Flight to Miami (713 words)

 I took a respite and sat in a chair watching my colleague handle the traffic at the counter. Our gate at the New York airport was as usual, busy with flights leaving every 30 minutes. After the gate is closed for one flight, the boarding work begins for the next flight immediately. I saw an old couple presumably from India as I surmised from the dress of the lady. She must be in her late seventies, and her husband, in a wheelchair, looked past 80. The lady stood in line for every flight at the gate to be asked when her turn came to wait. Maybe they were wait-listed passengers or had the buddy passes that entitled them to accommodation only if seats were available after meeting those who paid for tickets in full.

I could see that they had missed three flights already. Whenever the lady asked something, I saw, my colleague was irritable and even said once, “You have to wait. I do not know how long” She could not follow his accent with the American drawl. I felt both had difficulty in comprehending one another, and my colleague did not exhibit the patience and helpful disposition needed in a front desk job. She lingered, trying to explain, when my colleague said with certain acerbity. "Please move away. Passengers are waiting in line.” 

I could discern the irritation in his voice even from this distance. All eyes were on her. Embarrassed, the lady wiped her eyes with her upper robe and came near her husband in wheel wheelchair. He looked sick.

I decided to do something. I am a very tall black American, unlike my white colleague and when I went near her, she looked so small. I bent low and asked her slowly, word by word ’You seem to have some problem. I would like to help you. Please show me your tickets”

She looked at me, wondering whether to hand over the tickets to me, though I was in an airline uniform with badges and a name on it. Her husband nudged her and told her in a whisper in her dialect to give me the tickets. When I saw the tickets, I found they were bound for Fort Lauderdale, and the tickets were buddy passes entitling them to seats only when available. 

I told both the lady and her husband that I would take charge of the counter soon and that the lady should come along with her husband towards him when signalled.

I went to my colleague and released him for some rest. The next flight to Ft Lauderdale was full, and there were no spare seats. The next flight had only one spare seat. I could see a slight disappointment in the lady’s face when the counter closed after those two flights. I smiled at her and tapped my chest to show that I was there to help her.

The next flight was for Miami. There were two seats available. Others were waiting with buddy passes. I ignored them and called the old couple.” This flight is for Miami. Please ring up your family and ask them to pick you up at Miami. It is not far from Ft Lauderdale. I hope you have a mobile. Give me their number. I will inform them.” They said they have a mobile and would do the needful. I took them inside and spoke to the airhostess to help the old couple, who I said were waiting for more than four hours. She promptly put them in the vacant Business class seats, though theirs were economy.

Before exiting the plane, I turned to look at the lady. She waved her hand with a smile. It left me wondering whether I felt an affinity towards them because their brown colour was closer to my dark complexion than the fair colour of Americans or whether it was a natural concern in me for very senior citizens, or my maternal grandpa’s Kenyan ancestry and his study in India. Be that as it may, I must admit that a thought crossed my mind about what I would have expected of others had it been my mom in a far-off Eastern land.

The counter opened for the next flight for Ft Lauderdale, and I got busy...

 

The Saviour (742 words)

                           A Story for Thanksgiving Day

He lay twisted on the road with the toppled auto’s side wheel still rotating beside him. The world around him blurred for him with faces, silhouettes and a crowd of about a dozen or more people crowding around his broken body. They stared with wide, anxious eyes, the driver drenched in blood and still flowing, wringing their hands, waiting for someone to take the lead.

The truck that struck him had already disappeared into the distance, a hit-and-run. case. A life abandoned on the road.

He tried to call out, “Help me… please...” but his throat failed him. Not a whisper came from the onlooking crowd. Only the noise of passing traffic that did not halt. He could feel the warm rush of blood under him, the heat fading from his limbs.

People murmured to one another, shaking their heads. “Drunk truck drivers…”

“Police hassles… summons… courts…”

“Taxis won’t take a bleeding man…”

“Hospitals refuse these cases…”

Each excuse felt like a nail sealing him into loneliness. Some watched for a moment before slipping away, glancing at their phones and their watches. Everyone had somewhere more important to be than to help the dying man.

He felt panic rising. The minutes were slipping away even as he needed to be at a hospital without loss of time. He needed someone—anyone—to come to his rescue

His vision wavered, and drowsiness was slowly setting in. Sweat streamed down his temples. As he drifted in and out of consciousness, memories rushed in.

His daughter’s voice echoed through the house that morning:

“Appa, come home early today! We have the birthday party, remember? You promised!

He saw her bright eyes, her small hand tugging his shirt, her excitement bubbling like music.

He saw his little boy, clinging to his legs with chubby arms, pleading silently to be taken in his arms.

And then he saw his wife, her shy smile as he hugged her before leaving, the way her fingers lingered for a heartbeat longer, as though unwilling to let go.

Will they be waiting for me now?

A crushing thought: Will they have to wait forever?

He felt the darkness curling around the edges of his mind. There was still no policeman. Only bystanders. Watching him die and not a single hand reaching out.

Somewhere in the crowd, someone casually mentioned that they had already called the emergency number. He heard the remark faintly. A social task completed. A conscience soothed. And still he lay on the road, life ebbing away grain by grain.

Just when the world began to shrink into a small tunnel of fading light, a sudden voice cracked through the air, a loud, urgent shout commanding the crowd to move aside.

