Guilty by Kindness (780 words)

 

I sank to my knees in the dock the moment the foreman of the jury uttered the words: “Guilty of murder.”

The rest — the judge condemning me to life imprisonment — feels like a blur now, except for one thing: the wicked smile on the face of my accuser as I was led out of the courtroom by policemen.

I will truthfully narrate what happened on that fateful evening and leave it to you to judge my innocence or guilt.

 I was new to that city, having arrived just the day before in search of a job and a place to stay. I wandered through countless business establishments, knocking on doors and meeting little success, until exhaustion forced me to rest on a park bench.

 I noticed a middle-aged man sitting adjacent, his face clouded with worry, muttering to himself. It was obvious some deep fear weighed him down.

Though I was in no better condition, I tried to lift his spirits, saying,

“The day is beautiful, and the sun is setting in all its crimson glory. Cheer up, my friend. Lighten your heart by sharing with me what troubles you.”

He looked at me, eyes heavy with sorrow.

“I lost my wife two days ago,” he said. “Her memories keep haunting me.”

“I’m deeply sorry,” I replied. “Was she ailing?”

“No,” he said. “It was an accident. Come with me to my house across the road — I would need a little help.”

I followed him across to a large house with a portico. He led me through a dimly lit hall and seated me on a chair beside a small dining table. He brought from the fridge a can of Coke and handed it to me.

“I need your help carrying a large box to my car. It’s too heavy for me alone. I have to deliver it today. I’ll fetch the car and be back in a few minutes. Please, make yourself comfortable,” he said before disappearing outside.

The air inside was stale, and a strange, unsettling smell hung heavy.

I shifted uneasily in the chair, sipping the Coke. As I moved my foot, something sticky clung to the sole of my shoe. Curious, I bent down — only to discover a thick trail of blood leading toward the box he had mentioned.

Dread gnawed at me. Cautiously, I approached the box and lifted the lid.

Inside lay the body of a young woman, her torso riddled with stab wounds, a knife still embedded deep within her chest. She was unmistakably dead.

Horrified, I quickly shut the lid and returned shakily to my chair.

Panic urged me to flee, but just then, I heard a car pull up outside. The man strode back in, smiling faintly.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said.

Trying to steady my voice, I asked,

“You said your wife had an accident. Was she run over? Did she fall? How exactly did she die?”

At once, his face twisted in fury. His eyes bulged as he shouted,

“Why are you asking such questions?”

“Just wondering,” I said, forcing calm into my trembling voice. “You mentioned an accident — I was curious.”

“You opened the box, didn’t you?” he barked. “I see your slimy trail of blood leading straight to it. Answer me — yes or no! Still, you ask if she fell or was run over? I’ll kill you if you don’t tell me the truth!”

Fear surged in me. I darted a glance around for an escape route.

Luckily, the door was ajar.

I bolted for it, sprinting across the yard with the enraged man in hot pursuit. My heart thundered in my ears; my legs barely obeyed me.

Fortune smiled upon me when I stumbled into the arms of two policemen standing not far.

But fate, it seemed, had already sealed my doom.

The man claimed he had never met me before and that I had trespassed into his home with criminal intent.

The bloodstains on my shoes, the fingerprints I had unknowingly left on the box and furniture — all of it was damning evidence.

My plea that he brought me to his house for a small help was ignored against his staunch denial.

They said I murdered the woman for money and concealed her body while her husband was away at work.

The real murderer — that cunning husband — had craftily pinned the crime on me.

My only mistake had been my naïve willingness to help a stranger.

To the police, it was an open-and-shut case — no extenuating circumstances, no alibi, no mercy.

And so, with cruel irony, I have found the shelter and food I so desperately sought — behind cold, unyielding prison walls.

 

The Refiner of Silver (306 words)

 (This is not mine, but was sent to me by a good friend many years back, and I wish to share with you as I found it very touching)

 The Refiner of Silver 

“He will sit as a refiner, our purifier of silver”

This verse puzzled some in a Bible study, and they wondered what this statement meant about the character and nature of God.

One of the participants volunteered to find out the process of refining silver and get back to the group at their next Bible study.

That week, the woman called a silversmith and made an appointment to watch him at work. She didn’t mention the reason for her interest beyond the curiosity about refining silver.

As she watched the silversmith, he held a piece of silver over the fire and let it heat up. He explained that in refining silver, one needed to hold the silver in the middle of fire where the flames were hottest as to burn away all the impurities.

The woman thought about God holding us in such a spot and then she thought about the verse that says, “He sits as a refiner and purifier of silver”

She asked the silversmith if it was true that he had to sit there in front of the fire the whole time the silver was being refined.

The man answered that yes, he not only had to sit there holding the silver, but he had to keep his eyes on it all the time it was in the fire. If the silver was left to remain a moment too long in the flames, it would be destroyed.

The woman was silent momentarily, and then she asked the silversmith, “How do you know the silver is fully refined?”

He smiled at her and answered, “Oh, that is easy, when I see my image on it”

If you are feeling the heat of fire anytime, remember that God has His eyes set on you and will keep watching until He sees His image in you.

 

Waiting for the truth to unfold (1069 words)

My husband and I enjoy sitting daily in the late evenings on our spacious balcony on the fifth floor. We have a panoramic view if we look up at the dark sky with the shimmering stars and if we looked down, we can see the landscape of the busy city illuminated with lights of various hues from different buildings advertising various products, some in marquee, some in changing colours and some in blinding constant light. The contrast was at once baffling and soothing.

