Short Story: Tree of Wishes

She left and three years later, I received a letter. After three years of no contact, I received a letter from her- one that told me why she left, why she gave up, why she never returned. I never understood her. She was my true love, my happily ever after and she left.

John. You will receive this letter long after I’ve been gone- where, I can’t tell you because I know you will never, ever forgive me.

The day she left, we hadn’t any electricity. The heating in the apartment was dysfunctional and the room had felt so cold and miserable. I made us coffee while she sat on the table, clutching her favorite pen. There was just enough illumination in the room for us to see each other, but we never did. We never saw what could have saved us from drowning. I never saw the abandonment in her eyes; she never saw death in mine.

I have to leave- she had said finally, once the silence had amplified all the words unspoken. I nodded.

I never asked why; she never ventured.

There is a tree on the other side of the river, north to the roundabout that we met on, on New Year’s Eve. It is believed that if you whisper what you want to the trunk of the tree, you get it. A superstition I never believed in. Until I met you.

On the sixth day after her departure, I looked up the tree she talked of. Turns out, they call it the Tree Of Wishes and it is a fairly popular tourist spot in the city. A week later, as chance would happen, I had to meet with a friend near to the place. We had Thai food and while returning, I walked past it. It was a huge wide-trunked tree, its foliage expansive and some roots emergent. By the river, it looked majestic.

I wondered if I would have known about it had she not left me. I was a person of reason. Wondering around in the other side of the city for pleasure was something I would never do. That day, sitting on a bench near it, I looked beyond the river, into the city, hoping that by some strange way of fate, she would walk past the tree, talking to it of her plans of coming back. But of course, she never did or I wouldn’t have let go of her.

Getting take-out from the same place that night, I returned to our home, but I have never been back.

You were a wish John, a dream come true. You gave me a reason to be happy. However, it never takes long for dreams to metamorphose into nightmares. Happiness is fleeting.

I remember the day I found her crying. I had barged into the bedroom. Curled up on the floor behind the bed, her eyes were puffed up and her chest labored as she shook. She didn’t ask me to stay, nor did she ask me to leave. She just looked at me, for one infinite second, and everything inside me moved. There was nothing I could so. I simply sat on the floor beside her and took her head in my lap. I asked her what was wrong. She didn’t reply. So I just sat there until she fell asleep and I fell asleep beside her that night.

This became a ritual- she would break down, I would sit beside her, and we would both fall asleep. She never told me why she cried, I learnt not to ask.

I realized that this was the only way there was- not talking about it.

The truth is- I was afraid. I had fallen in love for the first time. I had never found myself dreaming about someone before, looking forward to talk to them all the time, and sleep with them, and cook with them. I never felt that and suddenly I was feeling all of it. It was as if I just realized that there are infinite shades possible or that there numbers never end. I didn’t know how to control my feelings for you. All I knew what I felt was never ending. And I was so afraid. I was so afraid of the immensity of what I felt.

The day that we met, she was talking about her favorite book with her best friend at the cafe where I worked part time. She wore a white button down with cute light blue flowers and jeans. She had a black coat on and a smart scarf that tied around her neck. Her hair was tied in a high ponytail but a lock of hair framed her face on one side.

Her eyes were sparkling, her expressions was animated and her hands danced around in front of her. Never once did her gaze shift from her friend while they talked and they sat there for over two hours, both lost in conversation. She looked so passionate, so vocal, so in the moment that I was mesmerized. When she left, her server handed me a tissue paper she had asked him to, bearing her name and number. I was shook.

I called her that night and she invited me over. She took me to her roof where we drank beer and watched the stars. We were facing the immensity.

I was so overcome with emotion every time I saw you that I would cry myself to sleep for being so lucky so as to have fallen in love with you. But I guess that is where everything went wrong. I had dived headfirst in love with you that I didn’t realize how much it hurt me. Until slowly, the pain was all I felt, and then, nothing at all.