“Give way! Let him breathe! Move!”

A young man, no older than his mid-thirties, pushed through the ring of onlookers with fierce determination. He knelt by the dying man without hesitation, his eyes blazing, not with fear, but with purpose.

“Brother,” the young man whispered, “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

With the help of one other soul finally stirred into action, he lifted the limp body and rushed him into his auto rickshaw. The engine sputtered, then roared to life. In seconds, they were flying down the road, faster, louder and braver than the silence of the crowd had been.

At the hospital, doctors and nurses raced to their stations. They worked quickly, voices sharp, hands steady. Later, they would admit quietly among themselves that if the man had arrived even a few minutes later, he would have been gone.

When they turned to thank the auto driver, he only offered a small nod. His clothes were splashed with blood, and the floor of his rickshaw was soaked. But his face… it glowed with a quiet, humble happiness.

“I just did what anyone should do,” he murmured, already stepping back toward his vehicle. He did not expect any praise. No desire to be remembered.

He simply wanted to clean his auto and go home to his waiting children and wife.

But in that moment, in that simple man, lived a truth larger than the crowd that had watched without moving:

Blessed are those who give without remembering and those who take without forgetting.

And somewhere in a hospital bed, a father, a husband, a man who almost slipped away drew another breath, because one stranger refused to stand and watch. A sense of gratitude enveloped him

 

A tryst with a spirit (856 words)

  

Inspired by a visit to Chottanikkara in Kerala, I wrote this several years ago

Govindan,22 years old, was learning Sanskrit, Vedas, and Sastraic rituals from Kesavan Vadhyar, a learned pundit who was also a tantric, well-versed in astrology. The pundit was a strict person not given to unnecessary talk. He had forbidden his family members, particularly his young daughter, to pass through the front patio where the classes were held. Govindan had seen her a few times and found her very charming. 

Govindan was intelligent, and with his prodigious memory, he used to stun his teacher with his flawless recitation of the Vedas and slokas. 

He had to walk about two miles from his village to the teacher’s place. The road passed through a lonely and long stretch covered by shrubs and trees on both sides. He found one day a young girl of about 17 or 18 waiting at the beginning of the wood for someone to come along. Presumably, she was afraid to walk alone through the shady and deserted path. This became a regular feature with both reaching the spot around the same time. If she were delayed, he would wait for her. He got to know of her as Vijaya from his village and became friendly with her, which over a period blossomed into love. He cursed the weekends as he would miss her company. 

One day, when he was slightly delayed, the pundit asked him in a stern voice, “I have been seeing you coming late frequently. Are you not able to start early from home to be on time?” 

When Govindan did not answer, the teacher got annoyed and said, “Why are you silent? I cannot wait to commence the classes for your sake” 

It was then that one of his classmates blurted out, “Govindan is escorting a girl from his village and gets delayed if she is late” 

“What is all this nonsense I hear? Who is that girl? Is she related to you? Are your parents aware of your accompanying a girl daily?” he asked angrily. 

Trembling in fear and feeling embarrassed, he replied in a low voice “She is from my village and afraid of walking in the lonely road alone. Her name is Vijaya and she follows me daily.” 

“For a young student given to the study of Vedas, to hobnob with a young girl is highly deplorable. Let me see the girl tomorrow,” he said 

The next day, Kesavan Vadhyar was waiting at the gate when he saw Govindan, accompanied by Vijaya, coming at a distance. His eyebrows shrank, and his face became red in anger, but he maintained his calm. When Govindan entered the class, he bellowed, “Go and wash your legs and hands and come to my room alone”. 

“I have seen Vijaya and, with my tantric powers, could find out that she is possessed by an evil spirit out to harm you. You must get out of its clutches by stopping coming with her. Wear the amulet that I will give on your right hand. She cannot harm you as long as it is there. Never take it out. You should not wait for her, and if she is there already, stop talking to her and ignore her completely. She will persist and ask you why. If you are determined in your silence, she will stop coming with you and go after someone else. Do you understand the seriousness of the matter? Follow my instructions for your well-being,” he said and tied an amulet after chanting some mantras. 

That news reached Govindan’s parents the same evening from one of the students who had eavesdropped on the conversation. Strangely, Govindan’s dad did not speak about it to him, even when the young man feared his dad’s wrath. It was 9.30 pm. Govindan could not sleep with his mind torn by the day’s events.

 He then heard his dad’s voice clearly in the stillness of the night. He was speaking to Govindan’s mother in their bedroom. “That girl Vijaya is a very nice girl, studious, well-behaved and efficient in work. Her father met me two days back and wished Govindan’s hands for her. I promised I would talk to you and revert. That Kesavan Vadhyar has some ulterior plan. He wants Govindan for his daughter because our son is not only handsome but also very intelligent. So, the cunning man has scared our boy by concocting some story of a spirit having possessed Vijaya. I have heard that both Govindan and Vijaya are friendly, and I suspect are in love with each other. I wish to help them” 

“I have seen that girl a few times at the temple. She will be a good match for our Govindan” his mom replied 

Govindan could hardly believe his ears and could not sleep that night, elated at the pleasant outcome 

The next morning, his dad called him and said, “Govinda, you may stop attending Kesavan Vadhyar’s classes. I will admit you in another patasala (school) in the same area. I have some nice plans for you. I will tell you at the appropriate time.” 

