rush I felt was unimaginable. A big fat adventure lay waiting in front of me. Unraveling the mystery could change my life---I could become the hero of my town. All I had to do to do was choose a quiet opportune moment and sneak in.

Moments later, I was inside the facility. Under the dim light of a solitary bulb, I made my way to what seemed like the basement area.

 

In the centre of the space was a huge glass chamber, equipped with a single seat and a panel board with multiple levers and buttons. I went closer to have a better look. But before I could do that, I heard footsteps approaching.

Startled, I slouched behind an old and rusty file cabinet. My heart was beating at the speed of a stallion.

The footsteps stopped. The door opened. As the lights flew on, I noticed a middle-aged man in a white lab coat walk in.

He was bespectacled, had frazzled hair, and appeared preoccupied. I concluded he was one of the scientists working at the centre.

Without wasting any time, he made his way to the glass chamber. Quickly strapping himself to the seat, he proceeded to punch a few buttons and pull a few levers. The machine lit up, making a noise like an engine, but within seconds the sound and the lights both died down. The man sighed. A look of exasperation crossed his face, the tell tale signs of a failed experiment.

Just then, a tiny squeak fell on my ears. I looked in the direction of the source and my mouth let out a loud yelp almost involuntarily. A dirty black rat with fuzzy hair was nibbling on my toes.

Startled by my yelp, the astonished rodent scurried away, leaving me to face the co sequences of my folly. I was already thinking of excuses to give the scientist when I looked up to see him already pressing an alarm to inform security.

With the alarm buzzing continuously, and the mad scientist staring me down, I felt cornered. The security personnel would be here any minute.

Without thinking, I jumped into the chamber-machine.  The man had pulled the red lever, then the blue, or was it the green? I tried to recollect what I’d seen.

Just then, five burly uniformed guards  entered the room. They were carrying arms. The scientist  gestured towards me and they seemed to understand what to do. Aiming their rifle towards me, they asked me to surrender.

It was almost a threat. Possibilities of punishment in a science lab wreaked havoc in my mind. Exhumation, extermination, genetic mutation, a lifetime in coma…these people could turn me into a guinea pig if they wanted.

The door creaked. The panic in me surged. My hands trembled.

I pulled the first lever that came in hand. Red. Nothing happened.

I pulled the blue. Still nothing. The guards sniggered.

Panic stricken, my hands were dancing all over the machine panel.

Orange, purple, green; I pulled all the levers together. I punched multiple random buttons. 

Finally, the machine came to life.

The scientist’s mouth flew open. The guards did not know how to react. Neither did I.

Since then, I have been having strange experiences. I have witnessed events no mortal would ever have imagined. .

I have seen centuries old empires crumbling, witnessed the terrors of fascism, the drawbacks of capitalism. I have traveled a long way from the freedom struggle to dirty politics, from  communism to communalism, from the suffragette movement to the Me too movement.

I have cursed myself for being a helpless  spectator of acts of apartheid, untouchability, racism, classism, love jihad, jingoism, and bigotry.

I have witnessed genocides, space missile launches, breakthroughs in medicine, military warfare, nuclear explosions, and miraculous recoveries.

I guess this has become my way of life now, my identity. I’m a  time traveler with no idea where he will land up, or what he will experience next.

Unintentionally though, I eventually ended up being a lab rat for Hawkins afterall.  I wonder if there are more like me. I guess we will never know.

Time-traveling has  ruined me forever, but it has also made me believe…in endless possibilities, in hope. The universe, I have realised, is not easy to comprehend. It works in mysterious ways.

The only regret is that I cannot stay too long at one place to pass on this message. My time is brief and yet inexhaustibly infinite.

I am ageless.

 I am the universe. 

I am the God particle.

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This post is a part of Blogchatter Blog Hop.

#BlogchatterBlogHop: Message in a bottle (a short story)

Roxanne was strolling  languidly on the beach  when she noticed something glinting. At first she assumed it was flotsam. But curiosity drew her closer.

She scooped out the half-buried object from the golden yellow sands. It was a bottle. Inside it was a tiny roll of writing paper. Her mind began to race. 

Being an avid reader, her imagination quickly transported her to all those books she had read…about pirates and treasures; maybe this was a map. Or perhaps some lovelorn sailor had written to his beloved a confession before meeting his end jn the stormy water; a dismal end to a silent romance.

Roxanne unscrewed the cork of the bottle and recovered the paper. It was a note.

Dear reader,

This could have been a ticking bomb. Thank your stars It is not.

(Let this be a reminder never to touch something that has drifted from the sea, which I’m sure is where you imagined this to be  coming. But hah! Tough luck!)

We are a bunch of environmentalists on a mission; Project - ‘Message in a bottle’ (MIAB); an awareness project for reckless fools and romantic idiots.

You were going to throw this bottle back into the seaside, weren’t you? Maybe add a few lines of your own on the note it was carrying and set it asail for some dreamy eyed dingbat to find again? Six degrees of separation coming closer in such a glorious way binding strangers from different corners of the globe, right?

WRONG!