By the autumn of our relationship, we were just two people who shared a house. There was no conversation, no luster of the time passed by. We hid behind the ghosts of who we used to be, not once realizing that we’d have to shed that persona someday. I did long shifts at work and sat till even later at the bar while she stayed home, doing whatever she did all day.

Her breakdowns were much more frequent and prolonged, so were our silences. Perhaps, the only time that we talked and touched and bore the faintest resemblance to who we used to be was the time when she broke down. But what we felt for each other had long since vaporized. We were two actors in a play- we were playing the part but we had long ago emancipated from the character.

It was around this time I started writing- about what I felt or rather, not. I wrote about our past lives, our present selves. I wrote about who we used to be, about what made us work, about how we were two people who were stuck together out of habit and how we were two people who had lost themselves and were thus losing the other. I wrote about myself, of who I was now and who I used to be. I wrote about what I wanted and what I didn’t. I wrote about my day, my job, my breakdowns. I wrote about you.

It was by chance that I came across her journal. Hidden in the sock drawer of our limited, shared closet, I had asked her what it was when my hand brushed against its cheap plastic cover by accident. It was then, with a faint smile that she had told me, she had started writing. I had just returned from the bar and was a little buzzed; when she had told me that, I was so surprised that I kissed her roughly. That was the last night we ever made love.

The events of that night are still unclear. What stands out, as brightly as a summer sun, is the smile on her face when she told me that. It was magical, transporting me back to the time when we were in love, and I had remembered a little something of the first day that we met. On our first date, she had told me that all she wanted to do was write. I had asked why.

Words are the powerful tools, we as humans have, she had said. We can make someone, break someone, hurt and love someone, all with the power of words. If my words can change even a single person’s life, I shall be the most fortunate person in this world.

These words still echo in my ears sometimes.

John, writing gave me a purpose in life. It gave me meaning again. We had stopped talking long ago. Our relationship had died. We were just too scared to pick up the pieces and move on. We walked on those pieces every single day. And seeing those times killed me, they did. My world that revolved around us was empty because you weren’t there, John. And no matter how many times I called for you, you never came back. Maybe you weren’t the person I wanted. Maybe because you weren’t that person anymore. Maybe you never heard my cries for help. It doesn’t matter anymore. The truth is that writing made my world feel a little less lonely.

The day she left, we hadn’t any electricity. The heating in the apartment was dysfunctional and the room had felt so cold and miserable. I made us coffee while she sat on the table, clutching her favorite pen. There was just enough illumination in the room for us to see each other, but we never did. We never saw what could have saved us from drowning. I never saw the death in her eyes; she never saw abandonment in mine.

This letter will reach you long after I am gone. My moving out was step one in moving on, in learning to feel again the same way we felt when we first met all those years ago. It was finally collecting the pieces and storing them respectfully for they were memories of a life that I had loved, but lost. It meant walking on a path unknown. It meant learning to fall in love all over again.

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I couldn’t see people anymore. There was no one who looked at me the way you did when you first saw me. Or maybe, I didn’t have eyes for anyone anymore. My world was a perpetually hazy cloud that refused to fade away; it was the winter morning fog that never settled. I had lost myself, I had lost you, I had lost my life. There were few moments of clarity. In fact, the only time I felt clear, alive was when I wrote. So I tried to do that every day. And I started a novel. And I wrote. And I wrote. And I wrote. Until it finished and I stopped. And I knew that that was it. That was my end.

Her novel got published two years ago. It received critical acclaim and was the recipient of multiple awards last year. I never tried looking for her, she never tried to contact me. I continued living in the same house; the walls faded, the heating stopped working, the curtains fell apart. I lived in a place that had seen me fall in love and fall out of love. The memories of my past also faded, until I barely thought of her, but some days, I would encounter a piece of paper in her writing, or a book that she had bought, or scent of her favorite perfume and I would go back to visit those wonderful years that night.

