You were like a teeny tiny sprout on a vast barren field. A bright little ray of sun in the midst of dark nimbus clouds.

It has been a busy day in the office. Abhi is feeling so exhausted. He said weakly, “I should go to bed early tonight!” Soon, he fell asleep. At 3 o’clock in the morning, there was someone knocking on the door continuously. Abhi woke up hesitantly, and he rushed to the door. As soon as he opened the door, he was startled for a second. Abhi shouted, “Vikram, what are you doing here?” Vikram rushed into Abhi’s living room while shouting, “Don’t leave them! Don’t leave them, Abhi!” Abhi was shocked and did not know what to do. Vikram is Abhi’s best friend. They studied together. Abhi got the campus placement, and Vikram took over his family’s business after his father’s demise. Abhi and Vikram met each other whenever they were free. However, due to their busy schedule, they hardly met in the past year.

I: The Tale of Bitter Truth Glaring at the drizzling grey clouds, Naina stood at the entrance of her home drenched in her wet school uniform. She was determined to confront her mother today with the question that had been burning her for months. Meanwhile, for the tenth time, she heard her grandfather plead with her to change her clothes & drink some hot milk, but she didn’t want to. She first wanted the answer. So she asked him again, “Where is papa?” & he remained as silent as he was throughout the way when he picked her up from school. The old one knew that his granddaughter was as stubborn as his daughter. Perhaps even a little more & he could not think of a way to calm her. He presumed that the children in the class might have asked about it because the teachers wouldn’t. They knew the truth & his daughter made sure of it. Rukmini was back home after work as he thought of ways to pacify his granddaughter. Approaching the entrance, she could see Naina waiting by the door. Noticing her, she knew that evening wouldn’t be so leisurely. Before she even stepped inside, Naina shouted, “Mama, where is papa!” Glancing at the old one, Rukmini took a deep breath. Before she spoke, her father warned, “She is too young.” All her life, Rukmini was also lied to by her parents in the hope that she was protected. But sooner rather than later, the truth about their debt flipped her life. Kneeling before her blood, Rukmini replied, “Your father...” The old one interrupted her to presage, “She cannot handle it.” Realising it was folly to protect a coward, Rukmini continued, “Your father left us, Naina.” Listening to her father’s smear, Rukmini shouted, “Let her know that her father isn’t...” She held her words for a second before continuing in a quieter tone, “That he isn’t a beacon of hope or an ideal of trust to look up to.” “Feed your child with such poison & she will become bitter & senseless.” noted the old one. Stepping inside, Rukmini replied, “Leagues better than live a lie until reality breaks her down.” Concluding the sentence, she realised it wasn’t time to fight her battles but instead help the little one. Looking at her with eyes filled with tears, Rukmini hugged her. Holding her mother tightly, Naina faintly whispered, “How could he leave us?” & Rukmini couldn’t help but relive the moment she hated the most. The moment her husband stepped out of their home, leaving her & their baby for the love of his life. II: The Tale of a Lamenting Artist Looking out the window, Naina could see the black clouds roaring and the winds invading their city but not a drop of rain. She stood before her Professor in his chamber as he skimmed through her submission. She knew her work would ensure reprimanding, but she couldn’t help herself from writing it. Ever since she lost her grandfather about a year ago, her life has not been the same. He was the only force protecting her by projecting confidence & with his loss, Naina failed in everything. Her moral support vanished, and her mother sought help than offered some. Putting her submission down, the Professor exclaimed, “Yet another monologue, Naina?” Cutting her eye contact, Naina remained silent & leaning back in his chair the Professor continued, “Readers are not in for your therapy, lady.” What could she say? That her mother has lost herself completely? Or that her loneliness was eating her creativity? Or that she loved to live in the past rather than face the present? What could she say? Adjusting his glasses, the Professor expressed, “We all write about ourselves, but the mastery of enclosing the truth with a false reality makes us professional, lady. I’m afraid you are..” Hoping to defend herself, Naina interrupted, “I’m going through a lot, sir.” “So are we all. You don’t see me doing mediocre work,” the Professor reacted with a smile. Waiting for a moment & witnessing her muteness, the Professor continued, “My kindness won’t spare the wolves out there from judging you, Naina. Men who never wailed a day in agony to jot a sentence will be ready to fling their criticism within seconds.” Standing up, he gave Naina her submission before concluding, “If you still want to be