What is more likely to happen is this; the sea turtles and fish in the sea will choke on the cork or shards of the bottle broken from the current. And one tiny senseless act will become responsible for polluting our shores, destroying our aquatic life, and eventually damaging the entire ecosystem.

Sorry to burst your bubble, my friend. But life is no ‘Nicholas Spark’ novel. It is more of a Douglas Adams trilogy, where absurd things keep happening out of the blue and we need to constantly be on our feet in order to keep our planet from demolition.

So here is a friendly reminder. Stop polluting the earth with non-biodegradables. Go  natural instead. Conserve energy. Our forests and natural reservoirs need to be preserved.

And for heaven’s sake, please step out of your little Caribbean island pirate fantasy and stop flinging bottles into the sea, with or without notes in them.

Reduce, recycle, reuse (you know the drill). Now is the time to act.

Regards,

MIAB

(trying to save our planet, one step at a time)

P.S: Please insert the note in the bottle and place in found position.  

Project ‘MIAB’ is a  supervised project. Your response will be noted, and rest assured, the bottle will be duly disposed in a way that doesn’t harm our aquatic friends.

With nervous trepidation, Roxanne restored the note as directed. She knew what she had to do.

“Thank you, MIAB,” she whispered. “You have opened my eyes. I’m leaving the bottle behind, but will take your message forward.”

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This post is a part of Blogchatter Blog Hop.

The one that got away

Ant(I)social did not want to be a slave for the rest of his life. He believed he was meant for bigger things...better pursuits, if only he could break from this hegemony and explore his true potential.
However, the social hierarchy prevented him from breaking this chain. The rigid rigmarole of daily life demanded that he slaved, while the upper echelons got served.
Every time he tried to struggle his way up in the colony, he got pushed down, shoved aside brutally by those above him.
And then one day, his eyes fell upon her, Gyne...
He knew immediately he was in love. But how could a slave dream of a beloved of royal lineage? Gyne was the queen ant and hardly mingled with the worker ants of his class. Although carefully camouflaged as an eusocial species, the social division in a colony of ants was as bigoted as that in man.

This being his first time in love, Ant(i)social tried to seek his superior’s help in the matter. However, when they paid a deaf ear to his concern, he decided to address the matter by speaking straight with his lady love.

Always believing in black and white and never treading on grey, Ant(i)social now faced the worst dilemmas of adult life. He knew he had the courage to profess his love to the queen. But those belonging to the lower echelons were not allowed to venture close.
“The only way I can speak to her is by getting promoted and making myself worthy of her notice,” he thought.

Day by day, Ant(I)social started putting in extra hours of work. Even when his comrades were asleep, he would continue to work with utmost earnest and diligence.
A month passed. The ants of the upper echelons who initially ignored him now started taking notice. Looking at Ant(i)social toil night and day, their curiosity piqued.

“Hey, you, yes you, worker no 127,” the chief hollered. “I see you slogging incessantly without even as much as a work break. What is the matter with you, I say!?”

“Yes Sire, I know no other way to reach Gyne, my queen.”

The chief was shocked.
“And pray why do you want to reach her?” he scoffed.

Ant(i)social blushed. “I...I...am ..in love with her. And want to make...myself..w..worthy...”

Hearing this, the chief and his colleagues guffawed. Their laughter resonated all around.
“Stop dreaming, slave,” the chief ant bellowed. There is social hierarchy for a reason. The duties are assigned as per where you lie in the work pyramid. You may have the courage of a lion, but that will not make you a soldier. Remember, you are a mere worker, and no amount of slogging will get you the queen’s attention, leave alone her love.”

Broken hearted, Ant(i)social wondered about the unfairness of this social system, of how it did not allow even the most diligent to step up outside his designated level. Why wasn’t anybody revolting against the injustice? Complacency or subjugation...could he provoke the other workers to join him in a rebellion?

That night, Ant(I)social gathered all his worker class fellow mates and told them about his plan. At first, there was silence. Then one by one, the excuses started pouring in.

“But what if we cannot manage on our own?”

“This division of labour has been going on since ages. What makes you think we can bring about change now?”

“I am a family man. I join you and my family starves to death.”

They nodded in unison, not seeing sense in rebelling against an age old hierarchy that they had finally learned to become comfortable with. Nobody dared to usurp the order that had already been laid out. Why bring about unnecessary anarchy, when chaos is all it will cause, they thought.
A couple of worker ants could not make up their minds but they were soon convinced by the majority.

After the gathered congregation retreated to their respective sand-dunes, Ant(I)social sat awake looking at the starry night sky. The wise old maxim came to mind, “When ignorance is bliss,it is folly to be wise.”

At the crack of dawn, with a heart full of courage and fortitude, Ant(i)social set out all alone into the wilderness. As he bid a silent adieu to a sleeping Gyne, his queen ant, he cast a envious glance at the undeserving troop of soldiers that lay half asleep in the sand barracks protecting her.