Still, I came across her interviews many times in the newspaper, but there was no pang in her heart, until one day, six months ago, a newspaper reported of her death. Apparently, she had overdosed on some anti-depressants in a motel room not far from our house. All her earnings were bequeathed to multiple charities. She left me this letter and her pen, the same one that she was clutching when she decided to move out.

Many times, over the past two years, I’ve heard people talk about her book reverentially. I’ve read about how it has changed people and lives.

I’ve never managed to read it myself. I can’t.

So I carry it with myself. All the time. In the hope that one fine day, when the sun is bright and the day beautiful, I will go by the Tree of Wishes and read.

So dear John, all I want to say is that I hope you can forgive me. I like to think of you as my closest friend and whenever I am stuck, I think of what you would do. Right now, as I sit with these pills in my hand and a glass of wine on the bedside, I imagine you wary, coming closer to me as you try to talk me into abandoning these pills. But by now, I expect you to have learnt that I am not much for caution and that diving head first is more my style.


Woh Kagaz Ki Kashti

Read this for reference before continuing.

Sixteen years later, a full fledged, voluptuous, long dark haired girl lies on a bedsheet on the floor of her room, next to the two mattresses, both of which are depressed with mountainous solids, covered in bedsheets and flanked by multiple pillows on either side- her parents.

The room is bathed in a gentle red hue and the air conditioner’s low, constant hum creates a drowsy, comfortable atmosphere. A guitar is in one corner of the room, against the wall, behind which the red lights twinkle lazily. The opposite wall is covered entirely with scraps of paper, some printed, some written on- by crayons, pencils, pens, markers, so much that the blue paint of the wall is hardly visible; things that may make no sense to someone who doesn’t look close enough. Each bit of paper contains thoughts.

It was something that the two sisters started earlier in the year. They put their thoughts on scraps of paper and struck them to the wall. Song lyrics, some random poems, lists, words, quotes, essays in the newspapers they liked, some important deadlines, written in bold; it was their mind on the wall. It contained candid snaps of their lives. There are times when each one of us wishes to read other people’s minds. The sisters’ minds were on this wall, right here.

In the background, from a small speaker, in a low, smooth voice, sings Jagjit Singh her father’s and her favorite shayari- Woh Kagaz Ki Kashti.

“It is an experience,” she had urged her parents who were both in their beds in the adjoining rooms when she had asked them to accompany her to her bedroom. “I want to give you The Experience.”

The Experience referred to something that she had, well, experienced just that evening. She’ll lose the lights and light up the red ones, she’ll set the temperature to an optimum, she’ll envelope her body up to her shoulders in a bedsheet, arms beside the body and play this song from the speaker. She’ll close her  eyes and let the song wash her over. She’ll inhale each beat, she’ll exhale each note, she’ll feel the music unravelling her, she’ll feel the words crawl up her skin. She’ll conjure images in her head, as each combination of words will make sense, second after she has registered them. She’ll let each chatoyant of every word that left his voice, enter her being and imprint permanently in her mind. Sometimes she will open her eyes and look at the shadows that the red lights will make in the room, and the music and the light will complement each other perfectly. She will think of songs that may make her feel the same way that she is feeling now. Her mind will produce a blank slate. That is when she will feel weightless.

Her parents were in the same position, eyes closed. She can feel the music weigh her eyes, and she knows that she’d be asleep soon. She pops her eyes open and looks at her parents’ resting bodies. And suddenly, she feels guilty.

In twenty three days, she would be leaving for college. For four years. For the first time, she’ll be away from them- away that she will never see them daily, away that she will not hassle with her mother over the quality of the food, away that she will not hug her father and kiss him goodnight, away that will not curse her sister for not having set the beds, away that her parents will not barge in on her before dawn and catch her on the phone. She felt guilty for leaving them with nothing after eighteen years of love and effort they put in for raising her; she felt guilty for leaving them empty handed. She felt guilty for having discovered The Experience so late that she won’t be able to compose a playlist of songs suitable for it. She felt guilty for receiving all the time. She felt guilty for taking so much from them. She felt guilty for having thought that she’d enjoy hostels, when the truth is that her heart would always be there, in this house, in this moment, when she is guilty and they are weightless.