Govindan was on cloud nine and restless, wanting to break the news to Vijaya at the earliest.

(The happy ending story ends here with no sequel)

 

Ammanji and His Mysterious Box (706 words)

My great-granddaughter gave me a Polo mint this morning, and it brought back memories of an elderly granduncle who, during my teens, would hand me a small, round white mint candy every time I met him. I had written about him years ago, and the memory felt warm enough to revisit.

I was a schoolboy then. Since my school was close to home, I came home for lunch every day. One afternoon, as I stepped in, I found my mother in tears. She asked me to accompany her to my grandfather’s house a few miles away. When I inquired why she was crying, she said, “You know Ammanji, your grandfather’s cousin. He passed away last night, and the cremation is in a few hours. I need to go now, and you must come with me.”

I agreed. All I really knew about him was that he constantly chewed raw arecanuts and kept, in his almirah, a carpenter’s kit, some cobbler’s tools, and an old wooden box. Still, I was secretly happy at the chance to skip school that day.

I had seen him many times during my visits to my grandfather’s house, a frail, short man with thick glasses, dressed in a white upper garment that was neither a vest nor a shirt. He wasn’t a real cousin of my grandpa, just a distant relative. He had lost his wife early in life and had no children or close family. My grandfather, comfortably well-off and living in a sprawling old house full of helpers, had persuaded him to come and stay there. And though no one quite knew the exact relationship, everyone called him Ammanji and treated him with dignity and affection.

He had once been a schoolteacher, known for his command of English. A voracious reader, he rarely returned from the local library without a new book. Though reticent by nature, he could fill a room with laughter when he chose to speak, his comments always laced with gentle wit.

I suspected he had little income beyond what he needed for daily necessities and for his beloved arecanut. To be honest, I never felt particularly drawn to him and even feared him a little; his features reminded me of a bulldog. Yet he always smiled when our eyes met. He would hand me round white mint candies, the kind that tasted even sweeter after a sip of water.

He had a small wall-mounted almirah of his own. Inside it sat a little wooden box that fascinated all of us children. He rarely opened it in anyone’s presence, but we knew he peeked into it twice a day,  once in the morning and once in the evening, staring quietly for a few minutes before locking it again. The key, tied to sacred thread across his shoulder, was never out of his sight. We boys often speculated and invented imaginative theories: perhaps it held gold jewellery belonging to his late wife, or bundles of currency, or, as one mischievous boy suggested, old love letters.

 Once, I mentioned his strange habit to my uncle, hoping for some revelation. Instead, I received a sharp rebuke for poking my nose into others’ private matters and was warned to mend my behaviour.

As I accompanied my mother that day, memories of the arecanut, the mint candies, and the mysterious box played in my mind. The atmosphere at my grandfather’s house was heavy with grief. My grandfather, whom I had always seen as strong and stoic, was in uncontrollable tears. Many elders and former students of Ammanji had gathered, praising his teaching and his gentle, virtuous character.

About ten days later, I went with my mother again for the concluding rituals. The subject of the mysterious box naturally came up. My grandfather asked one of my uncles to fetch it, and using the key recovered from Ammanji’s body, he opened it. All of us, uncles, aunts and cousins, crowded around eagerly.

To everyone’s disappointment, the box was almost empty. Inside lay only a few coins, a copy of the Bhagavad Gita, and a faded, postcard-sized black-and-white photograph, turned brown by time. My grandfather’s eyes grew misty as he picked it up.

“Ammanji and his wife,” he murmured.

 

 

The serpent that Meenakshi saw (678 words)

Meenakshi continued to stay at her apartment alone even after her husband's demise. She declined her daughter's pleading to stay with her but comforted her, saying that since her house was close by, they could meet daily. Though past 70, she was keeping fit, except for the pain in her legs and could cook her food. She spent the time watching TV, reading and cooking. She always had her nap at noon.

 It was around 1 pm, and she was woken up from her sleep by the bell. It was Muthu the carpenter who had come. He had done plenty of petty jobs when her husband was alive. He knew plumbing and some electrical work. A handyman, he came whenever asked to come to fix minor repairs. But she had not asked him to come today. Wondering about the purpose of his visit, she opened the grill and asked him, “What brought you here? I trust you are doing well"

"Amma, I always remember Ayya (her husband) and wish to check about your welfare. I also have some other business with you," he replied. He seemed slightly drunk from the smell that emanated when he spoke. She felt she had made a mistake in letting him in, but put on a smiling appearance.

"It is nice of you. It is very hot. Let me get you a glass of cool butter milk, “she said.

When she went in, he surveyed all the sides of the hall. He knew the apartment well as he had worked in all the rooms. There were two bedrooms, and one of them had cots and a steel almirah. Ayya used to get money from it. Things were as they were when he came on the previous occasion.

"Drink this. It is cool," she offered the glass of butter milk. After he had finished, she asked him whether everything was fine.

"Amma, by god's grace, I am fine. Can you bring the silver plate you keep in your puja room?"

She was taken aback at his audacity. She suspected his intentions were not honest and that she was in a piquant situation. Wanting to buy some time, she said," I don't know why you want the silver plate. Any way please wait. I will bring it"

"Please get it. You will know why I asked,” he said with a smirk on his face.

