Archive for the Short stories category
March 15th, 2010
He stopped at the window display. There was something that had piqued his interest. Something that he couldn’t quite put a finger on. A scarf maybe, or perhaps the boots. Yes definitely the boots. They were an odd color. A color you wouldn’t find anywhere else, an ugly color actually.
She had had one of those boots. Ones that were so ugly they made you stand out. She had always hated her boots, but was one of those people who didn’t do much about things they hated. He on the other hand had found those boots unique, strange as they were. They suited her somehow, because just like her boots, she was ugly… in a more endearing way though.
He thought of her. He seldom did. But today, somehow, he couldn’t keep himself from thinking of her. He had seen her picture somewhere, very recently. She looked different now. Not beautiful, no she would never be that, but prettier. Like she was finally happy. Like she had finally found some peace.
He remembered the day when she had said her last goodbyes. He had taken her in his arms and kissed her lips. Not because he wanted to kiss her, but because he just didn’t know how to make her stop crying. Just before she had decided to leave, he had called her one night and told her the truth, that he had never felt anything for her and that he had forced himself to, because she was such a nice person, but had not been successful. She had taken it surprisingly well. She had swallowed it without the usual hysterics. It all went so well, that he wondered why he hadn’t done it before. Of course later, she had started to stare right past him and had started to act all crazy and weird, but at that time, that particular moment, she had seemed so perfectly still and calm.
He remembered the night they walked on the cobbled street right outside Raheja Arcade, arm in arm, their bodies tensed. He remembered exactly how she looked like. Her round face shone in the moonlight. Her nose pin was looking especially radiant. She wore a light green T shirt and had gray pedal pushers. She was wearing those ugly boots of hers.
He had chosen to remain quiet because there was not much that he had to say. She had decided to move back to Delhi and he knew that his chat with her last night had triggered off her plans to leave. He was feeling really sorry for her but knew that it would be the best thing, for both of them.
She of course was silent because that’s how she usually was – weird and emotionally unavailable. Looking back, he didn’t really understand why the two of them were together, even for the brief time that they were together. She had appeared so intriguing, and of course, she was intriguing and engaging till the last goodbye but he simply didn’t know what to do with that, how to deal with it.
On that particular night, she had looked at him very intently and then taking his hands in hers, had spoken softly into his ears, almost as if cursing him for life. She had said, ‘You will never forget me, because you will never find anyone who will love you like I do. And when I am gone, you will pine for me.’
Her words had had the desired effect and when he had reached her place, he stopped for longer than he had intended to. Throughout the drive to her home, he had kept thinking about how much he would miss her. He didn’t love her, but he was smitten. Were these two really all that same? She could touch him in these forbidden places and evoke desires that he had never known before, pleasures that he never knew existed. And yet, when he thought of her, his mind always drew a blank. He just couldn’t feel anything. He never saw her only as a good lay. No that would have been disrespectful to her. She was everything that he would have wanted to see in his future bride. She fed him, fussed over him, loved him and the sex was just amazing. But there was one thing missing… he didn’t love her.
Over the three years, her words had rang in his year every time he set foot in Koramangala. He would look at the empty seats in the Barista cafe on block 4 and think of her. He also thought of her every time he read a poem or ordered a plate of pasta. His new love interest, this beautiful catholic girl would also sometimes remind him of her. He didn’t want to think of her but simply had no other choice. It was almost as if she had cursed him. Later, when he had run into her again, he had deliberately not looked at her, deliberately ignored her. He had wanted to forget her and had wanted to erase her from his memories, but she always clawed her way in.
Time did heal the gaping hole that her insignificant presence had left in his life, but he had had to fight for it really hard. In fact, he had had to leave not only Bangalore, but also India to lose the memories of her. And still on some days, some peculiarly odd ones, her smile would flash in his thoughts and he would recount the emotional shit that she had drawn him through. And on those particular moments, he felt a mixture of hatred and pity towards her. A feeling that he just could not understand.