traditionally published, do not complain or convince. Just let them live in your world & they will appreciate your work.” With a small nod & a blank expression, Naina took her submission before leaving the room. As she walked back, she recalled how over the years, she was told that all her heroes do not have a parent figure & her protagonists often seek answers that make no difference. However, Naina convinced herself that only those characters motivated her to write more. When someone complained about recurring patterns in her stories, she defended them by telling herself, “There is nothing wrong with it.” When her mind questioned her actions, she quietened it by thinking, “What’s wrong with expressing characters through her own experiences?” Even after that, if her mind continued, she replied to herself, “I don’t care! I’ll write whatever I want. However, I want to. As long as I relish whatever I write, I don’t see any problem!” But for the first time, Naina wondered if her mind was right. Maybe her Professor meant to say that it wasn’t. Maybe all those years of arrogance & ego-boosting might not have been the best thing for her. She told herself that perhaps it would be wise to get help & live beyond the trauma of abandonment. III: The Tale of a Questionnaire Listening to the raindrops & smelling the sweet sand’s fragrance, Naina lay on her bed looking at the ceiling. Feeling the cold air through the window, she recalled Nihal’s question, “Did she honestly deserve it?” For a while, she could not understand how her supervisor only perceived her mother as a fictional character & nothing more. It was not the first work she showed to him & it was nothing but a little different from the rest of them in the past. She was curious as to why Nihal asked this question today. It has been six months since she finished college & if not for her Professor, she would have joined the master’s program. However, he advised, “Collaborate with a published author Naina & maybe your passions could be put to the right use.” Saying so, he suggested working with Nihal Nayan, the author of “Duality”, and Naina knew no bounds to her happiness when Mr Nihal even agreed to take her as an apprentice. Since her first day, the only rule Nihal had was that Naina must write a thousand words every day & if a day came when she missed, that would be her last day. For a long time, Naina ensured that her submissions did not reveal her personal life & she followed her Professor’s advice of fictionalising her submissions to their best. Nonetheless, Naina didn’t know what got into her one day. She finally wrote down the story of her father walking away from her mother. Maybe it’s her undying desire within that wanted to visualise the moment. Perhaps she wanted to live the moment that haunted her once. Today when she hesitantly gave in her submission, Nihal knew it would be fascinating. When he read it in the afternoon, he asked, “Could you tell me more about the woman who was left behind in this story, Naina?” Anticipating the response, Naina grinned. She thought to herself to not overpower her mother. So she replied, “A strong independent woman holding onto her beliefs no matter what life throws at her. What more can I say?” Taking off his reading glasses & placing them on the rectangular table that separated them, Nihal asked, “Do you believe in destiny or karma, Naina?” Since this was the first time someone asked her about it, Naina thought for a moment before saying, “I believe we reap what we sow.” Bending towards the table and resting his chin on his fists, Nihal’s gaze intensified as he asked, “Then do you really think this woman deserved it?” Staring into his dark black eyes that seemed like the night sky, Naina remained silent. A moment later, Nihal continued, “Writers are playing Gods when they define characters Naina. Though we fancy the twists & turns, we promote hope because it is worth it.” Though Naina nodded, her speechlessness was due to the worm that just crept into her mind about her mother’s tale. For the first time, she wondered, what if her father walked away because her mother might not have been as faithful or responsible as she claims to be? But now as she lay on her bed, it no longer seemed like a suspicion. IV: The Tale of a Truth-teller Looking out the glass, Naina could see the grey clouds pour heavily while the scent of the coffee lit up the evening. Though she wasn’t interested in meeting Shiva, everyone around them, including her mother, wholeheartedly wished they would become a couple. Facing her was a lean man with an oval face decked in a light blue shirt wearing rimless glasses, cutting through the fruit cake with his fork. Taking a bite, he said, “So, Naina, before you decide if I am worthy, I would like to confess that I was once in a relationship.” A smile appeared on Naina’s face for the first time in twenty minutes. Glancing her twinkling eyes, Shiva continued, “I want you to know that we have been together emotionally & physically but had to part ways because she could not present me at her home as an entrepreneur.”