After a couple of minutes, she came trembling to the hall with the silver plate. To her great surprise, she found him taking from his cloth bag a dozen plantains, betel leaves, areca nuts, turmeric sticks and an invitation letter in traditional yellow and pink combination. He wound his towel around his waist and placed the things on the plate. When she looked at him with wonder, he prostrated before her and said, "Amma, I want your blessings for my daughter whose marriage I have fixed. Ayya was like my father. You are the first I have come to invite. It will give me utmost pleasure if you can come and bless the girl"

She felt small and bad at mistaking him and said, “I am happy to hear the good news. Ayya would have been very happy if he were alive. Please wait"

As she gave him two thousand rupees, he said, " Amma, please give it to the girl when you attend the wedding. You must not fail to attend."

Just then, three of Meenakshi's neighbours entered her apartment and asked, " Mami, what for you wanted us. There was some urgency in your tone."

“Please wait. I will tell you presently. Incidentally, he is our carpenter Muthu and known to us for several years. My husband had a liking for him. He has come to invite me to his daughter's wedding."

After Muthu left, she said," When I sent you the message, I thought I saw a venomous serpent enter the house. I realised later there was no serpent, and it was only my foolish imagination. Everything is fine. Thanks for coming"

Not understanding her, the neighbours looked at each other with a quizzical expression as they left.

 

 

 

Kokila Mami’s (aunty’s) Cool (773 words)

Kokila had an early dinner, afraid that the incessant rain might cause the power to be cut at any time. She had the candles ready on the dining table. Luckily, her fears seemed unfounded as there was no power cut and she could see her favourite serial till the end. It was 8 pm. 

There was a knock at the door. She wondered who could call on her at this time. After her husband’s demise, she continued to stay alone in this house. Her only daughter, who was abroad, had come to visit her old mom and left only the previous month. Kokila opened the door, keeping the safety chain intact, to see a young lady of about 35 standing there drenched in rain. Her clothes were completely wet and her hair dishevelled. 

When she saw Kokila, she said, “Sorry to trouble you. Can I stay in the portico till it stops raining? I should have left my office a little earlier.” 

It was dark outside, and she saw the lady alone. Taking pity, Kokila said, “Please come in and dry yourself.” 

The lady smiled with profuse thanks and entered the hall. Just as Kokila was about to close the door, there was lightning, and she saw in the glimmer of light a car parked outside the gate. She immediately felt she had made a mistake in allowing a stranger inside, but did not show it on her face. She gave her a towel, asking her to wipe herself while she made hot tea. She started making tea and decided not to betray her scare. In the rain, no one in the adjacent houses would hear her scream for help. Newspapers were abuzz daily with the news of old people who were alone being mercilessly killed for monetary gain, and warning against letting strangers in when alone. 

She gave the hot tea to the lady who was comfortably seated on the sofa. She looked strong and well-built woman. Kokila’s mobile was on the dining table. She wanted to get it, but did not want to create a doubt in the lady’s mind. Instead, she chose another sofa a little away from her. 

“Thanks a lot. Do you live alone? Any servants staying with you? I do not see any. Any children living with you?” she asked softly. 

“I am not alone. I have a cat to give me company. My maid’s daughter comes to stay at night. I think the rain is almost gone. Do you have far to go? Did you come by walk?” asked Kokila, wanting to test whether she would tell her about the waiting car. 

“I came by walk and will presently leave in a few minutes. I have a question to ask. You don’t know me. You are old and alone. How could you trust me and let me in?” she asked. 

“Your face looked innocent, and your bearing indicated that you are from a decent family. You were completely drenched. I did not think about anything then except to make you comfortable. I think I have not made any mistake in my judgment,” she said with a laugh.

“Oh, I am sorry, madam. You were not wise, but you have been very nice to me. I would not like to hurt you. You are like my mom. Please hand over the cash and valuables without any protest. Any attempt to draw the attention of others would invite immediate death to you. I hope you understand,” she said, like a snake hissing. 

Kokila did not lose her cool. She said, “Please do not do any physical harm. Whatever you want, take it. Let me get up and fetch the keys in a few minutes. The shock makes my head reel. Please give me just five minutes. I will cooperate with you fully.” 

In three minutes, they heard the shrill blaring of sirens from police cars and one screeching to a halt outside. The lady was struck with fear and asked whether any exit was available on the rear.

 Meanwhile, there was loud knocking on the door and a voice over the microphone that the house had been surrounded by police. As Kokila opened the door, a constable with a gun in hand walked in and asked in an amiable voice, “Where is our intruder?” The young lady was promptly handcuffed. 

When the young woman, as she was being led to the police car, turned towards Kokila with venom and anger in her eyes, Kokila triumphantly smiled at her without letting her know of the hidden buzzer under the sofa and the security arrangement made with the police.

 

 

Ignorance is Bliss (755 words)

 

Sharmila was restless. Her daughter, Anita, kept asking how soon they would see Grandma​a. Unable to hide her anxiety, she urged her husband, Ravi, to drive faster.

Ravi frowned. “The road’s not only kutcha but dusty and uneven. I can’t go any faster. It’s just forty miles away. We’ll be there in about an hour, maybe a little more.”