Her parents were perfect. How can she ever have thought of leaving them, how could she have fought with them for something as stupid as a mobile phone? How could she have ever thought of living alone, embracing adulthood, when she still needed her mother to tell the doctor what was wrong whenever they visited one, for her? How could have she ever thought of doing laundry when she didn’t know how to operate a washing machine?

How could, how would she leave them? 

She looks at them. She wishes, suddenly, to be two once again, when her father came from the office, straight towards her for a hearty kiss, and her mother bathed her in a small bucket in the kitchen. She wishes to be two again, because she knows she’d have sixteen more years before she’d have to leave them.

Getting up from the floor, she goes and lies down between her parents, who are, both, fast asleep by now. She cuddle with her father, his arms around her. She extends her hands towards her mother, who holds them both between her own, warm palms, as Jagjit Singh sings in the background, “Voh kagaz ki kashti, voh baarish ka paani…”


Sorry for the long absence. Please check the Facebook page for details. You can follow TWPM on Instagram @theakankshavarma where I post lots, and regularly. Also follow at Twitter under @axavarma. Enjoy!

Musical Chronicling: Part One 

(Play it before reading.)


“With an urgent, careful stare, and some panic in those eyes.”

My father loved three things. He loved me. He loved me how a moth loves the flame. I was his oxygen. The second was hunting. He excelled at it. He loved to feel recoil of the gun as the bullet left the muzzle. Third, he loved listening to his favorite song- Lifeline- on his CD player, often with some alcohol by his side.

He taught me the basics of hunting when I was eight and by the time, I could shoot a deer behind me relying on just the whisper of the leaves, he was no longer there. He had perished. He left us a lot of thing, both tangible and intangible and we all loved him, but there were two things I refused to share with anyone. My knowledge of the game and his CD. I never heard the song, but I kept it. It was mine and it was his.

It was snowing outside today when I left to hunt. Usually, hunting in snow is either very easy or very difficult. It is easy when the snow is falling with the grace of poetry and it is falling with wisdom, in soothing whispers with the air and the beauty that snow is falling now, captivating every thought on its mush. It is difficult when it comes down in the form of sleet, each jagged end of the flake seeking damage and blood and hatred and each jagged end looking for vengeance and for justice and revenge. I usually avoid hunting then. Luckily, the hunt today was easy.

I know my way in the forest and I knew of the lake where all the deer gather for water, the only lake in the vicinity that, bafflingly, remains unfrozen at such extreme temperatures. From behind the cover of the snow laden trees, I spotted a lone deer, gulping water, unaware that this is the last time he would be doing something like that.

Though I hunt, I always try to give them a death that is peaceful and I prefer to keep them in dark about my arrow until it pierces their succulent flank. There is something piercing about the look they give you when they realize what is going to come. It is haunting and it gives me sleepless night. It is the last time it sees something and it is the face of a killer. Me. I do not like to think about it.

I was taking my stance and I was almost ready to shoot when suddenly, I stepped on some frozen ice and grabbed the leaves ahead of me to avoid falling. I regained my balanced using some leaves and then I froze. I had broken the most basic rule: do not draw attention to yourself or you may lose the prey. I slowly lifted my neck to look up to the deer. There it stood, its hazel-brown coat striking against the white background. Emanating innocence, it looked so blissful, its eyes studying me until it saw the bow in my hand. Terror replacing the tranquility in its eyes, it stared into my eyes for a moment, and started to run, barely five yards before my arrow penetrated its flank.