The assassin landed in the middle of the corridor with a puff of dust. He has been through the Quantum bridge a thousand times before, but his head still reeled from the impact. He looked at his watch. The time read 9.9.2032 1137 Hrs. He stopped his humming ARK and placed it in his pocket. He walked to the room’s door, cocked his handgun, and wrapped it in a package. He knew he couldn’t break in. The instructions given to him were clear. “Enter the zone. Extract the asset. Kill the rest.” The man knocked on the door thrice, paused and said: “I have the package. Just like you wanted”. There was some muffled conversation inside. Then somebody walked up to the door and opened it. Cover Photo by Pankaj Tottada The assassin walked inside the room, holding the package in his hand. While he was being frisked, he looked around. Six armed personnel in black robes guarded another six unarmed people in white robes. He looked for his asset and spotted her lying on the floor with a guard standing against her. The whole place looked ragged and was lit by a lone window on the sidewall. The guy finished searching for him and asked for the package. The assassin smiled, unwrapped the handgun and shot him in the head. The room erupted.

Aparna spent most of her time before textbooks, but she could have scored better in her examinations. Maybe because she never learnt but only tried to memorise, and this technique always bailed on her at the last minute. After her first-semester result dropped, Aparna came home and just slipped her college bag and fell on her bed. Illustrated by Amritha Shree Laxmi Observing her, Aparna’s mother made some tea before coming to her and sitting beside her. Passing her the cup of tea, she asked, “If something is destined to reach you, it will! Even if it is beneath the ocean. On the other hand, if it is not destined to reach you, it won’t. Even if it is between your lips!” As she sipped, Aparna’s mother asked, “Now tell me. Do you think you were destined to earn a good score?”

Some patients you never forget. Some don’t let you forget. And there are some you don’t want to remember At times in the night, thoughts swirl

While the soldiers’ march, Anna peeps through the basement. Anna is a jew who lost her family because of a man’s atrocious racism and now feels like a bird in a cage waiting for freedom! Rosa called her from upstairs. “Today, you don’t have to take your breakfast in the cellar, and you can come up to have it!” While they walk up, Rosa tells Anna, “Gobbles just announced on the radio that Germany won the war, and if it is true, no jew will be spared.” “I have managed to cook for today with whatever is available, please eat full, and I will make arrangements to send you to Switzerland. You will be safe there.” Due to her young age, Anna didn’t bother to listen carefully to what Rosa said but moved towards the radio. She tunes it to a different channel and hears jazz coming in. She makes a few moves, and her frock pulls a plate from the table. At the same time, there is a knock on the door with a familiar voice calling out. Suddenly, all surrounding sounds drowned out, making the heartbeat progressively louder. Lieutenant Herman comes demanding, “Open the door.”

Disclaimer: For ages above 18 only. Swetha’s thoughts had always been random. But a major chunk of her thoughts were fantasies that she often shared with her mother. She was Swetha’s best friend, and their shared kind of intimacy was envied, even by her friends. But when she announced that she would be studying Literature after her Engineering, her mother not only disapproved of her ideas but started looking for a suitable boy. Later, Swetha moved out of her house and joined a course in journalism, heeding the advice of her boyfriend. He told her that once she became a journalist, she would have all the time in the world and could do whatever she wanted. The young man later felt that his life and Swetha’s would never fit in and proposed a breakup. It did not shock or surprise Swetha, as she knew that this was bound to happen, and she had to confront it with all her power. This incident did not shake her life, but she started doing what she was putting off for years. She started reading everything about love, every famous story, poem and newspaper article. This led her to the works of Nandini Priyadarshini, an acclaimed writer known for her poems and short stories, all about love and sharing souls. Nandini Priyadarshini, who was regarded as the pioneer of the Women’s writing movement in India, had her share of troubles in life. But, she chose an outlet to vent them, a worthy outlet, and her feelings took the form of words, and they warmed millions of hearts. People fell in love with her stories first and with her later. Young boys and girls attended her workshops and queued in front of her book signings. All this faded into oblivion when she announced her marriage to some Karthik. In everyone’s eyes, he was a very suitable man. If only he was ten years older rather than younger than Nandini. The poor love birds had to go for a clandestine wedding to avoid the glaring eyes of the media. But it did not stop there. She died four years after her marriage, and this gave enough fodder for the media to investigate her life more. Her husband was suspected, thrashed and accused of killing her, but when the reason for death was known to be cardiac arrest, they had no choice but to accept it. Swetha could not help but take an interest in Nandini and Karthik’s relationship. It was when Karthik started publishing his own works, Swetha decided to meet him and get an interview. She gave herself the task of writing their love story and always wondered how someone like Nandini loved a person, accepted their faults, and still married him. It was one of those routine press meets where Swetha met Naveen, who appeared to be more interested in Nandini-Karthik’s relationship. Naveen has been attempting to get in touch with Karthik, but he was, of course, a celebrity and whatever channels Naveen tried, they stopped dead at some point or other. Swetha thought, through Naveen she could find a way to meet Karthik, and the more she tried, the more she liked to fancy that she had met Karthik, and they spoke to each other like best friends, and their bond grew thicker. Those days, she started questioning her choices and almost decided to quit her job as a reporter cum copy editor and convinced herself to go back to what her graduation degree offered. But when she saw the magazine Outpost’s cover page with Karthik and a caption at the bottom, ‘Interviewed by Naveen Chandra’, she saw a way in front of her eyes.