“I know,” Sharmila sighed, her voice trembling. “But you’ll never understand the agony and suspense I’m going through.” She started reminiscing about that fateful day as she often did.

That morning had turned her world upside down. The truth had slipped out not through confession, but by accident. Her parents had guarded a secret for twenty-seven years, one that might never have come to light if her uncle hadn’t blurted it out.

Her uncle had come to his brother’s house, unaware that Sharmila had come to her parents’ place the previous night for the weekend. As he stepped into the living room, he casually asked her father, “Where is your adopted daughter?”

Her father’s face went pale. He hastily signalled his brother to be silent, pressing a finger to his lips. But it was too late as Sharmila, in the next room, had heard everything. She saw the gesture, the alarm in her father’s eyes.

Her heart pounding, she walked straight to her parents. “Is it true?” she demanded. “Am I adopted? And if so, why have you hidden it from me all these years?”

The shock and guilt on her mother’s face were answer enough. Tears welled in Sharmila’s eyes. “I don’t need excuses,” she said softly. “Just tell me, who are my real parents?”

Cornered, her father finally spoke. “Yes, you were adopted,” he admitted. “But we don’t know who your father is. You were left outside our gate one night by a woman who didn’t want to be seen. We heard your cries and rushed out. When we found her running away, we stopped her and assured her that we’d take care of you as our own, as we had no children. We only asked that she never try to claim you. She agreed, saying you were born out of wedlock. We gave her some money… and she left.”

Sharmila’s voice shook. “What was her name? Did she ever come back to see me?”

“She said her name was Singaram,” her father replied. “Yes, we used to see her sometimes, standing quietly outside the compound, watching you play or walk to school. She never spoke to you, but we’d often see her wiping away tears. She seemed… happy just to see you.”

Her mother added softly, “She lived in a small village near Kanchipuram, about fifty miles away. She was very poor, so we helped her whenever we could. But after you married and left, she stopped coming.”

Now, as the car neared the village, Anita clapped her hands in excitement. “We’ll see Grandma soon! She’ll tell me stories, right, Amma?”

Ravi smiled faintly but said nothing. When they reached the village, he asked a few locals about a woman named Singaram. Most didn’t know until an old man pointed toward a small hut at the end of a narrow lane.

As they approached, they saw two women in their fifties chatting outside. Ravi greeted them politely and asked, “Do you know anyone named Singaram who lives here?”

One woman narrowed her eyes. “Why do you ask? Who are you people? You look well-off.”

The other woman, silent till then, studied Sharmila and little Anita closely. Her eyes softened, but she said nothing.

Ravi explained, “We’ve come looking for her… to ask about her daughter.”

At this, the silent woman suddenly spoke, as if in haste. “Yes, Singaram lived here—but she left about three months ago. Didn’t say where she was going. Just… disappeared. She seemed happy, though.”

Sharmila broke down, sobbing quietly. Ravi placed his arm around her shoulders and gently led her back to the car. “Come on,” he said softly. “There’s no point staying. We’ll find her somehow.”

When the car disappeared down the dusty road, the first woman turned to her companion. “Singaram,” she whispered, “why did you lie? That beautiful lady must surely be your daughter. And the little girl, your granddaughter. Don’t you know that?”

Tears flowed in Singaram’s eyes as she looked at the fading car. “I know,” she said quietly. “But I don’t want to disturb her peace and happy life. Let her mother ever remain a memory. It’s better this way for everyone.”

A man of worth (654 words)

 

My son virtually drove me out this morning. I bear him no ill feeling. In his position, I may have done the same.

He had lost the job he had held for twenty-two years due to downsizing. With no special skills, a quarrelsome wife, and four children to feed, life had become miserable. The few months’ salary he received as compensation was already spent. In such circumstances, a worthless old father with no income was easily dispensable.

He asked me to forgive him, saying it was for my own good. He advised me to join an old-age home for the poor. At least there, he said, I would be sure of a little gruel instead of starving in his house. He promised to take me back once things improved. There was truth in what he said, though it was painful to hear.

I loved my only son dearly. He had always been a good boy, kind, dutiful, and respectful. However, the crushing weight of poverty had driven him to this desperate act. What hurt me most, however, were the harsh words of my daughter-in-law:

“What is the earthly use of feeding this worthless old man who can’t even bring in a paltry hundred rupees a month?”

I sat in the local temple for hours, not knowing where to go or where this old-age home was. When the sun went down, I began walking along the busy road in search of a place to spend the night. Those I asked about the old age home claimed no knowledge of such a poor home.

I hadn’t eaten all day, except for a banana someone had given me at the temple. At one point, someone dropped a two-rupee coin near me, mistaking me for a beggar. Weak with hunger and dizziness, I spotted a tea shop across the road. I started to cross, and then everything went dark.

When I opened my eyes, I found myself in what seemed to be a hospital. Tubes ran through my body, bottles hung above me, and I could see doctors and nurses moving about with serious faces. A policeman stood silently in the corner.

Someone said, “The patient is showing signs of consciousness. He’s opened his eyes.”

A young doctor came closer and asked gently, “Where do you live, Thatha (grandpa)? Do you have any son or daughter we can call?”

