Fact and Fiction

“Kill someone”, Nandita snapped, and reached for more than a handful of potato chips from the bowl in her lap. Ashok, sitting on the other side of the table, watched her as her tongue scoured her cavities and poked against her cheeks. A sleek silver necklace, possibly bought at a flea market, chafed against her neck that glistened with sweat. She sipped from a glass of water and he could tell that she had to exert an effort; the wicker chair creaked as she leaned forward and shifted sideways.

“Kill the grandmother,” she said, “or her rabid horny pet dog, oh wait, kill the grandmother, she’s a drag – always sitting on the rocking chair masticating spite Continue reading

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Hide and Seek

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September 1999

We’re crouched in a hollow by a bush. The air is abuzz with mosquitoes. My grimy ankles touch Ankur’s grimy toes. Ankur is hitting Akash. He’s an idiot.

“Shhhhh”

“What’s your problem, supandi?”

“Can you be quiet for one minute?” I whisper as loudly as I can.

Ankur is a second grader and he’s not serious enough to play with us. He ignores me completely and tightens his fist for another assault on Akash’s hand. The fist lands squarely on his arm. Even in the darkness, I can feel it redden. Ankur cannot control his laughter and I cannot stop myself from slapping him. Akash steps between us. The turbulence gives us away. We’ve lost the game.

Ankur pinches Akash again. “Why do you let me do this?” Continue reading

socialfarts.com

“Everyone farts – even the best of us. All farts are unsavoury but each unsavory fart is unsavory in its own sway. Each fart is sui generis – it’s the most telling, most exquisite release of your being at a moment of poignant vulnerability.

At socialfarts.com, we let you share your farts with your family, friends and frenemies. With our state of the fart technology, you can capture the essence of your fart for posterity. A fart is never just an olfactory experience. In its splendid entirety, a fart is visual (a fart-face being just as baffling as a cum-face), tactile (as an imperceptible draft of wind on your face), gustatory (a synesthetic surprise on your tongue) and of course, auditory (a cathartic release is an avant-garde music). It’s also a visceral experience whereupon you sense a universe expanding in your rump. Continue reading

Limits and Continuity

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It was the summer of 2007. I had just faltered my way out of 11th standard and my dad insisted that I attend tuitions, especially for Mathematics, a subject that didn’t particularly interest me. I couldn’t get into tuitions for bright kids, because obviously I was no genius. Instead, I was admitted to Mrunalini’s Math Tuitions. A friend of my dad’s recommended her name. She had recently moved to our town and was considering starting tuitions. My dad wasn’t convinced but he really just didn’t want me to hang around at home. Girish, my elder brother, stayed in a hostel, and visited home twice a month to get the laundry done. He didn’t speak much. He was the quiet kind. He showed promise but had not, apparently, lived up to his potential. I, on the other hand, showed neither promise nor potential. Everyone knew that tuitions wouldn’t do me any good but my dad just wanted more time with himself in our quiet home. Continue reading

Dark Chocolate

Smriti is late for a meeting on Monday. The road is blocked with school-kids and on another junction, the traffic signal refuses to go green. She’s dazed and hasn’t had the time to grab breakfast or a coffee. She hasn’t bathed, hasn’t trimmed her nails, or brushed her teeth long enough. Unclean and unprepared.

The lift has space for just one more person when a guy steps in. He catches her sulk as the lift door closes and offers to come out but… DING! Continue reading

The Song of Rain and Thunder

There once lived a boy who sang so beautifully that he was accepted directly into the semi-finals of Voice of Okremia.

***

An old painter had found the boy outside his house, standing in a corner near a broken street lamp, crooning a rhyme of rain and thunder, oblivious to the pouring and roaring around him. Standing by the window, listening to the boy, the old painter’s mind was awash with a thunderous rain. He shook himself out of it; he had to go outside and get the boy inside. Feed him and get him into warm clothes. Continue reading

Princy’s Private Journal

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I have not visited my private journal for a long time. Now that I have, I don’t know where to begin. The week has been horrendously taxing. I wouldn’t call it happening although that appears to be the right word for it. I’ve lived a life too long and too rich to be bedazzled by the antics of two immature colleagues. They’re far from colleagues, really. It’s a travesty that I’m required to spend as much time as I do in their unflattering presence. Research, or rather popular wisdom, says that you become the average of the five people that you spend most time with. I shudder at the thought of what I could become in a few years. Excuse my vanity as I say this (although it’s more of a refined and reasonable self-awareness) but, truly, I really just want to become more of myself. Continue reading