Nobody had been convinced he would make it out alive. But in his heart, he knew this was not the life he had wanted to lead...the life of a slave. If he stayed on, he knew he would be just one among the many.
Going out into the unknown would mean meeting with adventure, seeing a different world, encountering different experiences, or perhaps getting trampled in the process. He’d have to be the captain of his ship and weather every storm life lay his way. There’d be no security blanket but there would be no one to serve as well. He would have to forage for his own food but that also included the risk of going hungry. It was a tough call to make but Ant(I)social knew he had to take his chances.

Before the ants were up, he was gone...

One worker less, the colony barely noticed his absence. The hierarchy continued as usual with the workers slaving, and the soldiers protecting. But ever so often, he was remembered fondly by Gyne, as the slave who had chosen to become the master of his soul.

(Gyne* - the queen ant in an ant colony is also called Gyne. Have played with the nomenclature a little.
A typical ant colony is divided neatly into worker ants, fertile drones, soldier ants, and Gynes.
And sometimes, just sometimes, an Ant(i)social 😊 )

Alphabet soup

She sat in front of the T.V, switching channel after channel in the hope of finding something that will relax her mind. God knew she needed it todayShe’d had a long day at work. Being a copy editor was no mean feat...having to skim through a torrent of bad articles at work and screen out the average ones was an arduous task, more heart wrenching to her than anyone else. 

She was cut out for bigger things. Being a copyeditor for a fashion magazine was not one of them. 

But circumstances make demands from all of us. They make us narrate to them our dreams and desires, then right in front of our very eyes, make an air plane out of them and blow them away. She too had seen her dreams of being a writer fly out the window.

Paying bills were a priority over book writing. And so the half-complete manuscript of her dreams sat on her writing desk, collecting dust, as she went day after day, editing, copy writing, polishing, turning sub-average articles written by mediocre writers into print worthy matter. 

Tonight, however, she was in no mood to do the usual. Popping her dinner into the microwave, she sat staring at the idiot box, a flurry of thoughts running incessantly in her tired head. 

Was she doing the right thing? Should she quit her job and pursue her dream instead? One half of her wanted her to dare, to break out of the cookie-cutter nine to five job. The other half warned her she’d starve if she did that.

Pic source: Unsplash

Her chain of thoughts were interrupted by a commercial on the screen. Knorr’s soup, it said. And that sent her memories rolling back to several years ago. 

As a child, she had always hated soup. She’d turn up her nose at it, find new ways of disposing it stealthily, and always have an excuse ready...all until her mother started adding those tiny noodle alphabets to it. It was love at first sight. Being fascinated by words even then, she had been thrilled on finding those tiny letters waiting to be strung into words before the soup turned cold. It was her mother’s way of ensuring she would eat her dinner without a fuss. 

And how it had worked! 

Every meal thence was spent looking forward to the alphabet soup and finishing it without a fuss so that she could have it again the next day. 

Today, sitting with her microwave dinner, she reminisced about the good old days.

And a realisation dawned upon her—wasn’t life like that too? You had to deal with something you didn’t necessarily like in order to reach someplace you wanted to be. 

The pile of half-edited files from work lay in front of her. 

However, her dreams, she told herself, those lay inside her. And nothing in the whole wide world could change that.

The job was perhaps just a means to the much desired end. And even though she didn’t enjoy it all that much, it nourished her just like the hot soup she once hated. While her dreams, like the alphabets, were always there, floating around, waiting to be picked up.

It made her smile. Soon it would become a way of life.
In order to find her alphabets, she would have to deal with the soup...

#ShortStory: 'The final crossover'

She owned this blanket with cherry blossoms that she adored. You would think it had some sentimental value; maybe it was a gift from a loved one, or a prize perhaps, or perhaps a distant memory of a romantic liaison that got too close before it disappeared.

However, the truth was far from it. In actuality, this blanket helped her crossover from one world to another...from fact to fiction. She had first discovered its magic when the cherry blossoms on the fabric had teleported her to springtime in Japan. It had taken a few seconds to realize it had been just a dream. Never had she slept so soundly; it had almost felt like she was traveling through a different time frame.

Since then the blanket had become her favorite. It was a magic carpet and dream catcher rolled in one. As she lay in her bed, she would swaddle herself up head to toe in it...and never realize when the whole day’s exhaustion would sweep her away.
As she drifted off to sleep, the blanket would then start its job...of dream travel, take her to places she had only read about but never seen, show her things she could have only imagined.

Until one day, something unexpected happened. She was beside herself with grief. There was this huge tear in the center of the blanket. Something sharp had ripped a hole right across it.

As night fell, she became more and more distraught. No matter how she folded it, the rip in the blanket no longer allowed her to envelope herself in it.

“How could I have let this happen?” she wept herself to an adventure-less sleep, clutching a corner of the cherry blossom designed duvet.

She brought out her sewing kit and tried to approximate the edges of the rip, only to find her frustration grow exponentially with every pull and tug.
The rip had created a huge gap that was too large to be tacked. Her lovely blanket had been ruined. And she feared, so was the magic it had once possessed.
Heart broken, she stared at the huge hole mimicking the gaping wound she felt inside of her.

