PC Buckroo took his duties very seriously. On most days he could be spotted waddling through the hilly streets wheezing like a freight train coming through a tunnel. Yes, his allergies were that bad. It was an idyllic life except for the village rascals. The scamps were the bane of his existence. They followed him around, marching a few discreet steps behind, huffing and chuffing and pompously imitating his gait. The scene caused the villagers much amusement.

The quiet of the morning was broken by a ‘thud’ that echoed in the tranquil valley air like a gun shot. Then all was quiet again. It was 3 am. No one heard anything. No one stirred. No one rushed to investigate. Come morning, they discovered her. She lay in a crumpled heap, blood congealed around her mangled body. There were no suspects. She had been a woman madly in love, just a tad unhinged. Her possessiveness had bordered on psychotic control or so everyone had been told. So, suicide it was then. Not a homicide.

Would you believe it? Not a single relative shed a tear at the funeral including my wife and kids. I tell you, I had half a mind to cancel plans for ascendance and haunt the nightmares out of them. But, I took the high road and resisted the temptation. Finally, I was laid to rest. As the first shovel full of soil hit my casket, I panicked.

We went out often after that for meals and even movies. We discovered that we had much in common. We talked endlessly and shared stories of our childhood. I told him about my family, he told me about his. He was an army brat who had been raised all over India. His older brother was a software engineer in America and had recently married an American girl. The specifics of our friendship gradually changed as we discovered more about each other. Something grew between us but was yet unspoken. It was Rohit who confessed it first on one of our outings.

As I sat at the banquet following the wedding, realization dawned that this man that I now proudly called my friend, had changed my perception about the homosexuality. Via his own magnanimous heart he had helped me be comfortable around the very people whom I had kept a distance from. His ebullient personality had infected cheer and laughter into my drab world. And, I was just one person whose life he had touched. I wondered how many more lives his magnanimous heart had enriched and would continue to enrich.

The wind chimes on the door jangled as she pushed it open. Even after over two decades, the store seemed familiar. The layout had changed but it still smelled the same, of mystery and intrigue. It was crammed from floor to ceiling with artefacts and collectibles. The minute Rohan spied the nautical ships, his demeanour changed. His eyes shone with excitement as he darted between the display racks. He suddenly seemed roused from his insipidity.

When he came to, he found himself in a small thatched hut. A man was squatting next to him. In the dim light that permeated the hut, he looked quite fearsome. Tall and wiry, he seemed old even though he was not bent. His wizened face looked like it had weathered many seasons. Covered in otjize*, his skin shimmered red gold as it caught the rays of the sun that was spilling in through the crags in the thatched roof. His hair was fashioned backwards into a horn shaped braid. He was bare bodied except for a loin cloth made of sheep skin, draped around his groin. His chest was adorned with beaded necklaces. They clinked as he shifted on his haunches. A huge lion’s fang hung from a black thread and rested midway to his navel. His face was painted in shades of red, black and ash. He smiled a toothless smile, as Mbambe came awake.

Floating on a warm breeze, hope appeared My heart sang, suffused with joy, but alas, It was but a dream!   Life gained momentum, my career took flight I rejoiced, I thought I’d be free of domesticity It was but a dream!   I settled into matrimony, the kids came …

It casts a glow deep, the streetlight at the corner Like an aura it extends, intruding upon the dark. Poking, prodding, subduing the dark into submission It impinges upon the shadows lurking at the rim.   Is it my imagination? Or does the aura extend? Gradually eating away at the …

Freedom is a wren singing on a golden morn It perches on hope, sings to the new day born. Freedom is a warbler, warbling a song of love It flits from bough to branch, like a silver dove. Freedom is a koel that coos in the wee hours It brings …