Despite the slight exhilaration that came with one prey down, I stood stunned. Its eyes  had done something to me; they had brought something to my mind that I’d not thought of, for a long time, it brought to me the lines of my father’s favorite song.

“With an urgent, careful stare, and some panic in those eyes.”

That night, I did something I’d never done before: I took out a bottle of whiskey from the liquor cabinet, poured myself a glass, and drowned my tears in the soulful melody of the Angels and Airwaves.

Music Stories.

If I am asked to lists something that I really enjoy, it would be be sleeping, eating, travelling, celebrating, reading, cooking, listening to music and writing.

My next few posts are going to combine two of my pleasures: listening to music and writing. I believe in the power of words and I believe in the strength of thoughts and actions. I believe in the sanctity of music and I believe in the power of hope.

The next few posts will show how music has changed lives; how music has kept people motivated and hopeful, how music has helped people in times of sadness and in times of happiness, how music has helped us shed tears and how music has left our souls empty and how music has created us.

I would like to call this series: Musical Chronicling: A Story of Mankind United Through Music.

Musical Chronocling

Keep tuned in for the first post.

Fall For A Magician.

Fall for a magician. Fall in love with a magician, a magician whose words weave mystical lands in thin air, who draws blind faith of a fading summer, whose voice makes the insides warm and squishy and it is as if everything is just right.

Fall for someone who cannot admire you enough despite the imperfections that you make evident, complaining; someone who lends to these imperfections a rhythm, a symphony, a song, a tune while stringing their guitar in the morning, while you indulge in some breakfast in bed that they prepared for you, in a voice so beautiful that it makes you giggle and blush.

Fall for someone who isn’t afraid to tell you how they fell for you; someone who chooses the right words and isn’t hesitant to tell you when it happened, almost like two worlds colliding, two universes colliding and being one for eternity; someone who can write a book about how they love the way you brush your hair, or the small mole on your back, or the color of your eye, or the glint n your hair when sunlight falls on it.

Fall for someone who paints you while you sit engrossed in your book, someone who converges the two you’s: the one of their dreams and the one that is you, in yellows and reds and in colors unseen and shades unnoticed, small details that give incredible depth and beauty and charm and poise to that simple crayon painting, making it so beautiful to look at, that it hurts.

Fall for someone who makes you their muse. That way, it doesn’t matter if you live or you die, if you laugh or cry, if it works or if it doesn’t, because it will always be there when you’re sad or lonely or depressed and you feel unloved and ugly, and maybe for just some time, your song, your poem, your picture will make you happy, and maybe, just maybe, make everything better for a while.

So fall in love with a magician, and it might just the be the best thing you would have ever done.



He lives in the words he has read, in the lives of people he has read about, in their dreams and ambitions and with each different character, he finds something he can call his. A small scar, a similar habit, a strange hobby, a favorite word, a small fetish. Yet with each person, he leaves a little of himself. The person which a certain line reminded him of, a memory that he associated with that paragraph, a tear in the paper as he opened the pages, a strand of hair that fell of his hair as he slept, cuddling the book like a lover.

Perhaps it is not wise to derive yourself, to build and make yourself from things borrowed and lent. But maybe, that is the point. Perhaps, he felt so tired of making himself, building, constructing himself from a defined box of adjectives- funny, bore, happy, witty, lonesome- instead of memories associated with that adjective that he just couldn’t take it.

Maybe for him, happiness was when he was with his friends, or when he could dance to his heart’s content, or maybe relaxation for him was snuggling next to his favorite book and maybe, contentment was when he could see the sunrise.

Maybe doubt for him is when he isn’t sure if the red blazer goes with the black shoes.

This way, he isn’t angry or sad, or depressed or happy or content or peaceful, he is a sunset and he is a song or he is the green couch you know you’d never use. He is now a bundle of memories. He is with Peeta and he is with Juliet and he is with Martin Luther King Jr and he is with Gandhi and he is with Marilyn Monroe and he with Beatles and he is with Peter Norman and he is with Sachin Tendulkar and he is with Caesar as he gets stabbed and he is with Simon Beauvoir on his last journey and he is with Voldemort as he makes his horcrux.