Soon enough, she confined herself to her home. She’d spend all day thinking how to mend the damaged 'cherry blossom' blanket. Her nights too went tense and sleepless. She missed the adventure the blanket provided.  The comfort, the security that she felt was now lost. And as time went by, she became increasingly convinced that they were never coming back.

The cherry blossoms were fading, drifting her away from the magical realm of her escapades, her rendezvous, her imaginings. Not allowing her to reach them from the confines of her bedroom window.

It was a cold wintry night, when an unusual sort of notion crept in her head. She could no longer bear to see the ripped off cherry blossoms on her blanket. She had to make sure they stayed intact in her mind forever. She picked up her sewing kit in one hand and clutched her blanket in the other, and for the first time in weeks made her way outside.

No sooner had she stepped out, a cold wind blew through her hair, raising a chill through her frail body. It was as if the world had changed while she was brooding.
As she dusted the blanket, she noticed in its upward motion, something she had never observed before. Her heart was no longer sulking at the hole in the blanket. Instead, it was beating faster at the breath taking sight through it...the mesmerizing canopy of a diamond studded sky.

Next morning, it was passing pedestrians who spotted her stiff and lifeless in the cold, her skin pale, her lips blue. She wasn't breathing.

“Who, in their right mind, sleeps under the stars in this kind of weather?” they scolded nobody in particular, like all witnesses to tragedies, who mean well and think they know better. “The woman should have been careful.”

Shocked bystanders speculated on her state of mind. But there weren’t many who could deny she looked happy.

As she lay there in peace, head resting on crossed palms, she appeared to be gazing at something she couldn’t tear her eyes away from. Rigor mortis had set in. But the smile on her face added to her otherwise tranquil countenance. The sewing box sat beside her, unopened.

It was a terribly windy morning. As people held on tightly to their billowing hats and coats, they found it impossible to fathom how a tattered fabric could hang still from a nearby branch..as if offended at being discarded just before the final crossover!


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 ‘This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’ 

Winning post for the weekend of 8 - 10 Feb 2019

Moment of clarity

She looked out of the window of the moving car. A simple gesture, and yet it made her feel liberated. As she inhaled the fresh air of the mountains, she felt a strange sort of happiness rushing into her lungs. 

She had almost thought she was incapable of experiencing this feeling. But here it was, embracing her with open arms, traveling as if part of the breathtaking scenery that was traveling alongside her, racing with the wind, the trees, and people.

She found herself smiling at complete strangers. And found them returning the gesture. Away from the hustle of mundane city life, the air here felt pure and the warmth in people genuine. 

All of a sudden, a thought crossed her mind. She retrieved her Nikon SLR from her bag and started clicking random shots from the car window.

But all she could manage from a moving car were blurred images. Preserving the moment would mean slowing down to capture it. And slowing down meant to risk lowering the adrenaline rush.

And that made her think about life, about all the times she had traded those little moments of happiness for something more solid, more promising, more permanent.

But wasn’t happiness a fluid concept, she wondered. One fleeting moment after another. Maybe sometimes she tried too hard to make a memory out of them. Perhaps these moments weren’t meant to be preserved, but lived in there and then...exactly like the beauty she was experiencing around her.

The emotional freedom she felt was a state of mind. And trying to freeze it merely distracted from the here and now. 

Like every authentic emotion in the world, happiness too had to be perceived, first, with the heart...before it was lived, loved, and let gone of. 

Packing her camera back into her knapsack, she smiled to herself.

From now on, there was just one thing to do...enjoy the moment! 

Of truth and trauma

"Keep the child within you alive.”

Her timeline was flooded with similar tweets and messages. All of a sudden, everybody wanted to be a kid again.
14th November, the day when everyone reminisced about their childhood days, the good old days like they called it, the days of glory.

She cringed at the mention. Try as she might to avoid it, she was forced to temporarily relive her past on this one blasted day every year.

She had managed to slay the monster from under her bed.
But every once in a while, someone would reminded her of that ugly phase in her life. She would then feel it fresh in her bones, in the blood of her veins...that ghost of a memory that devoured her entire childhood or whatever she had ever loved of it.

Unlike the others swinging back and forth in nostalgic meanderings, she never wished to go back. How she hated the kind of wishful thinking her friends indulged in—-the kind about time machines and hypothetical travel that can transport one through time back to their childhood. What was the big hype about cotton candy and hop scotch anyway? They missed the innocence of childhood, they’d say. And she’d stay silent, not wanting to argue any further, because they wouldn’t understand. They hadn’t had to live with her demons.

They hadn’t had to go to bed every night, terrified wondering whether the monster from under her bed would come atop of it. They hadn’t had to go through the agony a nine year old felt when a middle aged male violated her fragile body. They hadn’t had to lay beneath him afraid of being crushed to death by his weight, his palm blocking out their shrieks until they could feel nothing but the wish to die before the next morning.

They hadn’t had to wake up to the disappointment of  seeing another day, to the helplessness of knowing they wouldn’t be believed, to the dread that they would have to bear the same excruciating pain again that night and God-forbid so many innumerable nights in the future, and to the insurmountable anger and disgust at having to acknowledge the man their mother loved and depended on as the monster who visited them in the dark, as the demon who raped them when all else were sleeping, as their ‘Dad’.