When your wife dies, you find everything around you feels different. The music, food, and movies suddenly feel tasteless. Your motivation to start your day is absent, and the desire to stay back in bed is whole. It feels like there is nothing to live for, or no force is left that pushes you forward. You are no longer seeking anything. Every object reminds me of her, and everything has a story of its own with her. She is like a spirit that is everywhere, and I can often hear her voice in the house. Her sari, dupatta, pearl earrings, and every one of her possessions no longer has the same spark. Maybe they realised she was gone, or I felt so. It feels heavy from my throat to my chest, absent of the love she gave me, and in this pain, I feel a sense of relief just by imagining her wrapped up around my arms, closer to my heart. At last, all that was left for me were those threads of memories, and all I could hold close to was the walking stick she gave me.

Can you imagine a world, A world where people can reset their lives just as Phoenix rises from the ashes. Would you reset your life after every heartbreak? Cover Photo by Kevin Braun Can you imagine a world, A world where people communicate with the healthiest minds without evil intentions or blinding denial?

Disclaimer: For ages above 18 only. Vishwanadh was forty-two years old. He had a wife, a teenage kid, and enough money to live well. He was a lonely guy with few acquaintances, and his wife was as strange to him as his next-door neighbour. When he returned from coaching camp last month, he took his family to a beautiful restaurant, spoke precisely three sentences to his wife, nodded three times to his kid, and then they both started chatting. He didn’t feel alienated or alone since, according to him, this is how all family outings operate. He activated his Bluetooth and began listening to the match broadcast. Vishwanadh thought he was correct, and his way of life shaped him into the man he is today. Unfortunately, there was no question that the guy had no social life, no one to confide in, and that his marriage was more of a necessity than something one would do when they loved so much. He used to retreat at the first sign of affection from anyone, including his parents, and he assumed that this was how everyone lived. The more he became successful in what he had done, the more he believed everything was all right. What he never foresaw was that one cannot go on doing what they’re good at till they die. Careers end, and one would be forced to live with some sort of family and if that family doesn’t mean anything to you, you’re in trouble. Vishwanadh’s father used to play Cricket, and when he represented the state, he became eligible for a government job. As soon as he got the job, he moved away from the game because the purpose was served, and he accomplished what he intended to. The only thing he didn’t foresee was his son liking the game. Like all boys of his age, Vishwanadh loved playing Cricket, it offered him so much, and the time he spent on the ground with his friends made him happy. He resented going to school and even home sometimes, and it was the ground where he found his friends and like-minded people. Unlike in school, there wasn’t much to master here. His coach said he was a natural at hitting the ball, and his fielding was okay, so everything came easily to him. His friends always wanted to understand how he played and why he was so good. His father had other ideas, but Vishwanadh never thought his father would stand in between him and his goals. The boy’s passion was contagious, and Vishwanadh’s father couldn’t help discussing the game with him, a game he used as a ladder to get a job, a game that is so volatile and doesn’t offer any stability to people who want certainties in life. But that was his problem, and he never realized that. Vishwanadh never wanted anything to be certain, he just wanted to play as much as he could and he thought this would make him happy and it was only his happiness that mattered. “I don’t believe he’s very interested in what you want to accomplish with your life,” his mother added. She could feel the disappointment on his face as she stood next to him on the balcony. There was nothing this boy hadn’t attempted to do to satisfy his father and get his devotion and love. But, whatever the son had done, his father was unconcerned. This compassion and love, the father felt, should be reserved for oneself and should be used sparingly on others. Pavan was well aware of his father’s unwillingness to be open, as well as his seeming indifference to everyone in his life. The old man had always been an absent parent to him, and despite the fact that they shared a house, they never had a moment to call it theirs. “I am sure he will like me when he sees me playing Cricket. He loves Cricket more than anything and if I try my luck at it and become successful..” said the fifteen-year-old.

He woke up in a dark and eerie place. Deep in the corner, there sat a girl, so small that she would have gone unnoticed had it not been for her long tresses curling over themselves and making their way up to his feet. Legs bent up to reach her chest, and with her head between her knees, she was whimpering. “E-Excuse me…” She kept crying. It was surprising how her soft sobs tugged so hard on his gut. Cover Photo by Nikhila Kotni He must have hiked this mountain a hundred times with his friends, and he could have sworn he had never seen this castle before. His friends had all been just as surprised but, surprisingly, not even half as curious as him. Their fear had gotten the better of them, and they had left him all alone on his quest to explore the castle. More astonishing to him was his lack of fear. Unlike most guys of his age, he had always loved fairy tales. His strange fascination with these tales of magic and wonder had carried over well into adulthood. But, even if he hadn’t, drawing a comparison to his favourite story was easy. The eerie-looking castle, the sad girl, living at the top of the tower, her unusually long hair - this was Rapunzel.