Tag Archives: short story

50 word story: Unsung chapters

One hundred and twenty three more- chapters that remained unsung, in the room’s muggy corner. I cringed under the sheets as I liked the coherence with my indefinite pain. Better than ascertaining that it will remain untouched, unsung always.

He adored her desolation more, tearing apart those many luring pages.

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From the life of an amputee

It was that hour. Asphyxiating her hopes, wishes and choking the dreams till their limits, she was preparing, having no choice.

She was all set to give away a part of her flesh to the hungry land, cloaking the torment with a soft smile. The operation theatre felt smaller than it was, the world felt tinier yet she won over her psychologist’s will power. She felt as if she was being crammed in a box of stinging incidents, bestowed, specially upon her. The dilapidated flesh, suffused with gangrene was anaesthetized to be operated upon. When the surgical equipments pierced her flesh and cut her bones, she learnt to detach from every illusion that kept her stagnant. She wore her smile on throughout, even after she was detached from the limb, not a tear drop yet.

That was the moment when her perspective of beauty, wishes, hopes, activeness were redefined. Encountering death so close couldn’t have polished this gem better.

Now she knows how to rise above the dust, shattering any obstacle. It is for the rarest of the lot who get to live two lives. Sometimes it is as if the whole world is breaking down in front of her, barring her from exploring. It was hard, giving away the control of her body to the hydraulic system; needing a machine’s approval to walk.

Breaking down was a choice in life, but was never in her’s.

A feather fallen from a bird’s wing cannot hamper its flight, can it? The flesh that was ripped off carried away the happiness of many, in turn teaching how to live without complaints. One day, she asked me, “Is that why the society calls us specially-abled?”

The Abyss With Dimensions

She pondered over her father’s illness and their financial crunch. Her satin lilac skirt and a contrasting blouse not only claimed her naivete, also making her sweat in the sweltering summer noon. The parched road she was walking along had tiny shady shops alongside; colourful candy shops, the smiths, umbrella repairer, grocery store and few others still bearing the essence of village tradition. It was one of those days where she was clueless of life’s happenings. Sudden demise of her mother few days back, the breadwinner, shattered her. Dreams of moving into a cottage like that of her close friend Rani’s, granddaughter of the village mayor were burnt to vapours— her tiny castle of extravagant hopes.

Her dusky skin shred drops of sweat— of grief and fear— she was responsible to raise her sister and run her house there after. Recollecting her mom’s advices that you are your own helping hand in your life, she walked and explored places every afternoon in search of an earning. That day was a bit unusual. She had a destination. A vagabond in his forties, who is usually spotted near the village temple every summer selling bangles promised to offer her a job a day before. He claimed to have the best quality bangles that carried a charm with it. She was unsure about everything that moment. Trusting her immature instincts, she went to the person for a job, a final call of her heart to survive.

“People usually are not satisfied with anything in their lives. They try to measure the dimensions of the abyss they create. To add up, people just daftly compare theirs with other’s nonexistent abyss. Once you stop all of that— you start living, you start admiring and valuing the present. The dimensions are your illusion”, he said in his husky voice before even greeting her.  She was stunned by the profoundness of words that he spilt.

Looking back, she cannot just ignore the vagabond’s eminence in the way her life’s outlook changed. Now, being in her late thirties in a cozy and comfortable apartment of her own, she recollects the girl wearing lilac skirt with all illusory dreams, the changeover, and the journey until now. ‘The way you dream can destroy your dreams’, she told her eleven year old who was pinned to her electronic device. She had her own set of life lessons to be learnt.

 

 

The Scars Of Innocence

She ran fast— under the scorching heat, with an aluminium plate sanctified of distortion, to avail the food that the refuge offered. Her tender toes burned. Five years of her life on this planet bestowed upon her the capabilities of bearing any extremity which a person stuck up within air conditioned walls all day will be terrible at. Terrible conditions of war had started showing its ugly side.
Her mom under the thatched roof, was lying almost lifeless, diseased and starving. Her mom’s everyday routine of availing food this way and feeding her first during the war times was nothing new. She managed to find the way amidst the anaemic mob to get a spatula of poorly cooked rice and a spoonful of stale vegetable.

That was a feast for her eyes and belly.

On her way back, the tiny soul didn’t raise a query of why she had to get the food today; circumstances had turned everyone flexible to any situation. Guises of people around spoke of the brutal times they were going through, that is how visuals have been for her since her birth being all these absolutely normal.


Her innocent eyes gleamed of glee when she neared her mom with the food. In the absolute silence, she kept the plate close to her mom trying hard not to disturb her and knelt down. 
“Mom, we’ll eat. It’s my favourite vegetable today” she said in her silent squeaky voice. Her mom couldn’t respond actively but managed to sit and her pale sulky eyes were filled with tears. After sharing the food that’s available, she laid down. The five-year old, with bruised tiny fingers, wrapped her mom around her neck and rested beside on the dusty rough floor, ignoring her still grumbling belly. Little did she know— death had already approached her mom that moment; she’s with a mass of flesh that doesn’t love her back anymore.


Munna, her friend came in yelling after a few minutes, “I found our horse toy that we had lost.”
She turned reflexively and whispered, “Shhh.. My mom is asleep.”

Letters That Never Spoke

The words she jotted on the paper contained fear. Letters were piled up in the nook of the room, even this would go there- she knew. The unfolded emotions of love muddled, torturing her conscience of being right to the world. The letters were given a voice but were never let to speak.

There is only one way- being right to herself or to the world.
‘What to do?’ she mumbled and dozed off.
Like everyday.