 One evening, as we settled into our usual chairs, I turned to Murali.

“I have something to tell you,” I began. “Do you remember Suresh? He studied with me at IIM and later joined an MNC.”

Murali smiled knowingly. “Yes, Savitri. You once told me he fell in love with you and wanted to marry you. What happened to him?”

I smiled at his sharp memory. “You’re right. He did. At first, I wasn’t sure how I felt. He was intelligent and charming, even chivalrous. He helped me a lot with study material and our group projects. But certain things about him bothered me. He was extremely opinionated and didn’t take disagreement well. He wasn’t popular for that reason — a bit abrasive despite his otherwise gentlemanly nature.”

“And yet,” Murali said, “you had a soft corner for him. Until something perhaps changed and you distanced yourself. Did he get in touch recently?”

I laughed. “A soft corner? I just knew he’d never be the partner I needed. But yes — he called. He’s in the city for work and asked if we could catch up over lunch. I suggested Samrat restaurant for tomorrow. It is close to my office. I just wanted to keep you informed.”

Murali looked amused. “Why do you say so? Do you think I’m the jealous or suspicious type? All friendships don’t have to end with marriage, Savitri.”

The next evening, back on our balcony, it was Murali who brought up the luncheon meeting.

“So, did you have lunch with your classmate? How did it go?”

“I meant to tell you,” I said with a giggle. “But you beat me to it.” He made a face, and I continued. “He came on time. He looked different — older than I remembered. His face was pale, and he had a receding hairline. Not the healthy, energetic guy he used to be.”

Murali waved it off. “I’m not asking about his looks. What did he say?”

I sensed the edge in his tone. “Nothing big. We just chatted. He hasn’t married, still works in Delhi — some big-shot position. President of something or the other. He didn’t look well, and when I asked, he brushed it off. He spoke about old friends, professors… he asked about you, too.”

“That’s unfortunate — his health, I mean. You should’ve invited him home. Breakfast tomorrow, maybe? I’d like to meet him.”

I looked at Murali in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“Of course. Call him. Let’s ask him over.”

 I dialled his number once, twice, three times. “It’s ringing, but no answer.”

“Call the hotel where he’s staying,” Murali suggested.

“Good idea,” I called. “What? What do you mean he didn’t check in? I had lunch with him this afternoon! He told me he was flying out tomorrow.”

The receptionist repeated her earlier statement, and I passed the phone to Murali, confused and frustrated. “They’re saying nonsense. You talk to them.”

Murali took the phone. “Can you clarify why there’s a problem reaching Mr. Suresh?”

The receptionist responded gently. “Sir, he had booked a room from Delhi, but he never checked in. When we followed up with his secretary, we learned that he suffered a cardiac arrest mid-flight. His body is being flown back to Delhi. We didn’t want to alarm the lady who called earlier.”

There was a long pause. Murali’s face turned pale with disbelief. “Are you sure?” he asked quietly.

“One hundred percent, sir. I can give you his secretary’s contact number, if needed.”

Murali ended the call and looked at me, stunned. “Savitri… she says he passed away on the flight. They never saw him at the hotel.”

I stared at him. “No. That’s not possible. I met him. I spoke to him. He was sitting across from me, smiling, talking. He remembered everything… asked about you, laughed at old stories. Murali, believe me… who was I with, if not Suresh?”

Murali didn’t speak. He wrapped his arms around me and gently guided me inside, away from the glimmering lights and the stars, to the bedroom.

​I was trembling — not just from fear, but from disbelief.

“Lie down for a bit and have this tranquiliser”, he whispered as he handed a glass of water. “I’m right here.”

I closed my eyes. His presence was calming. Within minutes, I drifted into a sleep.

Once he was sure Savitri was resting, Murali quietly went to the other room and called the Samrat restaurant.

“This is Murali,” he said. “I understand my wife, Savitri, had lunch at your hotel this afternoon with Mr. Suresh. She had made a reservation. Can you please confirm if the two had lunch there?”

After a brief pause, a soft-spoken waiter came on the line.

“Yes, sir. The lady was here — she arrived around 1 PM. She waited for about forty minutes. When no one joined her, she seemed disappointed and left. The lunch was never served.”

Murali’s heart sank. “Are you sure? No one else sat with her?”

“No, sir. She was alone for quite some time, but mumbling intermittently.”

Still unsettled, Murali hung up and immediately called their family doctor. As he explained what had happened, the doctor listened carefully before responding.

“I am not sure. This could be due to some unresolved strong emotion manifesting as a vivid experience,” the doctor said. “But it’s important that Savitri talks about it — not just to you, but perhaps to a professional. Don’t push, just be present and patient.”

Murali sat back, troubled but thoughtful. He looked at his sleeping wife, her brow now calm, her breathing even.

Who or what had joined her that afternoon, as she says? The waiter confirms she was alone. No food served. Could it be a hallucination?

Murali didn’t have the answers for the new problem. But tonight, he decided he would simply hold her close but remain awake. Maybe, Savitri would throw more light in a day or two.

Maya (1251words)

It had been a grey, drizzly morning. Chilly winds brushed against the wi​ndows as Preethi played with her two sons, aged five and three, in the living room. Suddenly, a faint, unfamiliar cry reached her ears. She paused. It was the soft wail of a baby.