This way, he is everywhere, and everywhere is him.

But right now?

Right now, he is just a page marked in yet another book, preparing to be a part of a yet another universe when he leaves the smell of his favourite cologne in between its sheets.


Source: Humans OF New York
Source: Humans Of New York

We put out our homes- those rolled up bedding
Made of ragged clothes, torn paper, and damp cardboard.
Hopefully, things will be better where we are heading,
Leaving behind our homes, our jobs, our Ford.
Till now, our feet have swollen and are sore,
From walking uncountable miles, to destinations unknown.
Beaten, bullied, tortured to the core,
It’s sufferings that our eyes will shine and have shone.
We fight for a can of water and a morsel of bread,
And there’s hardly any fire to keep us warm,
Hearts went cold from when we saw the river red
Wet the streets used to the dry desert storms.
Memories of all the war grapple us like crabs
Our dreams and nightmares, all woven into one.
You peer in curiosity at the wounds that haven’t even dried yet-scabs.
Relating what we have gone through will leave you stunned.
We come and go, all scarred faces,
We come to strange lands to escape our owns
We come overladen in boats that run in races,
Some of us also drown in the sea lie stones.
Then we may wash up on the sea and you will be horrified,
To see the state the world have come to.
To see brothers kill brothers, to see friends who’ve died,
To see those who have suffered and those who got through.
We may not have a future and we have eradicated our past,
There is not much we can do for our dears.
We are broken and helpless and tired and wouldn’t last
If it weren’t for the hope that’s greater than fear.

Pocket Stories #5


“I brought a mixtape,” Humaya informed as she pushed her three bags in the car. Vrati frowned.

“I didn’t know that we were leaving for six years,” she said sardonically.

“Haha, very funny,” Humaya replied. Then sighing as if suddenly exhausted, said, “Besides after the ceremony, won’t we be leaving forever?”

As she said this, the ring on her hand sparkled under the sun, and Vrati understood. She was glad they were leaving.

Unravelling Broken Threads: Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The girl sat with her laptop on her knees, watching the reruns of her favourite serial, One Tree Hill. She had never understood how she fell in love with it. But, yet, she was here, watching the reruns when her mother called out to her. “Jenny, don’t you ever have to study?” she shouted.

‘Mom,’ she shouted back, ‘it’s a Sunday. Would you please let me do this while I can?’

She almost snapped. Last week was the first at her school; she was starting 11th, the most dangerous class of all time. And she hated her mom. It was something that happened earlier. She didn’t want to talk about it now. Even without her family troubles, she had a lot on her mind. She had a younger sister, Jules, who she didn’t mix well with; her dad was a womaniser and left their family for another woman, Linda, four years ago.

It was Alex, Alexandra Wilson, who she loved. Alex was her best friend she had met at school. With straight brown hair, and 5”9 body, her pale skin and light blue eyes, she and Alex were exact opposites. Alex stood six inches shorter, blonde hair, with black eyes and whitish skin.

Yet, there was something, something more that friendship that bound them together. It was the love Jennifer had never felt for her sister, sisterly love. Alex had a drunkard father and her mother was dead.

One day, seven years ago, Jenny was returning from the park after her “evening walk”, which she looked forward to as it meant getting free of her crazy household. It was a cold day, with slight signs of rain. She was hunched up and moving fast, when she saw a thin, small girl, barely covered standing in front of a house. She was crying and kept pounding at the door sporadically. Jenny took the girl along with her to her house. That was the beginning of their friendship.

It still took a lot of nerve for Alex to stand up to her dad. Sometimes Jenny helped her with it. ‘What are friends for, after all?’ she said.  Since then, the two unpopular, lonely girls always sat together, in the classes, the cafeteria, and even took the ride to school and back to home together and they were happy.