“No,” I replied. “Please don’t disturb my son. He is very poor and cannot pay even a rupee. Leave me alone. I have no desire to live.”

The doctor frowned. “Thatha, your condition is serious. We are obliged to inform your family.”

“If you believe I will not live,” I said, “tell me honestly. I would like to donate any organs that are still good. Whatever money they fetch, please give it to my son. I’m saying this in full consciousness. If I can’t sign, you can call the policeman as witness. If you agree, I’ll give you my son’s address.”

The young doctor took my hand. “Thatha, we are doing everything we can to save you. But we have heard your wish and will honour it if the need arises. Please, give me the address.”

I told him my son’s address. Then the world faded again in a short while, and I felt weightless.

When I next became aware, I heard the sound of my son sobbing beside me, striking his head in anguish, his wife weeping quietly nearby. The doctor was explaining to him about my last wish and that patients were waiting for organs like eyes, kidneys, and liver, and that he would receive a few lakhs from it, in addition to the compensation for the truck driver’s mistake in ignoring the signal.

A deep calm filled me. My son and his family would be safe and comfortable.

At last, I could leave this world knowing that I was not, after all, a worthless old man.

 

The reunion (844 words)

It had been more than three years since I had last seen my dad. He was still living in the same house where I had grown up and lived until my marriage. Having lost my mother at a young age, he was everything to me, both mom and dad. I was the only child, born late to my parents, and after my mother’s passing, he never remarried.

He showered me with affection and pampered me, fulfilling every wish of mine. Because of him, I never truly felt the absence of my mother. He put me in the best school and would stay awake late into the night while I studied. Often, he made me tea when I worked through the early hours and woke up early again to prepare my breakfast and lunch.

When I went to college, he bought me a scooter and encouraged me to choose the course I loved, even though it wasn’t popular. He taught me to stand by my convictions. When I completed my postgraduate degree in journalism, his joy knew no bounds.

After I joined a newspaper, he said one day, “Lakshmi, I am getting old. I would like to see you married. I am receiving proposals from different families.”

“Daddy, I’m glad you brought it up,” I replied. “I wanted to tell you something but didn’t know how you would react. I’m in love with a man who studied with me in college. He’s well employed and comes from a good family, but he belongs to a different religion. Please allow me to marry him. I can’t think of anyone else in his place.”

For the first time in my life, I saw him explode in anger. “You ungrateful girl!” he shouted. “Is this what you do to me after all my sacrifices for you? I will not permit this. If you marry him, you are no longer my daughter, and I am not your father. You make up your mind, either me or him!”

I didn’t pursue the matter immediately. I knew his misgivings came from concern and needed to be handled gently. After a week, I tried to reason with him, but in vain. Even after two months, he remained adamant. Finally, I steeled myself and walked out of the house.

I soon married the man I loved, and in time, we had a child. I tried later to reach out to my dad, but he neither welcomed me nor visited. My letters went unanswered.

His birthday was approaching when I heard from a neighbour that he hadn’t been keeping well. That night, I had a disturbing dream that he was very sick and wanted to see me. When I woke up, the urge to meet him was overpowering. My husband suggested that we all go together, but I refused, unsure how my father would treat him.

I decided to go alone with my little daughter. He lived just three hours away in another town. I bought some fruits and sweets and waited for the bus. The return bus from his town was delayed, so I sat there, praying fervently that he would forgive me and agree to come and live with us. I wanted to ensure his remaining years were spent in comfort and love. Yet a part of me feared he might still turn me away.

I was determined, however, not to return without reconciling with him. What I didn’t know then was that my husband, sensing my silent pain all these years, had quietly written to my father a week earlier. In that letter, he expressed his deep respect and admiration for him, for the values he had instilled in me and for the love that shaped me. He ended the letter saying, “Sir, Lakshmi may be your daughter by birth, but I see every day how your upbringing shines through her. I would be grateful if you could forgive us both and let her smile freely again.”

The waiting passengers around me stood up as the bus arrived at the stand. As I picked up my daughter and bag, waiting for my turn in the line, I saw, among the passengers alighting, a frail figure climbing down. When I looked closer, my heart skipped a beat; it was my dad.

“Daddy! Daddy!” I cried out.

He turned towards me, his eyes moist, and came rushing forward with a broad smile. In that instant, I knew he had changed. He took my daughter from my arms and showered her with kisses, leaving her bewildered and shy.

As we walked hand in hand toward my home, he said softly, “Your husband’s letter reached me at the right time. I realised how foolish I had been. I only wanted your happiness, and I see now, you already found it.”

Tears welled up in my eyes. My prayer had indeed been answered, not by chance alone, but through the quiet love and effort of the man who had once been the cause of our distance and was now the bridge that brought us together.

 

The Transformation on a Deepavali Day (600 words)

Narayanan’s sister, Jalaja, had come from Seattle to Ernakulam on a short holiday to his house. She and their aged mom wished to visit the famous Krishna temple at Guruvayur. Though he was an atheist at heart, he agreed to take them to the temple town in his car. He had a great fondness for his sister and always tried to please her.

When they arrived at the temple gate, he asked them to go inside for darshan and said that he would wait at the tea stall, sipping tea.

“Narayana, why don’t you accompany us and come inside? It will make mom very happy,” said Jalaja.