Curious and concerned, Preethi opened the front door. To her shock, a newborn lay wrapped in a clean dupatta on the verandah, a feeding bottle placed beside her. The infant, barely a month old, shivered and cried softly—perhaps from hunger, perhaps from the chill.

Who could abandon such a tiny infant in the open, at the doorstep of an unknown house?

She looked around, hoping to see someone. But the street was empty, save for the familiar sight of the old mochi hunched beneath a tarpaulin shelter under the tree across the road.

Preethi rushed to him. “Did you see anyone come to our house just now? A baby’s been left at our door.”

The cobbler squinted, thoughtful. “Amma, a little while ago, a young woman—about 25—opened your gate. She was well dressed. I didn’t notice a baby. She stood near your verandah for a moment. I thought she must be a visitor and looked away.”

“Did you see anything else?”

“She had a slight limp. After she left, I heard a car start somewhere nearby. I couldn’t see who got in.”

Back home, Preethi knelt beside the baby, stunned by her delicate beauty. A chubby, round face. A small mole gracing her chin—a distinctive mark. Lifting the child to her shoulder, she felt a surge of emotion. The baby’s crying stopped instantly, replaced by an unsure smile as she nestled into Preethi’s warmth.

Her boys stood nearby, wide-eyed. Preethi handed the baby to her elder son and hurried inside to fetch a blanket, a soft shirt, and warm milk. After feeding, the baby smiled. That simple gesture etched itself into Preethi’s heart.

When she called Mahesh, he said he’d be home right away.

He, too, was moved the moment he saw the child. The couple had long dreamed of having a daughter, but life had brought them two lively boys instead. While they weren’t opposed to keeping the baby, Mahesh responsibly contacted the police. The officers advised them to send the child to a foster home. But when they saw the couple’s growing attachment and desire to retain the baby, they allowed them to keep her,till the baby’s mother returned to claim her.

They named her Maya.

Years passed. No one came forward. After three years, Preethi and Mahesh officially became her legal guardians. They moved into a new home in an upscale neighbourhood. Maya, with her infectious laugh and inquisitive eyes, became the heart of their family.

Life settled into a comfortable rhythm—until the afternoon that changed everything.

Preethi had stopped by Mahesh’s office to take him to a dental appointment. As he wrapped up work, a tall woman in her late twenties entered with a file.

“Leaving already?” she asked, surprised. “I had something urgent to discuss. No problem—tomorrow, then.”

Mahesh stood. “Sure. Meet my wife, Preethi. This is Mrs. Deepa Ram, our senior HR manager.

Preethi nodded. Deepa was striking—tall, poised, with hazel eyes and a quiet elegance. But as she turned to leave, Preethi noticed something else: a faint limp.

A chill coursed through her. Her mind darted back to that long-ago morning. The mochi’s words. A woman with a limp.

That night, Preethi lay awake, the image of Deepa haunting her. Could she be Maya’s mother? And if so, why abandon her? Who was the father? Surely not her husband. No mother would leave her child if the father stood by her.

Preethi turned toward Mahesh, asleep beside her. He had been a kind, loving partner. She needed to unravel this discreetly.

Over coffee the next morning, she said lightly, “I liked Deepa. She’s graceful, warm. She didn’t seem annoyed when you had to leave.”

“She’s talented,” Mahesh replied. “IIM diploma. Her husband also works in the city. That’s all I know.”

“I’m thinking of inviting her for high tea on Saturday. A ladies’ thing.”

Mahesh grinned. “Sounds perfect. You have her number?”

Saturday afternoon arrived. Deepa came precisely at 4, holding a box of chocolates. She wore a cerulean salwar suit and carried herself with a natural grace. Preethi’s boys ran off after greeting her, but Maya lingered, studying Deepa curiously.

Deepa smiled and extended her arms. Maya glanced at her mother for approval. Preethi nodded.

The little girl ran forward and climbed into Deepa’s lap. Deepa hugged her tightly, tears pooling in her eyes as she kissed her over and over. Maya laughed, clinging to her.

Preethi stood watching, a swirl of emotions rising within her—wonder, suspicion, and a strange tenderness. She went inside to fetch snacks and fruit juice.

Moments later, Deepa gently turned Maya’s head and glanced behind her left ear. A small smile flickered on her face.

She didn’t notice the eyes that had quietly been watching her from behind the fridge in the kitchen.

When Preethi returned with snacks, she found Deepa hastily wiping her eyes.

“Maya, go play with your brothers,” Preethi said, a note of firmness in her voice.

The girl looked disappointed but obeyed, casting a wistful glance back at Deepa before running off.

“You looked upset,” Preethi said gently. “Is everything alright?”

Deepa hesitated.

“I can tell something changed while you were here. You were cheerful when you arrived.”

After a long pause, Deepa murmured, “You’re the first person I’m telling this. My husband and I have been married for five years. We’ve always wanted a child, especially a daughter. But I can’t conceive. The doctors confirmed it twice.”

She exhaled. “Today… with Maya… it stirred everything I’ve buried for so long. The ache, the longing. I couldn’t help it.”

Preethi sat beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re strong to share that. And Maya clearly has taken a liking for you. She rarely connects with strangers like that.”

After a while, Deepa composed herself and took her leave, promising to return.

But Preethi had seen it when Deepa brushed aside Maya’s hair to look behind her ear. There, unmistakably, was a tiny black dot—just like the mole on her chin. Preethi had somehow missed it all these years.

