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.”

 

 

The Handicap (682 words)

                                       
                                      Today is World Teacher's Day 2025 (682 words)

Arjun was an eleven-year-old boy studying in class five. A small, puny boy with a round face, he always wore a pleasant smile that could brighten anyone’s day. Though bright and attentive in class, he was seated in the last row. One might wonder what was wrong with that — except that Arjun was affected by polio in one leg and used a crutch to walk.

Despite his cheerful nature, the other students rarely mixed with him. During recess, while everyone else played on the grounds, Arjun would sit quietly on a bench, watching them play or reading a book. Some of the meaner boys teased him cruelly, calling him names like “one-legged horse” or “crutchy.” A few even took perverse pleasure in kicking away his crutch to make him stumble. But Arjun never lost his temper. He would simply smile and laugh along, disarming their cruelty with quiet dignity.

One morning, the class teacher noticed him and said gently, “Arjun, why don’t you sit in the first bench? You’re short, and it’s hard for me to see you from the back.”

Arjun smiled and replied politely, “Sir, I prefer sitting at the back. It’s easier to rest my crutch against the wall where it won’t trouble others. And I can still see the blackboard clearly.”

The teacher nodded thoughtfully, but a look of concern crossed his face. He didn’t press further, though the boy’s quiet acceptance of his condition touched him deeply.

A week later, preparations began for the school’s annual sports meet. The teacher announced events like a running race, long jump, high jump, marathon, lemon-and-spoon race, musical chairs, obstacle race and sack race. Students excitedly formed groups and filled out their participation forms. Arjun sat alone, watching the bustle quietly. No one invited him to join.

At the end of the day, the teacher collected the forms. When Arjun limped up with his crutch to hand it in, the class burst into laughter. The teacher’s face darkened. He slammed his ruler on the desk.

“What is there to laugh about, you silly boys?” he thundered. The room fell silent.

Then, turning to Arjun, the teacher said softly, “My dear boy, participation isn’t compulsory. You can watch the events and cheer your friends if you like.”

Arjun looked up with a calm smile. “No, Sir. I wish to be like everyone else — a normal participant. I’ve registered for the sack race. My friends will all be handicapped too, with their legs tied in sacks. God has already given me one. I think that makes us even, Sir. Please let me take part.”

The teacher’s eyes moistened. He took off his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief before accepting the form. There was pin-drop silence in the classroom. For the first time, everyone looked at Arjun with a mix of admiration and guilt.

When the sports day arrived, the sack race was the final event. The entire school had gathered to watch. Everyone knew Arjun was competing. Fifteen boys, including Arjun, stood at the starting line. There were no special concessions for him. He positioned his crutch, ready to hop forward with determination in his eyes.

At the whistle, the boys began hopping awkwardly in their sacks, and Arjun surged forward, unafraid of falling. The crowd held its breath as he took the lead, determination etched on his face. When he finally crossed the finish line, breaking the tape ahead of everyone, the school erupted into thunderous applause. The entire audience rose to its feet in a standing ovation.

The Principal himself walked to Arjun, gently patted his shoulder, and asked with a smile, “How do you feel, Arjun, on winning the race?”

Arjun replied, still smiling, “I feel normal, Sir — just like any other boy. And very happy to be part of this meet.”

His classmates rushed around him, cheering, “Hip, hip, hooray for Arjun!”

The teacher, standing at a distance, watched with pride and moist eyes. He knew that day, it wasn’t just a boy who had won a race: it was courage, humility, and the human spirit that had triumphed.

 

Freedom with Hunger (674 words)

 

The dusty road cut through a nameless town in the heart of Madhya Pradesh. As a travelling sales representative, I was used to long journeys and short halts. That afternoon, weary and hungry, my junior and I stopped at a sweet shop that looked larger than the rest.

We ordered aloo parotta with curd. Soon, a boy appeared with two plates and tall glasses of water. He was no more than thirteen, frail, with sunken cheeks, his skin stretched tight over bone. His eyes were swollen, one ringed with the shadow of a recent beating. He lingered near our table but was silent. 

In Tamil, I whispered to my colleague, “This boy is being ill-treated. Look at his eye.”

The boy startled. In broken Tamil, he asked, “Are you from Tamil Nadu?”

“Yes,” I said, surprised. “How did you come here? What happened to you?”

Before he could answer, a coarse voice boomed. “Hey, Chotu! Stop talking! Take this chai!” The shop owner glared, and the boy scurried away. But as he passed, he murmured, “I am a slave here.”

Something inside me alerted. I ordered more kachoris, then lassi, just to keep him coming back. When he placed the glasses before us, I whispered, “Come outside later. We’ll wait in a blue Maruti car. Find an excuse.” He gave the faintest nod.

Later, he slipped into the car, glancing around like a hunted animal. In halting words, between sobs, his story spilt out.

His name was Vadivel. His parents had been lured from Tamil Nadu with the promise of good work, given ten thousand rupees as an advance to clear village debts. But when they arrived, they were trapped in a quarry. The loan, inflated with usurious interest, kept them in bondage. Wages were swallowed whole. They lived on scraps and exhaustion.

His mother, frail and coughing from the dust, died without medicine. His sister, only thirteen, was preyed upon by the quarry owner; shame and despair drove her to the well. His father, broken by grief and chest pain, collapsed one day on the rocks and never rose again.

Vadivel was shifted to the sweet shop. From four in the morning till midnight, he worked without pay. He was beaten for mistakes, watched by the owner’s men, and never free.

When I asked if he wanted to escape, his eyes lit up for the first time. We drove off with the windows drawn and by evening reached Bhopal. There, he spoke of his wish: to go to Chennai, to find work in a hotel, to build a new life.

I bought him clothes, a train ticket, and pressed three hundred rupees into his hand. “Chennai is vast and dangerous,” I warned. “Beware of bad company. Protect your freedom.” He left with a smile. I left with hope.

Months passed, and I had forgotten him.

On a trip to Madurai, I stopped in Chennai and visited my brother, a police inspector. In his station, as his wife was away. A boy sat in handcuffs, head bowed, shrinking from the constables’ blows. My brother ordered him taken aside. As they dragged him away, I caught his face.

"Vadivel!” I gasped.

At the sound of his name, he collapsed at my feet, weeping.

“Sir,” he sobbed, “you warned me. But I had no work. The money was gone. No one helped me. I begged; I starved. And one day, I stole a purse. I was caught. The slavery with food was better than freedom with hunger. I wish I had never left.”

My throat tightened. I told my brother the boy’s story. Moved, he promised to take Vadivel into his home, to give him a chance at something better. The case was dropped, being his first offence and the stolen purse was recovered.

Yet Vadivel’s words clung to me long after I left the station:

Slavery with food is better than freedom with hunger.

And I wondered, with a heaviness I could not shake, what kind of world we had built for children like him.