Suddenly, the door banged open and her sister entered. Jenny jumped. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ she asked, surprised. ‘Wait, is that my T-shirt you’re wearing?’ she shouted as she noticed. She got of the bed and ran towards Jules, who stood unruffled by this sudden outburst. ‘Give it to me! How dare you touch my closet, you moron! I want it right back.’ Jennifer yelled again, hands akimbo.

‘Jen, I need to have this. I have, uh, to go somewhere,’ she said vaguely. Jennifer narrowed her eyes. She did that a lot these days. Her sister had inherited their father’s features, or so their mother said. It was because of that, on her entering middle school, she was very popular, always the one with hundred friends, the one who dated, who partied. Jenny despised these types of girls, but yet she envied them. She admired Jules good looks. A straight long nose, long wavy brown hair, brown eyes and a firm jaw. She had a slender body, even graceful, unlike the tread that Jenny owned, yet she was athletic and of course, a part of their school, Bowman High school’s cheering girls. And she did a good job of ignoring her dumb, unsocial sister at school, Jennifer even felt bad sometimes.

‘Don’t call me Jen. I’m Jennifer,’ she affirmed. ‘Where? You have to go where?’ she asked finally.

‘I have a date with Mark,’ Jules said, unconcerned. Obviously, the football kid. He and Jules had been spending a lot of time together. Jenny thought something had been cooking. Well, at least I wasn’t proven wrong.

‘Still, the answer’s a no. I am not allowing you to wear this. Remove it!’ she charged for her Tshirt and  starting tugging at the cloth. A raging quarrel followed, when finally their mother appeared, completely out of breath. It was clear that she had come running upstairs. Hers was a small duplex house, three bedrooms, a kitchen, and a living room where they dined. Jennifer had a room all by herself at the top floor, while Jules and Mrs. Cruise shared a one at the ground floor. One was kept as the guest room, often occupied by Grandma Cruise who came to stay a lot.  A small porch added to the compact surrounding, a quite contrast to the atmosphere inside the house at the moment.

‘Christ!’ she said. ‘What is all this shouting Jenny? I thought you had been studying,’ she panted.
‘Well now you know I wasn’t,’ she snapped.
‘That is no way to talk to your mother.  You are sixteen, when would you start acting responsibly?’ she questioned.
‘The day you would,’ she replied, a cold sneer on her face.

A long silence ensued. Finally after what seemed like an hour, she asked, ‘What was all this about?’

‘I wore her T-shirt without asking,’ Jules burst out. ‘If I knew it would be such an issue, I wouldn’t have touched the bloody thing!’ she shouted. Removing the T-shirt and flinging it on the floor, she marched out of the room, back downstairs.

A threatening look passed over her mother’s face. ‘This was a T-shirt. You made a mess out of it. I don’t know what you think of yourself, but you are no Queen Victoria. You are not to behave that way to neither me nor Jules, or for that matter, anyone at school as well. If you put another toe out of the line, I’ll make sure that you don’t forget it easily,’ she glowered at her, before shouting, ‘Jules, I’m coming, sweetheart!’ and left the room.

‘Talk about stepping out of line,’ she muttered. She wasn’t the least scared of her mother. She knew what would happen if she did. She would be thrown out of the house and be expected to spend the night outside. Yet she found a solution to that. Mr. John, the old baker who lived down the street was a kind man. He had no children, so Jennifer always managed his shop when he had to go somewhere. During nights like these, he would let Jennifer to sleep at the shop, without turning the heater off. Apart from Alex, she liked him the most.

Many often she had wondered if she made a list of the people she liked, where her mother and Jules would stand. But she was sure that it wouldn’t be before a hundred of two. Not that she had tried this, but still she had wondered so.

She was just making her way back to the bed to return to the serial, when her phone rang. She rushed to pick it up.