That night, as Maya went to sleep, Preethi sat with Mahesh in the living room.

“She’s Maya’s mother,” she said softly.

Mahesh looked at her, startled.

“I’m certain. I saw it in her eyes and the way Maya responded. And there’s a birthmark behind her ear. Deepa looked for it.”

Silence.

“She cannot have children. I didn’t tell her. But she’s the woman who left Maya at our door. The mochi described her perfectly.”

Mahesh sat back; his face unreadable.

“She never told her husband, I think. She must have been unmarried then. Maybe the father disappeared. Who knows? But… what do we do now?”

Preethi’s voice broke. “She’s Maya’s real mother. And we promised—if her mother came forward… we’d give her back, though she has not claimed yet.”

Still, Mahesh didn’t answer.

Laughter rang out from the next room—Maya’s high-pitched giggle echoing alongside her brothers’.

Preethi turned toward the sound. Maya was just a little girl, playing without a care, unaware of the choice her parents were about to make.

And so, the decision lingered in the stillness of the room, unspoken, unresolved.

 

The Deception (681 words)

 

It had hardly been a month since I joined the company. After completing some training, I was assigned to the newly formed Marketing Support Group, reporting directly to the Chief. I hadn’t met many colleagues yet, so I was pleased when the C​hief asked me to introduce myself and present on our group at an upcoming seminar for all marketing executives.

I prepared thoroughly—I wanted to leave a good impression.

The conference hall was packed. I began my presentation with some nervousness, but I gained confidence as I saw my Chief smiling and the audience listening intently. As I paused to change a slide, I noticed a young man staring at me. He was strikingly handsome in a maroon striped shirt and yellow tie—tall, rugged, and fair, reminding me of Brad Pitt in his younger days. I tried to ignore him, but something about his gaze pulled me in. It felt intense, almost predatory. I took a sip of water to steady myself.

After the talk, there were a few questions—most straightforward, but his were probing, almost playful, and testing. I answered them all, with the Chief stepping in once. He didn’t ask for more but kept watching me closely.

During the buffet lunch, I stood alone until he approached with a smile. “Did I upset you? I just wanted to get your attention,” he said.

I couldn’t help but smile. “Not at all. It showed you were paying attention.”

“I’m Girish, Senior Marketing Executive from the sixth floor. You’re Akila, right? You did great—I might be seeking help from the MSG often,” he said with a grin.

“Thanks, Girish. I sit on the third floor, near the Chief’s cabin.”

“Mind if I sit by your side this afternoon?” he asked. “Seats aren’t reserved, and you can’t stop me,” he joked.

“With pleasure,” I said, flustered, and walked away.

I chose a quiet corner seat. He joined me soon after. His nearness, the scent of his cologne—it was dizzying. When his hand brushed mine, I thought it was accidental. But it lingered. I chose to ignore it and listened as he whispered about his college days at XLRI—the same institute I’d attended. The three-hour session flew by. Before leaving, he pressed my palm and said he was looking forward to the days ahead.

Soon, we were in love. He’d often visit my cabin, supposedly for work, but really for our growing romance. We met frequently, watched movies, and dined out, but I was careful to keep my boundaries. He once mentioned that his wealthy, status-conscious parents might not approve of my humble background, but he was confident. “Never fear. I’ll never let you down,” he assured me.

Months later, he came to my cabin. “There’s a function tomorrow evening at the Taj Coromandel. Dress your best—you’ll be meeting my parents. Don’t let the high-society crowd faze you.”

 I’d never been to such a formal gathering. Nervously, I dressed in my best sari and wore the perfume he’d gifted me. The hall was grand, filled with elegantly dressed guests. I scanned the crowd—and froze.

There he was—in an embroidered cream achkan with a jasmine garland studded with maroon roses, standing beside a stunning woman in a sari glittering with gold. My heart sank. Was this… his engagement?

I was devastated. “What a cruel joke,” I thought, tears welling up. I turned away, trying to escape, but everything went black. I almost collapsed—until two arms caught me.

“Akila, are you okay? I should’ve told you,” Girish said in a familiar voice.

“Don’t touch me, you liar!” I shouted. “Go marry that girl!”

He started laughing. “That’s Gautam, my twin brother! We’re identical—I made him wear the same outfit just for fun. He sports a moustache to look different. Today, he had removed it for the function. You’re quick to jump to conclusions.”

Then, grinning, he put his arm around me and said, “Come on. Let’s go meet my parents. Don’t worry. I have done the preliminary work and everything will go smoothly.”

 

Echoes of Love in a Hypnotic Trance (1260 words)

(An old and interesting story many might  have missed)

The only problem with Bhaskar is his inferiority complex. A highly qualified and ​w​ell-employed guy, he had everything a young man would aspire for. He had a ​very charming wife, a nice apartment in ​a relatively posh area and a couple of good cars. Tall and with ​a good physique​e, he would have passed off as a handsome guy but for his big ​​beak-like curved nose that stood out ​prominently in the otherwise good features like ​​w​ell-aligned teeth, twinkling eyes, broad forehead and curly hair. The nose acted as a blot attracting unwelcome att​ention. Since his young age, he had the habit of covering his nose on some pretext with his palm or averting others' gaze by turning his face sideward

Bhanu, his wife​, who worked in a foreign bank, was bubbly and ​an extrovert by nature. She had many friends and ​was fond of social gatherings and parties. She would insist that Bhaskar accompany her but he mostly found some excuse to stay away. On a few occasions​, he had gone, and she would be swarmed by both men and womenfolk, attracted by her intelligent conversation, genial nature, and witty banter. She would invariably introduce Bhaskar to one and all. There would be an uncomfortable silence for a short while before the noisy conversations resumed. Bhaskar hardly missed the amused look on their faces and Bhanu’s feeble attempt to suppress her embarrassment. Some of them would continue talking to him in an affable manner but most would slowly move away.