Yes, she was glad she wasn’t a child anymore. It had taken her years to fight the cutting, the drug dependency, the suicidal urges.

And now she was finally here. She had fought through the ghosts of her childhood to reach where she was today.

It had taken forever to kill the child within her. The scared, trembling, fragile child whose vulnerabilities had made her a victim for far too long.

Today on Children’s day, she felt a protective urge towards all those who might be going through the same experiences as her.

“Keep the child within you alive.” flashed the message on her timeline.

She knew the message meant well, but she did not need it.
She had cleansed herself from the toxic effects of her  ruined childhood, killed off the demons.
Now if only she could exorcise the ghosts!

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Author's note:  Those who undergo the trauma of childhood abuse often tend to internalize such incidents and suffer internally for years after.

If you are one of them, please remember; YOU are strong. YOU are resilient. YOU have survived it. And most importantly, IT IS OVER!

#FlashFiction: Emotional atyachaar

She gazed in his eyes a little too long, her face inches away from his.
The tension in the air was thick. A million thoughts were creating havoc in his mind. There was anxiety writ on her face as well.

It took hardly a minute. But the solace it brought would last a while.

"Fundus normal. No evidence of macular or retinal changes," she smiled, scribbling down his latest report.

The diabetic heaved a sigh of relief. He wouldn't need to visit the Ophthalmology department for the next six months at least.

#FlashFiction: 'Always'

It was a cloudy September morning. The street was full of noises; birds twittering, cars honking, hawkers trying to sell their wares.
Inside the house, Anjali had cried herself to sleep once again.
Ten years had passed but she still spent nights stark awake, yearning to hear his voice.

“September ninth will always be lucky for me,” he’d say to her, each time worded a little more lovingly.
“Why? What’s so special about it?” she’d ask in mock innocence, knowing fully well what he’d reply but wanting to hear it anyway.
“Well, the person I love most in the world was born that day.
Anjali would never tire of hearing these words.

That day too, he was on board talking to her when it happened. “Happy birthday, sweetheart. “
“How I wish you were here with me,” she’d said.
“I am always around you even when I cannot be,” he’d replied.
“That doesn’t even make sense,”  she had scowled. He had laughed, making her blush even through the miles between them.

But even before she knew it, the laugh in his voice had changed...to panic.
Then confusion.
Chaos.
And the phone had gone blank!

Anjali’s eyes flew open. Life had been a recurring nightmare since the 9/11 attack ten years ago.
Today, as she mindlessly checked the birthday messages and missed calls on her phone, his voice still resonated in her ears...as if it had all happened just yesterday.

Warm tears trickled down her face as she recalled his last words.
 “I am always around you, even when I cannot be.”
 His words made perfect sense now.

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#MicroFiction: New girl in town

One small gesture was all it took to make her feel like a princess again, even in this strange new place.
Bent on one knee, he flashed her a charming dimpled smile. With a gossamer touch, he slipped the sandal onto her foot, his attention unwavering, making her feel like she was the only one in the room.

She recalled that day when a similar charmer had stirred a similar feeling inside her. But she had left that all behind. The past felt like another life...another world.
Was she falling in love all over again? Hadn’t the journey through the rabbit hole taught her anything at all? She found herself dreaming once again. This time she’d got it right.

The bubble popped only when the sales man in the shoe store scurried off to attend to another customer.
Cinderella sighed. She needed to snap out of her fairy tale hangover.

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#MicroFiction - 'Besotted'

“She’s the most selfish creature I’ve ever seen. I don’t know why you love her so much.”

He laughed. His friend was trying to stuff sense into him again.

But that’s not the way love functioned. What he felt for her was unconditional.

“If I were you, I’d have thrown her out of the house already,” his friend frowned. “She does a fine job keeping you on your toes. And for what?” he paused for effect. “Does she even acknowledge the attention? No! Always acting high and mighty, the queen that she is.”

It was true. She literally owned him and there were times he felt she didn’t care at all.

“But just because they don’t love you the way you want, doesn’t mean it’s not love, no?” he reminded himself.

Even now he could feel her eyes on him from the other side of the room.  The expression on her face was smug, reserved only for those who had the liberty of living life, nine times over.

Stretching on the davenport, she stifled a bored yawn and resumed to lick her majestic Persian fur.

“Quit trying,” she hissed at the friend. “He is not going anywhere.”

Then meowing sweetly at her besotted human, she jumped in his lap for her daily dose of belly rubs, and purred authoritatively.
“Not without my permission.”

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Blood justice (A microstory)

“This doesn’t seem like the work of a human," commented the investigating officer, wiping the beads of perspiration from his forehead.

“Haven’t heard of any wild animals in the area,” said his mate.
Both exchanged a silent stare.

They were at the scene of the crime. The victim, a seventeen year old boy, had been discharged that very evening from a remand home for juvenile delinquents. Within a couple of hours, his mangled body had been discovered in the woods behind his house, stark naked, eyeballs upturned, entrails out.

A few blocks away, a paraplegic Mrs D’Souza chortled...for the first time since her daughter had been raped to death seven months ago, in the same woods.
Justice had been finally served!


