Disclaimer: For ages above 18 only. Part I: Heads His unruly hair hiding half his face, his hands and legs trying hard to teeter through the mud, Vinay tried not to fall off as the bag on his shoulders weighed too much for his frail body. He was excited though. He’d been selected as a winner in four of the competitions, and he’d get prizes for them on the coming annual day. So, the rain hadn’t completely dampened his emotions and he expected an easy walk home from school. As much as he wanted to return home along with his friends, they had cycles and he had to always walk. ​​All throughout his journey, there’s only one thing that’d been running in his mind for an hour and that was how to ask his parents to come for the school’s annual day celebrations. They never attended any event on their own and even when requested, they always had an excuse ready. Even then, this year was special for him and he wanted his parents there. So, he decided to ask them politely and even explain the events and everything if needed.​ Excited, he pushed open the gate and scanned the windows of the hall. There’s no one in it. So Dad wasn’t home. He walked in and set aside his bag and called his mother. There was no response. All right. She’s sleeping and is sick again. He felt sorry for his mother. He never knew why but he suspected there was more to the story his parents told him about their love and the eventual marriage. This isn’t love. This can’t be. He never saw any affection between his parents. His father loved him, sure, and his mother loved her son the way every mother would do, but was there ever a tinge of love between them? He’d no idea and there’s always one or more secrets lurking in those quarrels and shouts. They never ate dinners together, they never went out to see movies. They never did anything as a family. Vinay thought many times to ask his mother about this, but he couldn’t come up with the proper words and the embarrassment of hurting her caused dread in his stomach. But again, there was no way he could have put it without hurting either of his parents. He’s fourteen and just beginning to understand and see things in a different way. Life wasn’t too reductive and binary enough like before. Dad wasn’t home. “Oh it was one of those days of too much work at the office” is what he used to think earlier. Now he certainly knew that Dad wasn’t home because he hated being here and there was definitely somewhere else he’d be peaceful and comfortable. A place where he met his old friends or probably, a place where he’d never have to see the faces of his wife and son. His thoughts came to a halt as he heard a whimper from the bedroom. Realising he must attend to his mother, Vinay walked into the room to find her awake and smiling at him. “I’m sorry about not making anything for you today Vinu.” “I’m not feeling hungry maa.” “Why don’t you go out and get yourself something?” “I don’t want to go maa... it’s raining.” “Oh... is he home yet?” Vinay just nodded saying no and his mother’s face couldn’t help but reveal her sorrow. In the end, it took Vinay four more years to stumble across the truth that he thought would set him free and cleanse his mind once and for all. But it only brought more burden and pain to his life. Initially, he thought it was one of those regular fights wherein in the end, his father would spend most of the night watching television and not eating at the table. But Vinay had no idea that this was going to be a different one. His mother had been brave and patient and she always stood up for herself. Anything and everything could become a point of contention and Vinay at the age of eighteen was convinced that his parents were itching for a fight. It’s almost like they hated when everything was calm and fine and now didn’t even bother about him. They acted as if he had never existed.

When his door was unlocked, the fifty-year-old prisoner knew this was the night. For about a week now, his jail mates were joking around that he would sooner rather than later meet his saviour. The man who gave prisoners an alter ego and a second life. Most of them called him “The Liberator”. Escorted into the head jailer’s office, where nothing but a single red lamp light was turned on, the prisoner was forced to sit facing a person hiding in the shadows. Placing both his hands on the cold metal table, the guards handcuffed him before leaving. The Liberator then put forward his hands from the shadows, and in his left hand, he held a pile of thousand rupee notes and in his right, he held a shiny dagger. Placing them on the table, the Liberator asked in a feminine voice, “Do you know who I am?” ​The prisoner looked around the room to check for a red beeping light, and he suspected his words could be recorded. Staring at him, panicking, the Liberator assured, “What you say here is only prosecutable by God, and I’m his humble servant trying to give you a choice.” Still, the prisoner seemed suspicious. Knowing he cannot pacify him, the Liberator continued, “I have read as to why you were arrested. What sort of human would defile a child before snatching her life?”

जीवनदायिनी, ये रक्त की बूँदें, श्र्वासवाहिनी, ये रक्त की बूँदें, बहती रहें तब तक है जान, कीमत इनकी मानव पहचान, सब दानों में उत्तम दान

Available in an eBook! Butterfly, an unwanted nickname… “Can I call you butterfly?” He looked at me for a mere second and laughed out loud. “Who in the world gives such a nickname to a man?” he said. Maybe it’s true no one ever wants to call them an insect name. But he never knew that that animal was the one that would describe him more perfectly than anything in the world. Everyone notices its beauty.