One night, when they were lying in bed watching TV, Bhanu said, "Bhaskar, if you promise not to mistake me, I wish to tell you about the conversation I had with Kausalya this afternoon.”

“Why this prelude? Spill it out​,” he replied

“I don’t care what others think​, but I love you from the bottom of my heart. You are a blessing and ​a gift to me​,” she said.

“You were talking about Kausalya. What is this then?”

“Okay, she was telling me about her cousin’s husband who had got his nose rearranged like the Tamil actress. It seems the deformity has gone​, and he looks different and looking very much better”

“Oh, you consider this as deformity. I never knew that you harboured such a feeling. For your information​, I ​h​ave already checked with some top cosmetologists and ENT specialists. I was advised to leave it as it is as the outcome of surgery may not always be satisfactory​, especially in my case. I thought you never minded it as you had seen me before agreeing to marry me. This seems to bother you now, is it?”

“Oh my god!! That is why I asked you beforehand to promise me. I should not have spoken on the subject. Your nose does not bother me. I like you for what you are but ​I thought if there is a way to make it straight​, why miss it. I will not talk on this subject anymore.”

“You have said what all you wanted to ​t​ell.​ I know I am an embarrassment to you in your circle. That is precisely why I avoided coming with you. If you so wish, you can find a ​b​etter-looking man for you. I will not stand in your way​,” he spoke in anger and stomped out of the room. He did not return but slept on the couch in the living room with the TV on. She came down after ​s​ome time, pleaded with him ​t​o forgive her and finally took him with her.

Ever since his complex made him see unintended messages in her every action, he became quieter and kept farther than usual. She attended fewer parties and was closeted before TV. The usual gaiety was missing in the house. It was a stultifying and humdrum life.

One Sunday after lunch, she sauntered across the hall to the French window and was seen watching outside intently with her eyes wide open. Bhaskar​, curious​, went behind her and saw a green parrot sitting on the branch of a tree and pecking at something. She turned to him and asked innocently​, “Isn’t it beautiful?”

His face became red thinking she was taunting him​, and ​he left the house without replying. He was seething in anger, thinking that she disliked him and possibly her heart had turned towards someone else. He could see ​that these days, she had become cold towards him and rarely talked, unaware that he was the one who had distanced himself from her He started suspecting and began to eavesdrop her phone conversations. When she was not around, he saw the calls she had received and made. He even stalked her ​a couple of times.

It was then he saw an advertisement in a magazine. It read, ‘Learn Hypnotism in 15 days. You can unravel the inner thoughts of the person you love. You can hear firsthand what is on her/his mind. You can use it to influence too the way you want.’

Bhaskar knew this is ​a harmless but sure way of finding out the truth without involving outsiders. The man who was to teach ​him cautioned him that hypnotism worked best where the subject has trust and confidence and not in hostile situations. Bhaskar joined the class. He changed himself to appear loving. He cajoled her to return to her happy mood, took her out to films, had dinners at restaurants, and showed his affection in many other ways. Things became normal​, and happiness seemed to return.

After a month​, one Sunday afternoon, Bhaskar said in a jocular tone​, “I am going to hypnotize you for fun. Are you ready to subject yourself?”

“Why not? I never knew you were a hypnotizer. Where did you learn? What should I do? Why don’t you ask questions directly?” she asked

“No, I will induce you to sleep and ask questions that you would respond from your subconscious mind. Are you willing? I learnt it long back”

“Yes, I have nothing to hide from you”

“Okay, lie down and relax all your limbs and body.​ Look at my eyes as I count one to ten. By then you will fall into slumber, deep slumber, sleep and deep sleep. I will ask questions thereafter”

“Hmm”

“1…2…3….4…5…6…7…8…9…10…11…12….13…14…15”

“Bhanu, Bhanu do you hear me? You are asleep but ​your subconscious is awake. Answer me, Bhanu”

There were some unintelligible guttural sounds.

“Bhanu, do you hear me?”

“Yes” she said in ​a feeble voice

“Good, ​​can you hear clearly what I say?”

“Yes”

“Tell me, do you love anyone?”

“Yes, I love a handsome man”

Shocked Bhaskar asked​, “How long have you been loving him?”

“For ​the last three years”

“Does his company make you happy?”

“Very much, he keeps me very happy”

“Can you describe him?”

“Tall, strong, muscular and handsome”

“Any distinguishing mark about him?”

“Nothing”

“What is his name?”

“You can call him,​ Surya, Aditya, Ravi​.”

Shocked again “Tell me what his particular name is?”

“Bhaskar, my husband”, she said and suddenly sat up on the couch and asked in a bewildered tone “Hey, why​ am I lying here on the couch​? What are you doing? Did I sleep off or what?”

He smiled happily and hugged her​, showering kisses.”​ You were under hypnosis for a short while​,”​ he said

“Did I blabber anything?”