He shook his head and said, “Please do not insist. You take your time and have a good darshan. I will enjoy watching the people and the temple elephant tied to the railing here.”

“Jalaja, do not waste your time. He is a Nasthikan (atheist) and will lecture like Jabali that there is no god. It is all his past karma. Leave him alone. We should hurry up before the crowd starts turning up,” said her mom.

When they went inside, Narayanan bought a cup of coffee and sat on a bench outside the tea stall with the day’s morning paper. He looked at his morning emails and kept his iPhone on the bench by his side as he turned his attention to the swaying elephant. Though he felt sorry for making his mom unhappy, he had always been irreligious and without faith. His father was a communist ideologue, and maybe it was his influence on him.

As he was browsing the headlines, he felt a movement by his side and saw a boy running towards the temple. He found his iPhone missing and ran after the boy. Nimble-footed, the boy ran fast inside the big temple Prakaram (corridor). The boy ran so fast amidst the crowd of devotees that Narayanan could not keep pace with him. Everyone stood and stared in wonder at this chase.

After one round of the outer prakaram (corridor), the boy ran inside towards the sanctum sanctorum with Narayanan closely behind him. Amidst the commotion, everyone, including his mom and sister, turned towards him. Both were surprised to see him and were happy that he had come just in time when the bell rang for the arathi. Narayanan could not see the boy. He mingled with the devotees and suddenly vanished

Just then, the priest moving the arathi clockwise around the God, illuminating the sanctum, was heard telling, “Today, the lord is in Shri Bala Krishna alankaram(decorated as a young boy).

With tears flowing on their cheeks, his mom and sister were grateful for His grace in bringing Narayanan inside the temple. As everyone raised their hands, Narayanan also raised his folded hands involuntarily with his eyes focused on God. He had a good darshan of the Lord, who seemed to smile at him.

When asked by Jalaja, “How come you followed us surprisingly?” Narayanan mentioned about the young boy who snatched his iPhone and ran inside the temple and how he could not catch him.

“What are you telling? I can see your iPhone very much in your shirt pocket,” she exclaimed.

As he felt the phone in his pocket, he wondered who and where that mysterious boy could be. He was pretty sure that the boy had snatched the phone. Confused when he looked again at the God in a child’s form amidst the light of the sole oil lamp, he felt, he knew the answer and an indescribable thrill of a change in his heart.

"Kindness is a gift everyone can afford to give (1147 words)

Arun Kaul was in a slight hurry to reach home. He had promised his wife and children a surprise and had bought pizza, cakes and ice cream. Wanting to save time. he decided to take a narrow, dimly lit, foul-smelling lane. Normally, he avoided it in the evenings

Halfway through, one man in faded jeans, a dirty T-shirt, emerged from the darkness and accosted him with a growl voice,” Gimme your wallet, if you wish to go home safe”

Arun had a lot of money in his wallet and hence hesitated. Without a warning, the vagabond pulled out a gun and shot him in the belly and ran away with the wallet. As Arun lay on the ground bleeding, he thought of his wife and children waiting for him.  The packets lay by his side. Blood was draining out, and he was slowly lapsing into drowsiness.

 No one passed through that lane, and he was slowly dying uncared for. He had no strength even to reach his mobile that lay a little away from him. Despite being dark, a couple of passersby, who went that way, did not stop, taking him to be a drunk. His mind turned towards God.

As luck would have it, a 12-year-old rag picker who came along the road saw the well-dressed Arun lying on his side. The boy reached him and called ‘Sir, why are you lying here? It is dirty”.

When there was no response, the boy touched him and tried to turn him when he gasped at the stream of blood.

Without a second thought, he sprinted towards the main road, shouting for help. A patrolling policeman heard him, and together they rushed back. Within minutes, Arun was lifted into a police car and rushed to the hospital, the boy beside him, wide-eyed and anxious.

The doctors operated immediately. The bullet had missed a vital artery very narrowly. They managed to save his life, just in the nick of time. The policeman left after hearing the man was out of danger, but the young ragpicker lingered for a while, peering through the glass of the emergency ward before quietly slipping away.

 The next morning at 9 am, the boy in his dirty clothes was at the reception. The nurse at the desk recognised him and asked him,” What brought you here? What is your name?”

“I am Pramod and came to enquire about the well-being of the person operated last night”

“Are you related to him?”

“No, ma’am. I found him lying in the lane and helped the police bring him here. I just wanted to know if he’s okay.”

The nurse smiled, touched. “You’re a good boy. Wait, I’ll find out.” She made a quick call and returned. “He’s fine and recovering well. They moved him to a private room.”

“Thanks. Would you mind checking for a few days daily about him? “It became a daily practice for Pramod to come at 9 am sharp, and for the nurse at the desk to give him the feedback. One day, she said, “I mentioned your daily visit to the patient’s wife, and the patient would like to see you. Would you go and meet him now?”

The boy hesitated, looking at his dirty clothes and uncovered legs.” Why do you hesitate when you have been showing such concern daily? Please come. I will take you. He would be happy to see his saviour”, she prompted

When the boy entered the spacious private room, Pramod saw Arun sitting on the bed with his wife and a girl of around 13 years on chairs by his side. “Pramod, is it your name?  Come near. Do not be afraid. If I am alive today, it is because of your prompt help. I am indebted to you.”