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 I am taking my Alexa rank to the next level with Blogchatter'

'Always & forever' (a short story)

Miles away, living in a different city, Ajay missed her terribly...sometimes even more than family. His family would often tease him about it; that he spent more time with her than with them. But what was presumed to be puppy love had blossomed into a symbiotic dependency over the years.

Now in a new city, lonliness felt like a visceral pain every time he entered his empty apartment. He had promised he'd come back for her as as soon as he had settled in at his workplace. Until then, they'd have to make do with webcam and phone.

She'd always been a patient girl. Confident of her love, she was sure he'd never leave her in the lurch. Ajay still remembered the look in her beautiful brown eyes when he told her he had to leave for another city. It had pained him as much as it had saddened her...the moment of separation outside the airport.

The silence in his empty apartment made him miss her even more. He missed every moment of the time spent with her---those lovely walks they took together, the wordless understanding they would sometimes share, the comfort of her cozy hugs. Two weeks here and he'd realised why they say absence made the heart grow fonder.

His nostalgic pinings were interrupted by the chime of his computer.  8 pm; it was time for the daily rendezvous with his sweetheart. Enthusiastically, he switched on his webcam.

"Yo bro! Ready for your date?" said his brother, grinning on the other side of the computer screen.

"Dude, don't waste my time. Where is she?" Ajay frowned, straining his neck looking for his beloved.

He could hear her now. Music to his ears. Excited yelps reached their crescendo as the webcam was shifted and an enthusiastic golden retriever came slowly into focus, wagging her soft furry tail in excitement.
Ajay's joy knew no bounds, as his little darling climbed up his brother's lap and smothered the computer screen with wet sloppy kisses.

"I miss you too, old girl," he cried, almost hugging his laptop.  "I miss you too..."

***

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This post is published for #OpenNTalk Blogger's League hosted by Dipika Singh of Gleefulblogger
Ruchie Verma - Wigglingpen in association with SummerBarn, Vedantika Herbals, Nyassa, Explore Kids World.

#OpenNTalk is a bloggers league wherein forty selected bloggers are divided into eight teams. Each team has five members, who will blog on varied topics during the month of June. Each blogger will post a series of four posts, one post every week. 

My team for the Bloggers League is #CrossBorderSisters, and blogging with me are my four other team mates namely
1: Aditi:  Blog| Facebook | Twitter | Instagram

2: Manisha: Blog| Facebook | Twitter | Instagram
3. Anagha: Blog| Facebook | Twitter | Instagram
4: Bhawna: Blog| Facebook | Twitter | Instagram

So do hop on this bandwagon, and cheer us during our journey. Your views on the posts are most welcome.

Cheers and love!

A free bird

The door of the golden cage was kept open until the bird with clipped wings expressed her desire to fly...as it was only then that the world realised that she was capable of dreaming.

But how had she dared to commit such a blasphemous  crime? The foolish creature had taken undue advantage of the privilege bestowed upon her---she had dared to fall in love with the sky.
The Gods were now fuming with anger. She had left them with no other choice. They had to act immediately. And that's what they did.

Soon enough, the dice was cast. Her fate was sealed. The door of the golden cage would stay shut until the day she'd lose her will to soar....unil the day she'd gaze blankly at the open door and choose the comfort of the golden cage...until the day she'd laugh at the memory of the silly dream she'd once dared to dream, of a brilliant blue sky that she'd once wished to venture.

However, the bird with the clipped wings was resilient. She refused to resign to her fate and continued to dream. Every day, she'd watch the sky through the bars of the golden cage. She'd pray for the door to open. But the Gods paid a deaf ear to her pleas. Afterall, some rules could never be broken---birds with clipped wings should not dream of flying.

And so life went on, as it always did. The door stayed shut. Grief stricken, the broken hearted bird kept dreaming and humming her melancholic tunes from the golden cage. 

Until one day, she finally gave up and died.

That was when the door opened. As her soul escaped her body, the cage was cleaned. She was now free to make love to the open sky. Her clipped wings didn't matter anymore. She was finally a free bird.

K for 'Kris Kringle & the miracle of Christmas'

I remember that childhood so long ago

When Christmas meant to me

More than just a public holiday,

When red stockings hung over the fireplace,

And couples kissed under mistletoes,

When trees were decked with handmade ornaments,

And faces gleamed with sublime smiles,

When the fragrance of baked cookies wafted in cozy kitchens,

And melting moments congealed into flavored memories;

Rose, cinnamon and caramel chocolate...

Yuletide bakes and a glass of milk

We'd keep aside for Santa Claus

Hoping to tempt him into staying longer

And score brownie points with him.

He needed the energy, we coveted the gifts,

'Twas going to be a long night

As sleepy children all over awaited him

The big fat guy with the snowy beard;

The one who laughed 'Ho Ho Ho'

And traveled all the way from the North Pole

On his reindeer sleigh

To celebrate the spirit of Christmas,

Just like us excited souls

Nibbling off the choco-chip cookies

Bit by bit

With a guilt free conscience;

'Santa could do with a diet'

I remember that childhood so long ago,

We'd meet the gingerbread man in books and dreams,

And greet Frosty and Rudolph in carols sung tone deaf.