“Nothing except professing your deep love for me”

She jumped and embraced him without telling him that she was feigning all the while and that she never was lulled into sleep and that whoever taught him hypnotism was a fake.

 

The Shield (971 words)

Chinnadurai had been driving this route for five years, and he still despised it. The narrow roads wound through crowded slums, where broken streetlights flickered uselessly. The air reeked of cheap alcohol from the two liquor shops along the way. Drunks boarded the bus at all hours, hurling slurred insults, pestering other passengers, and occasionally getting violent. Worse still, this was a pickpocket’s paradise, with thieves slipping in and out of the crowds, their crimes unnoticed or ignored.

Once, Chinnadurai had driven a different route—one that passed through clean, upscale neighbourhoods. However, after an unfortunate accident, management had reassigned him here as a form of punishment. Not that it mattered. A bus was a bus, and his job was to get people where they needed to go.

His conductor, Vasanth Paul, was a good-hearted young man, eager but inexperienced. He could handle fare disputes and the occasional drunk, but when it came to real trouble, it was Chinnadurai who had to step in. Still, no matter how many times they tried to keep order, the one thing they couldn’t stop was pickpocketing.

They knew who the thieves were. Everyone did. But no one dared confront them. The pickpockets operated under the protection of a powerful gang, and those who crossed them—drivers, conductors, or even passengers—paid the price. Stories circulated of bus workers who had spoken up, only to be ambushed after hours, their injuries serving as a warning to others.

And the police? They shrugged and said, “If there’s no official complaint, there’s nothing we can do.”

That evening, around 7 PM, the bus was packed as usual. The heat, sweat, and impatience of the crowd made the air thick with tension. As Chinnadurai steered through traffic, he saw them—four men slipping into the bus at the front and rear. The usual gang.

He kept his eyes on the road, but his grip on the wheel tightened. Something was about to happen.

It didn’t take long.

A woman’s terrified scream cut through the noise.

“Oh my God! My bag—someone snatched my bag! Please, help me!”

Heads turned. The bus fell into a brief, stunned silence. Then murmurs spread, passengers looking around uneasily. Some whispered to each other, but no one moved.

Chinnadurai’s jaw clenched. It was happening again.

“Driver, stop the bus!” someone shouted.

He didn’t. Instead, he pressed his foot on the accelerator.

The woman’s voice was shaking. “It had my life’s savings—jewels I bought for my daughter’s wedding. I took a loan… If I don’t get it back, the marriage will be cancelled. Please! Someone help me!”

Chinnadurai turned his head slightly, raising his voice.

“Whoever took the bag, return it now.” He paused, letting his words sink in before adding, “She is my sister. The wedding is for my niece. I will not ignore this. If the bag isn’t returned, this bus will stop only at the police station.”

A ripple of unease spread through the bus. The thieves had counted on the usual silence, the usual fear. This wasn’t what they had expected.

Two of them pushed forward, moving toward the driver’s seat.

“Our stop is here,” one of them snapped. “Open the doors.”

Chinnadurai didn’t even glance at them. “I already told you. No one is getting off until the bag is returned.”

The man’s face twisted in anger. In one swift motion, he pulled out a penknife and stabbed Chinnadurai in the shoulder.

Gasps filled the bus. Someone screamed.

Pain shot through Chinnadurai’s arm, but his hands never left the wheel. His vision blurred for a moment, but he forced himself to stay steady. He had driven this bus through potholes, storms, and riots—he wasn’t about to lose control now.

The passengers snapped out of their shock. Some lunged at the attacker, wrestling him to the ground. Others blocked the exits, stopping the rest of the gang from escaping.

Through the chaos, Chinnadurai kept driving. Blood soaked through his uniform, but he ignored it. Just a little further.

The bright lights of the police station appeared up ahead. With one final effort, he swung the bus into the compound and hit the brakes.

Within seconds, officers rushed out. The thieves were dragged off the bus, their protests drowned out by the shouts of angry passengers. Somewhere in the scuffle, the missing bag was found—tossed carelessly to the floor in a last-ditch attempt to avoid being caught.

As Chinnadurai sat on a bench inside the station, an officer pressed a cloth to his bleeding shoulder. He winced but waved off any fuss. He’d had worse.

The woman approached him, clutching her recovered bag. Tears welled in her eyes as she folded her hands in gratitude.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “But… why did you say I was your sister?”

Chinnadurai looked at her, then at the officers escorting the criminals away.

“These men are part of a larger gang,” he said. “They don’t forget. If I openly fought them, they’d come after me later.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “But saying you’re my sister makes it personal, and you are my shield.  It makes them hesitate. Maybe it’ll keep me safe. Maybe not.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Any woman in distress on my bus… is my sister.”

The woman wiped her eyes, overcome with emotion.

Vasanth, who had been watching in awe, stepped forward. He had seen many things on this route—drunken brawls, thefts, threats—but tonight, he had witnessed something else.

As Chinnadurai stood up, Vasanth fell into step beside him.

“Sir… I won’t be afraid anymore,” he said quietly. “Not after today.”

Chinnadurai gave him a tired smile. “Good.”

Then, without another word, he walked back to his bus.

He still had passengers to drop off.

 

The Initiation (1135 words)

 Guna was eating alone, a bun for lunch outside, when Mano, his schoolmate one class senior, sat by his side.