The boy just smiled and said, “It was good luck that I passed through that lane that day. I do not go there in the evenings.”

“How lucky it turned out for me”, Arun said and turned towards his wife. She patted the boy and said,” Thank you very much, God willing, we can meet after we return to our home. Meanwhile, have this for buying clothes”, as she proffered a thousand-rupee note.

Pramod said, “I do not need it. I just did what was a normal duty for a fellow being. Thank you,” and started walking out

The young girl gesticulated to the boy to stay. She turned to her dad to whisper in Punjabi,” Papa, what is it you are doing to someone who saved your precious life?  Where can you find such a young Samaritan? Is this the way you repay your debt of gratitude? Sorry, I am not happy,” she said with tears as she rushed out of the room.

Arun, with a knowing smile, looked at his wife, who opened her handbag and took out two thousand rupees. When she gave it to him, the boy said, “I do not need any alms. I just did what was a normal duty to a fellow being. Thank you”, and started walking out

“You are mistaken. This is not alms. It is a token gift on this happy day,” said Arun

“No, sir.  I do not need anything," and walked out proudly with a straight back.

The nurse who took the boy looked at the small chap with utter disbelief and asked outside the room, “Why did you refuse?”

“I may be a rag picker, but certainly not a beggar to take money for nothing. Thanks for all the help,” he said and walked away, disappearing into the crowd outside.

Arun recovered fully in a few weeks. He had the boy’s address, collected through the nurse when the boy visited the hospital daily. He went with his wife and daughter to the boy’s hut with a big basketful of fruits, cookies and chocolates.

He introduced himself as the owner of a well-known automobile workshop and explained how he came to meet Pramod and how indebted he is to him. “I wish to discharge this debt not by giving some money alone, but by turning his and your lives completely. You can move in a week to a free tenement near the workshop,

Pramod will be absorbed as a Trainee on a generous monthly stipend and trained fully, besides being educated in a technical school. I will bear the educational expenses of your daughter. You visit the workshop and choose a job suited to your skill and aptitude. Meantime, accept a token of one lakh rupees to adapt to the changed lifestyle. tell me if you need anything more,” he said as he shook hands with him.

Arun’s daughter could not contain her joy when she hugged her dad with pride.

The man and his family fell to their knees at his feet, unable to control the tears and joy at the incredible miracle.

 

Across the wall (554 words)

 

Suseela was not happy with the new tenants in the adjacent house. She was by nature helpful and non-interfering, yet something about them unsettled her.

It was a small family of a husband, his wife, and another woman younger than the wife. Soon after moving in, the wife came to Suseela’s house a few times to ask about the neighbourhood, but the younger woman never accompanied her. Suseela was never invited to their home either, nor did the man make any effort to meet her husband.

In their small municipal town, news travelled quickly and easily. Suseela learned that the wife’s name was Champaka and that her husband ran a small business. But Champaka was reserved, even evasive, especially when Suseela gently inquired about the other woman, whom she had assumed to be a relative.

Months passed by before Champaka gradually opened up. One afternoon, when her husband and the younger woman were away, she confided in Suseela.

Champaka’s voice trembled as she spoke. She had been married for seven years but remained childless, a fact her husband never forgave. He abused her constantly, both in words and blows, and made her toil all day like a servant. The younger woman, Nalini, was not a sister or cousin as Suseela had thought, but her husband’s mistress. When Champaka protested, he gave her two choices: to stay silent and serve them both, or leave the house.

With no family to return to and no means to survive, Champaka chose to endure.

Suseela’s heart ached for her. “But Nalini is not even beautiful,” she told her husband later. “Short, stout, with that loud voice… and poor Champaka, she’s so graceful and beautiful.”

Her husband only shrugged. “As long as there’s no complaint or law broken, what can anyone do?”

Life went on. Suseela noticed that Nalini often slipped into the house across the road, the home of a bachelor schoolteacher who also practiced homoeopathy in the evenings. She had heard Nalini tell Champaka that she was getting treatment from him for a stomach ailment, but the long visits made Suseela suspicious. The teacher, too, often seemed at his window, gazing toward Champaka’s house.

“Some secret romance must be brewing,” Suseela thought, sighing for poor Champaka, who remained confined in the house.

Every evening, Suseela prayed that God would make things right for her and that Nalini would run away with the teacher, leaving Champaka in peace.

And one bright morning, her prayer seemed to be answered. Her husband returned from the temple and said, “You won’t believe it. I learn that the teacher has eloped with a woman from the adjacent house!”

Suseela’s heart leapt. “Thank you, my God, Guruvayurappa,” she exclaimed, clasping her hands. Finally, Champaka’s suffering would come to an end!

But Champaka didn’t come by that day, nor the next. Growing anxious, Suseela went to her house to share the good news in person.

When she entered, she stopped short. Nalini was sitting inside : calm, composed, even smug.

“Where’s Champaka?” Suseela asked.

Nalini gave a small, knowing smile. “Don’t you know? Your dear friend Champaka ran away two nights before with the teacher.”

For a moment, Suseela stood speechless. Then, as she turned to leave, a quiet smile spread across her face.

“Good,” she murmured, “A good turn for Champaka, at last.”