…like a toddler reaching for soap bubbles. Shiny globes just floating in the air. A prospect filled with false hope, leading to despair.

Broken hearts and broken bones – Fall apart to find your own. For if it’s healing that you seek, when strength seems dim and hope seems weak, you go on building yourself up from within; limping along, for the win.

[Early dawn, a girl of about 29 years enters with a bicycle in a sneaky manner wearing a long floral skirt and a trench coat with a hat] BLACKOUT [Scene at a check post where two Nazi army officers are working. While people are passing by in cars, in the background, a girl enters on a bike.] Officer: Hey! You! Come here. [The girl stops with a half breath] Officer: Papers, please. [The girl hands them over with a weak smile] Officer: Where are you headed… Ms Laforge? Lafontaine: It’s Lafontaine. Officer: Yes, yes… so where are you headed? Lafontaine: [Shielding her eyes from the sun] My aunt is ill and she has sent me to collect her son. Officer: Where from? Lafontaine: Halfway to Caen. Officer: Shouldn’t you use a telephone or a telegraph? Lafontaine: If he answers or comes to see her regularly. Officer: I get it… and you are going there on a bicycle? Lafontaine: [Showing her bruised palms] If it isn’t important, do you really think I’d voluntarily travel? My cousin has a permit for a car. So, he can drive us back. Officer: [Throws a smile but is still not convinced] Have you never heard of a train? Lafontaine: I have heard that the British have bombed the line. Officer: Again!? Damned Tommies! [Waves her through] BLACKOUT [Scene at the middle of the night at a mansion from which smoke is coming out from the farther side. Lafontaine enters, drops the bike and takes out a luger (pistol) from her waistband, checking for a tail and slowly enters the mansion. Suddenly a hand pulls her in from the door. Two men, one pointing a Walter PPK while the other holding her hand.] Lafontaine: Hello, Gestapo. [Throwing of his arm and pointing a finger towards the other guy] Lafontaine: You might hurt someone with it so better put that away. Man: Where is he?

A song of broken feathers, of shedding wings and changing weather. A rhyme of flight through open skies; those carefree summers and tearful goodbyes.

From making peace with the monsters under my bed to fighting wars with the monsters inside my head… Look how much I’ve grown. From being afraid of the colourful circus clown to being astounded by the changing colours of people in this town… Look how much I’ve grown.

Cold, strong, and fierce - for myself I was enough. Mighty tall and proud, resilient to the outside world - tough. Built with foundations well forged, to withstand the heavy storm and patiently… hold. More than you can imagine, I had the capacity to contain. The deepest and darkest waters, I had the humility to retain. And with every rain that poured, I filled myself up even more. Still stood strong …to hold.

Forgive for I’m not sorry I didn’t do nothing wrong. It’s your own fault you’re hurting. You look even dumber with that face so long. I tried to reach out and help you. Even ignored all of your drama. It’s your own fault you’re hurting. What’s biting you… is your Karma.

As a child, my favourite pastime was going for walks with my grandmother in my sweet home town and loved hearing the bedtime stories by my mother. These stories were mostly derived from the preachings of some wise holy men, whose sermons we often attended and few from the enlivening artforms of harikatha and burrakathalu which were staged during the festive seasons. Though having forty winks in between, a few stories made an indelible impression in my mind. During one of the sessions, a holy man once said in a humorous tone, “There are only two people with eternal bliss of happiness, one who could digest his food within two hours of his supper and one who after a day-long work, dozes off with loud snores, absolutely heedless of the inmates of the room.” The hall was filled with laughter, but I took some time to get it. With these golden tenets in my mind, I always tried to live a demure, simple yet happy contented life with my family for forty years, still enjoying going for walks and above all having sound sleep after all my household duties. Sound sleep was where I always slipped into the fantasy world of dreams which I account for avidly reading the books like Alice in Wonderland and other fairy tales that the 90’s kids usually read. Though I couldn’t really understand the subtle alchemy of my dreams and often wondered as a kid which ethereal place they come from, I eventually and more maturely tried to distinguish whether their origin was in my heart or in the encephalon, I cease to explain, maybe never can! But clearly, they made a deep impact.