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.