When Mum would tuck us warm in bed,

But instead we'd stay awake and write letters

Praying for a surprise of our choice

We'd write to Father Christmas.

A sleepless night spent counting stars,

We'd hardly realize when we'd drop off to sleep.

Morning come and we'd rush to search

For presents from Father Christmas.

One in the stocking near the fireplace,

Another under the decked up tree,

The best one we'd always find last,

Besides the pillow on our ruffled beds.

Just like life,

Where surprises lie unnoticed,

Often in the most obvious places.

Wrapped in bright pink paper and satin ribbons,

We'd indulge the present and save the wrap

In the museum of our innocence

Like the glass of milk that Santa had forgotten to empty,

In fear that we might wake up,

Sowing a temporary doubt in our silly heads.

Perhaps Santa was lactose intolerant too,

Just like Daddy.

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K for 'Kris Kringle & the miracle of Christmas' is the eleventh post in the 'A-Z Series' of posts, a chain of write-up's by me on topics starting with each alphabet of the English language. Read back and forth for the other posts, and please feel free to contribute your thoughts on the subject.

The last illusion

I have witnessed this scene unfolding, maybe in a dream. 

I am seated in the front row of a crowded auditorium, wearing a warm pink pinafore, a ruddy tote slung over my right shoulder. I couldn't be more than fourteen or fifteen, my face has that flushed look most anxious teenagers have. I have fuchsia ribbons in my hair, and am wearing shoes to match. Even the spectacles that I keep adjusting over my nose time and again are tinted rose. I must be having a really bizarre fashion sense to dress up like that (but maybe that can be forgiven because I am dreaming.) The crowd is buzzing with the excitement one would normally see at a circus. But there are no animals around. The tent is illuminated with fairy lights, and clouds of glitter rise from the ground adding to the charm of the place.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. The show is about to commence," a woman on the stage announces. She is beautiful with flawless skin and an hour glass figure.
The show she is referring to is the magic show by renowned conjurer and illusionist, Efil Llasuskcuf. I know because I am a huge fan of his, just like all the other enthusiastic spectators in the audience.

I stare in awe at the shimmering tent, the glittering lights, the busy back stage, it all looks surreal---a scene from those picture books I loved as a child. It only makes me more eager to know what is in store. I take off my glasses for a while, the pressure has caused the skin on the bridge of my nose to pit. As I rub the depressed area with my fingers, I notice that the tent doesn't seem as attractive any more. It now seems to be made of dirty tarpaulin. The enthusiastic announcer is now retreating back stage with a scowl on his face. All of a sudden, she is looking rather overweight, not that beautiful at all. Perhaps her scowl put things in perspective, I think to myself. I adjust the ribbons in my hair. There are sullen adults all around me complaining of the dust. I see what they are saying. It is rather dusty, this place. Perhaps the dim lights did not allow me to notice the grime settled on the seats. I try to distract myself from worrying about my lovely dress getting dirty. Trying to catch the attention of the people around always helps. I check out the faces in the crowd. They too have come to watch the show, I guess. None of them look too pleased though. I try smiling at the plump woman sitting besides me.

"Nice day, isn't it?" I say, trying to start a conversation.

She nods but says nothing. I become a little conscious. I fidget with the glasses in my hands. She now looks at me, rather wistfully.

"I used to wear those," she says, a ghost of a smile emerging on her face. Then regaining her sombre expression, she continues, "a long time ago."

Clutching my glasses a little more tight, I decide not to talk to her any more. She seems disinterested. No one except me seems to be willing to share a smile. I am the only one eager to strike a conversation. The reluctance in her attitude disappoints me a little. I put on my glasses, and wait for the show to start. A little later, when I glance in her direction, I see her give me a big broad smile. I wave back.

Efil Llasuskcuf is greeted with a loud round of applause. He takes his position on the podium, and gets ready for his performance. I wonder if he requires any rehearsals at all. After all he must have performed a million times. People say his magic never gets rusty and that he never goes wrong. Each of his shows has a surprise element---he never announces his tricks before hand, I've heard. The anticipation of this much awaited feat makes adrenaline rush through my veins. I wonder what wondrous trick he is going to perform.

"Today, Mr Efil is going to treat you all to a special act. He has been bored of performing the usual rabbit-out-of-the-hat trick, and has decided to retire from the world of magic. Before leaving, he wants you to witness his last feat, a special magic before his final bow,"

There were mixed reactions from the audience. People were both happy and sad, happy because they were going to witness a never-before event in the history of magic, and sad because this was the last time they would be seeing Mr Efil perform. I adjust the spectacles on my nose. They help me see only the bright side---I feel lucky to be a part of this magnificent event.
Strangely, I cannot seem to ignore the gleam in his eyes. It seems a little diabolical, but I wave it off as my imagination.

