DNA has published one of my short stories in it’s suplement ‘ME’. (it’s on the 42 page:)You may have read it on this blog here. The editor Ms. Sathya Saran had asked me if I could make the story longer. I had a tough time doing that without messing it. But I think I managed. The old one is still here, and the version 2.O can be read below the dotted line. And thanks for all the support. And all you ppl get a treat for your suggestions :).
Update: Forgot to mention rahul, who encouraged me to send my story.
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Round and round they went with the beats. The inner
circle moved clockwise, the outer one in the opposite
direction. It was a whir of every colour between red
and yellow.
Each had their favourite partner. And when that one
came, there would be an added twinkle in the eye and a
coquettish smile. The victim would then rush through
rest of the players to get back to her.
It was the ninth day of navratri. Lovers and would be
lovers where playing the celestial dance of garba, in
the footsteps of Lord Krishna and his gopis.
She felt thirsty. Moving out of the two circles,
narrowly avoiding dandiya sticks, she waved her hands
to grab his attention. She reminded herself to punch
him for giving “that” smile to the girl in the purple,
backless choli.
They had met hardly a month ago and of all places on
the mud flats of Sewri. The flamingoes had come by
their hundreds. And both of them were part of the BNHS
birdwatching trip. She was interested in nature from
her childhood. Her parents, especially her poor mother
had endured everything from tree snakes to spiders in
matchboxes.
He was hardly listening to the guide who was telling
them about the special type of soil and climate of the
region. He kept stealing glances. He tried to remember
everything he had ever seen on the national geographic
about flamingoes. So that he could say something
intelligent to her, start the conversation. It took
him totally by surprise when she said to him, “ So
beautiful, aren’t they?”.
Something made the many birds to take off together, a
sea of pink. While they were smiling at the sight, a
shower of pink feathers greeted them.
Their story which had started with the blessing of the
flamingoes, used other newer technologies to gather
heat. Yahoo chats and phone calls led to coffee shop
trips. And then the festival season came.
And here he was walking towards her thinking of
excuses. He had seen the speck of jealous anger in her
eyes. Her anger vanished the moment he went and
grabbed her hand, pressing it. His eyes said many
things. The dancing had not raised her heartbeats as
his eyes did. They ran out of the pandaal, and into
the parking lot. They didn’t speak. Speech was
redundant. The only apprehensions were about what
extent the other would go.
The festival does it to you. It’s as if all the cement
factories in the world had start spewing pheromones
instead of the usual smoke. Thankfully the cultural
pollution control concentrated their efforts on the
western pollutants namely Valentine’s effluents.
Everything was a blur after that. Time was getting
stuck and accelerating like a learning driver. The
ghagra stuck in the door. The kisses soon after. The
knots of the choli, which gave him some hard time.
The fumblings and the shy hands.
She stopped him. No it is not safe, she said. But he
was well prepared. Out came a small white packet. She
relented.
And exactly after 3mins and 40sec I swam into this
world. With millions of other competitors. But I
coud’nt see any of them. I was at the front. But what
was this white hurdle. The old man hadn’t said
anything about it in the dressing room. But I saw this
small hole, light coming out. I slithered out, with
some effort.
The target was soon in sight.
I became me.
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