Prose

A lone, stout candle flickered inside the cottage. By its light an industrious servant worked. He was bent over a massive table heaped with an assortment of items. He grunted as he laboured over his task of rummaging through them and sorting them.

Warm tears welled up in Aastha’s eyes. ‘Bappa,’ she prayed silently. Any statement that began with that combination of words spelled bad news, didn’t it?

‘You are useless,’ he says. ‘You are such a bad mother. Why did you have a baby if you cannot take care of it? It’s a woman’s job to take care of the child. Aren’t you ashamed to behave like this?’

The events and characters in this story are fictitious. However, the message from the transgender community is not. It is the result of a talk given by a transgender at an MNC in South India. I am not at liberty to name either the transgender or the MNC but I do hope that I have been able to effectively communicate her message to the readers.

The heat was oppressive. It was worse inside than outside. His throat felt scratchy and he was parched. The lack of oxygen, probably due to the swirling mass of patients, made him feel dizzy and nauseous. But, he could not afford to feel weak. Not right now. His family needed urgent help.

I kid you not, humans are dim-witted. Mine is particularly so. I swear, I do everything here.

Cooper jerked in fright. His body stiffened, wary at the prospect of impending danger. There...the sounds came again, sounding closer than before. Only now his keen hearing could also detect the shrill cries of animals. The cries sounded like animals squealing in the last throes of life.

‘The lass pined for her kin. The winds that blew, whispered messages from her ilk. By and by, she grew melancholy. Till one day...,’ Malcum paused and looked at the waters of the bay, ‘she found the skin Sean had hidden. That day, she transformed, dove into the bay and disappeared, never to be seen again.’

Author’s note –The world is a scary, unsafe place. We hear stories of brutal rapes happening everyday and yet we believe it will never happen to us...until it does. This story is dedicated to women who have lost their lives to brutal rape or who are survivors.

An unassuming, easy going lad, Sunny soon made friends, the dearest being Monty (or Mohinder) who lived a few Kothi’s down, in the lane. As different as chalk and cheese, the boys soon became bosom pals. While Sunny was shy and timid by nature, prim and proper in his British manner; Monty was mischievous, inquisitive and always keen to explore. A die hard Hardy Boys fan, Monty introduced Sunny to the world of mystery books and both boys spent many happy afternoons butting heads over mystery stories.