‘Alex, hi honey! I forgot to call you, it’s just that….’ She said instantly and trailed off. It was a boy.
‘Hello? Jennifer?’ he asked, hesitatingly.
‘Yes?’ she replied. ‘What do you want?’ she asked rudely.
‘I am not sure that you identify me. I’m Nick, Nicholas. I sat by you on Thursday at English.’ Then she remembered. A tall, lanky boy, with dark brown hair that often fell on his forehead, and white skin, the new boy.
‘Yeah, so?’ She was bored of his decent voice and wanted to cut the line. It, however, would look too indecent.
‘I am not sure, but I think you took my English book by mistake. So if you-’
She interrupted, ‘Okay, I will look. If I find it, then I’ll give you tomorrow.’ She cut the line.

She crossed the room and lay down. She suddenly felt exhausted. Shutting the laptop and without changing her clothes, she stared at the ceiling till her eyes welled up with tears. Remembering something, she whispered, ‘You know I loved you once, mom,’ she said, before she started weeping on the pillow, silently, and drifted off to sleep.

The Free Style Writing Challenge.

I was nominated by Anoop for the free style writing challenge. It’s a very interesting challenge and I’m glad I could have a chance to do it. Check out Anoop’s post here.

So here goes the RULES of this challenge:

  1. Open an MS Word document
  2. Set a stop watch or your mobile to 5 minutes or 10 minutes whichever challenge you think you can beat.
  3. You topic is at the foot of this post BUT DO NOT SCROLL DOWN TO SEE IT UNTIL YOU ARE READY WITH A TIMER.
  4. Fill the word doc with as much words as you want. once you began writing do not stop even to turn.
  5. Do not cheat by going back and correcting spellings and grammar with spell check in MS WORD (it is only meant for you to reflect on your own control of sensible thought flow and for you to reflect on your ability to write the right spelling and stick to grammar rules)
  6. You may or may not pay attention to punctuation and capitals. However if you do, it would be best.
  7. At the end of your post write down ‘No. Of words =_____’ so that we would have an idea of how much you can write within the time frame.
  8. Do not forget to copy paste the entire passage on your blog post with a new Topic for your nominees and copy paste these rules with your nominations (at least 5 bloggers).


My nominees for this awesome challenge are:

Enchanted Poetry









I can nominate quite a few more but then let me stop it here, else I would keep on typing till tomorrow. So guys get your stop watch and MS word ready before you start.

My topic was :Pets.

Pets are something I’ve never had or have been fortunate to have. They are, I think, like family and are best teachers who aren’t humans. I recently read a book titled Marley and Me, by John Grogan about a dog named Marley who plays a huge role in the family, that consists of a couple, and their three children and how the dog affected them and made them who they are.

I have yearning for and begging for a dog for the past six months. Having a pet and specifically a dog is a great experience. Dogs are majestic creatures, and they are something we can learn a lot from. They are extremely loyal, beautiful enchanting creatures with absolutely no brains and wagging tongues (just kidding!). I used to very afraid from dos and I still am, but I am really trying to get over this fear by adopting one.

Whenever I ask for a pet dog, beg by sitting on the ground, the answer is a simple “NO.” And I get all kinds of excuses for not having one. “Apartments are too small for dogs.” “They do A LOT of shit, and knowing you, it won’t be cleaned.” “You have just one year and then you’ll go. Eho take care of it?” And the best one, “I already have two dogs, don’t need a third one too!”

And these are just the reasons mom gives me.

And to say of that, my mom, actually the one who gives these excuses cried when she watched Marley die in the movie, adapted from the above mentioned book. Even though I tried to make her see reason, she doesn’t budge. She’s adamant that she won’t buy one soon.

Any ideas?

No of words : 288

Timer set : 10 minutes

Mistakes : A lot of punctuation, grammar, typo’s etc

The topic for the nominees are: Grandparents.

Best of luck! Hope to see your works soon. Enjoy!