January 4th, 2009
“I’d gladly take her back, sins and all, because she is my flesh and blood. It’s for Quentin’s sake…And yours,” she says. “I know how you feel toward her.”
“Let her come back,” I says, “far as I’m concerned.”
“No,” she says. “I owe that to your father’s memory.”
“When he was trying all the time to persuade you to let her come home when Herbert threw her out?” I says.
“You don’t understand,” she says. “I know you don’t intend to make it more difficult for me. But it’s my place to suffer for my children,” she says. “I can bear it.”
“Seems to me you go to a lot of unnecessary trouble doing it.”
By William Faulkner, From The Sound And The Fury
May 29th, 2007
waking up every morning n seeing “1 new message” hoping its from the girl i love..
randomly noticing tht my wireless internet detector has automatically connected to a random neighbors wireless router giving me free access wen i need it the most =)
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March 13th, 2007
One Hour
There is no sun that shines here. The only light that comes through is from the tube light that hangs above me, the other one is broken. There are flies everywhere, on the tables, on the walls, inside dishes, on haggard faces and sun burnt hands. Scribbling love letters and smitten with disease.
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February 7th, 2007
*Title shamelessly copied from Indra Sinha’s book “Death Of Mr. Love”*
What are you doing?
I’m killing Mr. Love
Who are you?
Im no one in particular. I’m just… no one.
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December 13th, 2006
She smoothens her hair and curses. Some days, her hair just doesn’t get fixed. She sprayed his favorite perfume and dabs some behind her ears, just in case he decides to get a little naughty. She grabs her car keys and some CDs, just in case they decide to drive to the hills again. She then decides to make a move, stopping for just a second to check herself in the full length mirror. She smiles at the thought of seeing him again after almost a month.
Damn, these hair just don’t get smooth! More
November 21st, 2006
I understood a lot of Mahabharata only after I was through reading The Great Indian Novel, it is really a marvelous book by an equally, if not more, sexy writer. But still meeting Shashi Tharoor after having kissed your boyfriend for the first time is not such good thing. It makes you feel as if you have just committed a ‘blunder’ which is only somewhat lesser in intensity than the Iraqi Invasion, but mind you only somewhat. You are merrily shopping after your first kiss feeling all elated and what not. Then you happen to chance upon ‘The Shashi Tharoor’ on the Delivery Counter in some Cottage Emporium and you think, he looks like Shashi Tharoor and before you know it, he comes out to be the man himself. Before the bells ring and the violins strike a chord and you get a chance to brace yourself up. You blurt out, ‘Excuse me, you look like Shashi Tharoor?’ And he is like, ‘Eh, yes!?’ Not a very good beginning, not kosher at all. But who cares. I don’t.
I do. I do love him a lot. But what about his past. I still am More
November 6th, 2006
A spontaneous write in a person’s scrapbook on the site orkut…it all started with the usual yada yadas on what I do with my life, bored with the patented script of answers that documented it, I thought we toddle with the Grimm Brothers’ literature attempts, i.e., if the writer of Rapunzel were the Grimm Brothers…?
I was rapunzel living in a tall locked up tower and waiting for a prince to rescue me by ways of my long tresses. I had a wicked witch as a benefactress, considering my parents were thieves and stole tomatoes from her garden while my mum was expecting me, to nourish me hoping i’d turn out rosy (cheezy). After I was born, the wicked witch (well not so wicked since she did manage to grow me up into a damsel without a single blemish or scar and supplying me amply with skin tonics and creams -it was actually a dream of my other witch mother’s to have a pretty daughter since she fought terribly in her youth with ugliness)…anyway, coming back to the tale, I kinda wonder why she had me all locked up, I suppose she didn’t trust my hormones as soon as I turned 16 and that I’d probably elope with some dim witted pauper. My original tomato stealing parents never put up a lost and found for me or my timid father (I say timid ’cause he caved into my mum’s demands of stealing…rather he have belted her) come fighting through thorny weeds and dragons for his only forlorn daughter. I actually like my wicked mum because she had better plans set for me even before my birth (my original mum had full plans of birthing me incarcerated had my wicked mum have not been such an evil witch). So, I ended up with Prince, though my wicked mum couldn’t endure the loss of me and she tried to kill the handsome, chivalrous prince…only, I was kinda sick of seeing such an ugly old hag each day of my life and she was so overwhelmingly overbearing! I needed a life of fancy shoes and frilly frocks. So, without a second thought and much ado, I pushed my wicked mum out of the tall tower window. I haven’t heard from her since then, but I do know she isn’t dead. She’s a witch remember! And I do believe she had hidden wings.