“Guna, you seem to eat almost daily only bun or puffed rice. Doesn’t your mom give you idly, dosa, or some rice item?” Mano asked with friendly concern. Guna kept silent; his head bowed.

“Hey, aren’t you hearing me?” Mano asked, his tone now raspy.

“I heard you. We are poor and only make food at night. Even this, my mom gives with much difficulty,” replied Guna softly.

“Would you like to make some easy money? I do, and my purse is always full,” Mano offered with a smile.

“Do you work after school? How do you make money?” asked Guna innocently.

“I work only two hours in the evenings, and the pay is good. I can take you to my master. He’ll train you, and you’ll be set. You could bring home money every day. Then your mom can make you idly and dosa! My master needs boys like you,” Mano spoke persuasively.

“Will the work be hard?” Guna asked, intrigued.

“Not at all. It’s exciting and doesn’t require physical labour. I see you run fast; that might come in handy now and then. You’ll get good clothes too, and won’t have to wear those tattered ones. Come with me this evening,” Mano encouraged.

Guna’s young mind was filled with fantasies of making his mother happy, completely oblivious to the class going on. He couldn’t understand how someone could make money without hard work like his father did.

Later, Mano took Guna to an abandoned shed a few streets away. About a dozen boys Guna’s age sat on the ground before a man sitting on a plastic drum. Guna didn’t like the look of him. He was dressed in a lungi and tight red T-shirt with a black scarf around his neck. His right wrist had a thick bracelet, and his face was scarred. When he smiled, showing his pan-stained teeth, Guna felt more fear than respect.

“Is this the boy you mentioned yesterday, Mano? What’s his name? Has he agreed?” the master asked.

“Guna, sir. He comes from a very poor family. I think he’ll agree once you explain there’s no risk,” Mano replied.

“Guna, come here,” the master called, and Guna approached with hesitation. The master stroked Guna’s head and asked, “You look hungry. Have you eaten?”

He took a 500-rupee note from his underwear and sent one of the boys to fetch biriyani. As they waited, the master tested Guna’s hands, asking him to pick up various objects quickly, testing his reflexes and nimbleness. By the third attempt, Guna succeeded, earning a pleased “sabash” from the master.

“Practice for three or four days before you join the others. I’ll teach you the tricks, how to divert attention, and how to work unnoticed. In no time, you’ll be great at it,” the master assured.

The boys devoured the biriyani, and afterward, Guna was left alone with the master. He handed Guna 100 rupees. “You’ll earn much more daily. Don’t worry. I know people who will protect you. Just remember, never hold on to anything if there’s a commotion. Drop it or pass it to someone else immediately. Understand?”

“I’m scared of getting caught. If my amma or appa find out, they’ll kill me,” Guna confessed.

“The fear will go. Just tell your mom you’re working in a bookbinding shop or something similar. Don’t tell the truth. If you don’t like the work, I’ll let you leave,” the master said, soothing Guna’s worries.

When Guna handed his mother the 100 rupees that night, she hugged him with pride. “Don’t ever tell your father. If he knows, he’ll take the money for alcohol. And don’t neglect your studies.”

But Guna couldn’t sleep that night. He knew what he was doing was wrong, that one day he’d get caught. But the weight of poverty and his mother’s joy at the money blinded him to the crime.

Even as he trained, Guna saw the other boys return daily with their earnings, happy. Purses and wallets were collected and emptied under the master’s watch, who then paid the boys their share. Some days were more profitable than others, especially holidays.

Finally, the day arrived. Guna was sweating as the master reassured him, “Be calm. Just get one purse and come back.”

The bus was overcrowded. Guna and three others scanned the passengers. Guna found himself behind an old man with thick glasses and a hearing aid. The man’s wallet was protruding, making it an easy target. Guna slipped it out effortlessly and got off at the next stop, walking back to the shed.

“Any luck, Guna?” the master asked.

Guna handed over the wallet, which was filled with 500-rupee notes. The master let out a joyful shriek. “You’ve got real talent, Guna. Well done!”

Guna, with the other boys, reached for a random purse to empty. When Guna opened his, he froze. Inside was a faded photograph of a family—his father, mother, himself, and his siblings. One of the boys had stolen his father’s wallet.

Tears welled up in Guna’s eyes. The realisation hit him hard. Only the poor, people like his father, rode public buses. It was the poor who got hurt the most. He felt a deep shame.

At that moment, he knew what he had to do. But Mano had once warned him—those who defied the master never survived. They just disappeared.Still, Guna couldn’t continue.

“Why are you crying?” the master asked, misreading the tears. “Happy with your success?”

Guna forced a weak smile. He didn’t go home that night. Instead, he made his way to the railway station. As he sat on a bench, waiting for a train to an unknown city, he thought of his mother. The pain of leaving her weighed heavily on him, but he had made up his mind. He would make her proud someday, not with stolen money, but through honest work. The story ends here for most.

Here is a sequel to soothe the disturbed minds of some of the readers.

Guna, like many ragpickers in Mumbai, initially started to polish shoes at railway stations, do odd jobs like sewing buttonholes and stitching at tailor shops and then moved on to a saloon. After a brief apprenticeship, he became adept in hair cutting and styling, all within three years. He became a partner paying some money to an aged owner of a saloon at Hosur. He spent the mornings and evenings visiting clients’ homes for haircuts, earning a tidy sum every day, and spent the afternoons at the saloon. Life was smooth and happy.