E.L speaks, "What is about to unfurl is something much much bigger than my usual card tricks and vanishing illusions. It is going to affect one of you in a colossal way. It will expose your weakness, yet magnify your strength. It is going to bring about a permanent change. It will reveal ugly truths, but will also uncover beautiful lives."

Then looking around in the audience, he asks, "Volunteers anyone?"
I feel his gaze fall on me.

Before I can even respond, I feel my feet comply. They trot towards the podium. Something in my heart tells me that I am to be a part of this final act.

Hocus-pocus, Abracadabra, and POOF!!! 
A cloud of dust springs up from nowhere. There is something in my eye. I have to take off those rose tinted glasses to see clearly. 
CRUNCH! I hear a sound. I open my eyes only to see Efil Llasuskcuf crushing my glasses under his feet. He stomps on them until they turn to tiny sparkling pieces of pink dust. I see the dust and grime settling everywhere. He smiles at me. I know I am supposed to feel angry. How am I supposed to view the world without my rose tinted glasses? 

But to my surprise, I no longer care... 
I am not just a part of the final act. I am the final act.

Yes, I have witnessed this scene unfolding, maybe in a dream. 

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Writer's note: Take a special moment, and read the name of the illusionist backwards. It would help splash a little more light on the post.

C for 'Chimera'

Those who knew her claimed it was the uncertainty that she was in love with...

She could not single out any trait she adored him for. She was impressed with his versatility; her endless pursuit of the perfect amalgamation of attributes she so desired had almost come to an end...or so she believed.

The blend of contrasting qualities was as perplexing as was alluring. He was the perfect representation of power. Self-righteousness, determination, grit were some of his best qualities. A deep sense of pride for being a self made man, a majestic fervor, blue-blooded aggressiveness and a fierce unbridled passion only managed to increase his appeal.
However, the world has always been witness to varied hues of human nature. His fluctuating temperament was perhaps just one mixed-up shade. It was as if he possessed different sets of DNA inside him, exhibiting a splay of multiple conflicting personalities on the outside---a fine combination of malevolence and benevolence.
The diametrically opposite sensitive side proved just that. He could be quite the emotional fool at times. Mild mannered, passive and completely vulnerable to emotions, this subservient side stood entirely juxtaposed to the brazen king she otherwise saw him for.

However, the paradox would not end there. She would be stunned by the shrewdness of his conniving mind. They said nobody could survive his bite; it was akin to that of a serpent. She had witnessed the spewing of venom, the scheming mind at work. Apprentice to the devil himself, he knew exactly how to maneuver victory in his favor. That was the side she feared most; nobody could read his mind then. Nobody, no matter how close, was privy to his serpentine intentions.

He was a parody of errors, a prodigal being. He was a chest of secrets, a contradiction of sorts. Simba, Billy and Viper all rolled in one.

She could not comprehend her own emotions when it came to him. What was it that she felt for him really---admiration, empathy, fear? Was he a hero she had grown to worship or a monster she had started to feel afraid of? Was he the truth that reigned supreme or an incredulous lie she was trying to believe in?

The secret continued forever. Nobody could ever see him the way she did.  Who can confirm the stories behind the mystic, the occult, and the unseen anyway?

Some guess he was a muse she had fallen in love with.
Others call him her inspiration, the reason behind her philosophy, the lyrics to her song, the color of her soul, the fruit of a blessing, the power of a curse.
Some call him a sin she could not resist. Others say he was a dream she never woke up from, a phantom who broke her heart, a husband she had once idolized, an over-familiar friend. .
 
Those who knew her claimed it must have been the uncertainty that she was in love with---the ambiguity of her fantasy...the enigma of a chimera called 'love'. 

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Writers note: 
For those who think this piece was a bit cryptic, I'd take this opportunity to explain the thought that triggered it.
A 'Chimera' (as per Greek mythology) is supposed to a fire breathing monster composed of parts of more than one animal (usually a lion, a goat and a snake). The term is used in literature to describe something widely imaginative.
The above piece speaks mainly of a lover 'She' is totally enamored by, insanely passionate about, completely overwhelmed with the idea of.
Slowly but surely, the lines open up and you realize that perhaps 'He' is someone she has made up in her mind. His attributes (even the unattractive ones) are the characteristics she has always wanted in her dream man. a fantasy that she harbours. Perhaps he is just a normal man, a flawed mortal. But she places him on a pedestal, elevates him to a celestial level. No matter how absurd it might seem to others, to her, he is perfect, flawless, supreme. Come to think of it, isn't that what we often imagine our love to be---an amalgamation of all the qualities we secretly and not so secretly desire? So she dreams of him being powerful yet equally gentle, sinister yet mysteriously attractive.
The lines in italic font are deliberately directed towards the chimerical quality of the lover that she has made up largely from her imagination.
The secret continues because nobody else can ever view him in the way she does, something that every one in love will be able to relate to or realize in retrospect. After all, isn't love exactly that...an exaggerated day dream, a wild imagining, an unforgettable chimera?

C for 'Chimera' is the third post in the 'A-Z Series' of posts, a chain of articles written by me on topics starting with each alphabet of the English language. Read back and forth for the other posts, and please feel free to contribute your thoughts on the subject :)