The end.
-Sheikha
PS: I thought it darn cute 
August 25th, 2006
* This one is For Sumit… The most wonderful boy I hve known… I hope he turns into a most wonderful Man*
Thanks for always being there.
The Stale Smell of Used Socks
The Bedsheet with Countless Holes from Cigarettes
A Shoe Without A Sole
A Playstation
A Heap of Clothes From the Laundry
And in The Midst of All…
The Best Bachelor I’ve EVER Known
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July 27th, 2006
What’s it going to be then, eh?
The three of us were sitting in the pub that evening. He came along with his girl friend. She was very pretty and had everything, nice figure and all. He had landed up a cushion job in some place, all very nice with some cool pay-packet and all.
The two of them were very happy. They were sipping on their beers and smoking their cigarettes. I asked, if any one of them knew how to make smoke-rings. They said, no. I always tried making it but then I don’t even know how to take a proper drag. I never told any one that I don’t know how to smoke them ciggies properly. It makes me sound all foolish. I rarely smoke and even less of a drinker I am.
I wasn’t feeling all that okay that night. I loosened up my tie, I was not in the office anymore, I could do that. This corporate dress code is real killer, stuffs me like anything. All those suits and ties-pins and shoes and More
June 1st, 2006
(12:93) Go with this shirt of mine and lay it on my father’s face, he will become a seer
My bed is shaking. I open my eyes, my bed sheet is soaked with sweat and nothing is moving. It is said that when you experience trauma, when something bad happens, when a train hits you, it takes time for its after affects to show their face.
It’s been a week since I came back from volunteer work and Farhan has had the same experience.
Late at night, when everything is silent and the streets smell of the dead, our bodies start shaking and it seems that another earthquake is coming and death is sliding through the floors.
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May 18th, 2006
CHAPTER1: PING PONG
Mehboob 18 years old under nourished and over shaved comes out of the bathroom. His organ seems dead after the vigorous masturbation it has received. Mehboob undermining his own constant struggle with sleeping pills and mineral water feels nothing and plows ahead getting ready for a day in the rat infested hell hole known only as the university. “Its time to boogie”, Mehboob thinks as he sits in his car and masturbates yet again spurting his white liquid on the dashboard and thinking of women lost and dreams shattered in the black hole of despair.
As Mehboob is 5 minutes away from the place only known as the university some things happened. Now why they happened nobody really knows but they did, changing how Mehboob looked at life and the way he wore his shoes.
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May 9th, 2006
I and a friend of mine, Rashid are sitting together in the atrium of LUMS. It is late. We are sitting near the music room.
Someone is raping a guitar and some other idiot is trying to keep some sort of backbeat, which for some unknown reason starts and stops at illogical intervals.
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May 7th, 2006
If you listen very closely, people have the most interesting stories. Listen
A girl told one of my friends in college how her ex-boyfriend was a sloppy kisser. She told him he had interesting lips.
Another friend told me how one her friend got strange face allergies whenever she made out with her boyfriend.
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May 2nd, 2006
You open your eyes and break them.
You make it thirty seconds late and the first drop of liquid skids down your pants.
You don’t move
You want the repugnant smell of perfume to scratch itself off the bed sheet
You think that water makes no sense. It only cleans skin
Your insides stink of nightmares. Your face stinks of stupid ness
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