One evening after dusk, he surprised his family, narrated the happenings and brought them safely and secretly to his place.

A Tale of Devotion and Karma (1063 words)

 Festive days were ahead. Ganesh walked aimlessly through the bazaar, gazing at the shops, glittering showcases, screaming hawkers, and people laden with bags, rushing around in a tearing hurry. The jostling crowd, high humidity, and warm weather were suffocating, and he longed to escape. It was then that he noticed a vendor in a corner of the platform, selling a variety of items—combs, mirrors, shaving gadgets, perfumes, cheap clocks, glass beads, hairclips, safety pins, toys, and other sundries, all under a placard that read, “Any item for just 10 rupees.”

Among the items, Ganesh spotted a tiny but beautiful Vinayak doll. Without a second thought, he pulled out the only ten-rupee note he had and bought the doll, tightly wrapped in a newspaper by the vendor.

There was now a spring in his step as he walked home, feeling a newfound lightness in his heart. Ganesh led a difficult life, always in need. He held a low-paying job with long hours, a wife, and two children to support. He desperately longed for a break that had been eluding him for a long time. Every month, without fail, he purchased a lottery ticket, firmly believing that God helps those who help themselves. He felt that a lottery win could be the channel through which God might bless him with a windfall. Though disappointment greeted him each month when the results were out, he remained hopeful. Now, he had a new hope—this Vinayaka idol might just become his mascot and bring him the good fortune he longed for.

Ganesh placed the idol on the puja shelf and offered a flower at its base. He reassured his wife, Vimala, that the small expense had been worth it, and that Vinayaka would soon bless their family. Although she did not share his optimism, Vimala said nothing.

A month later, as you may have guessed, Ganesh won the jackpot—Rs. 25 lakhs in a lottery. Overjoyed, he hugged his wife, his face glowing with the look of someone saying, “Did I not tell you?” Life improved dramatically, bringing them many of the comforts they had once only dreamed of. Special prayers were held for Vinayak in gratitude.

One night, a week later, as they lay in bed, Vimala said, “Our neighbour Lalitha is pregnant. They already have a daughter, and the couple hopes for a boy this time. She wondered if we could lend them the Vinayaka idol for six months until the baby is born. I told her I’d check with you. What do you think?”

Ganesh was reluctant to part with his cherished mascot, but his wife’s words swayed him. “I feel we should share the things that bring joy to others. Vinayaka will surely be pleased with us and bless us even more,” she said.

A few months later, Vimala rushed into their home from Lalitha’s, tears streaming down her face. “Lalitha is blaming us for her misfortune! She gave birth to twin girls, and now she says the idol brought her bad luck because she wanted a son. Her husband glared at me as if we’d wronged them. What can we do if it’s their karma to get twin girls? We lent Vinayak to her only because she asked.”

“Forget those foolish people. Who says girls are bad luck? We have two charming daughters, and we’re happy and blessed. Go and get the idol back,” Ganesh said firmly.

With the idol back in its rightful place, Ganesh felt reassured by Vinayaka’s protective presence. Things were going smoothly again, until one day, Ganesh’s brother, Raghu, unexpectedly paid a visit. Raghu, who had been distant for years, was now overcome by jealousy at seeing Ganesh’s newfound success, though he cleverly hid his feeling

“I’m glad to see you doing well,” Raghu began. “Amma says you’ve had all this luck because of a Vinayaka idol. As you know, I’ve been running Dad’s old grocery store in the village, but business hasn’t been good. And you know my rebellious past—no one wants to marry me. Amma suggested I take the idol and pray for some blessings. Can you lend it to me for a year?”

Ganesh noticed the smell of cheap liquor on his brother’s breath and surmised he hadn’t changed. Nevertheless, he gave Raghu some money for him and, separately, some for their mother, along with the idol. “Keep the idol with care. Vinayaka blesses those who pray sincerely. Leave your vices behind and work hard, and you’ll see good things happen,” Ganesh advised.

A fortnight later, an urgent message came from the village asking Ganesh to come at once. By the time he reached , it was dusk, and his mother’s house was dark. He found her huddled in a corner on the floor.

“Amma, what’s wrong? Where’s Raghu?” Ganesh asked as he helped her sit up.

Through tears, his mother explained that Raghu wished to conduct a puja after getting the idol, only to be mocked by his friends. Embarrassed, he left the idol behind and went out drinking. In a few days, he sold the grocery store and ran off with a married woman.

“Did he give you any of the money I sent?” Ganesh asked.

“No. He takes everything from me and gives nothing,” his mother replied.

Ganesh brought his mother home along with the idol, contemplating whether the events were somehow tied to the Vinayaka idol or just a result of Raghu’s karma. After all, Raghu had gained some cash by selling the store and got a married woman, though in an unethical way. This troubling question lingered in his mind until his wife reassured him, saying, “Faith in God is personal. The idol is a blessing to us because we believe. Vinayaka has brought us peace and fortune because we approach Him with devotion and sincerity. That is all that matters.” As an afterthought, she added,” As an additional blessing, we can now keep mother with us in good comfort.”

Ganesh smiled, feeling fortified in his faith. He realised that true blessings come from the strength of one’s belief and that Vinayaka’s grace would always remain with them as long as their devotion remained pure. Strangely, the thought of his boss’s recent assurance of a promotion with a good raise crossed his mind, even as he heard Vimala ringing the bell in the puja room.