The Miraculous Glow (824 words)

Agnes was getting ready to leave for her office. She was near the door, putting on her shoes, when her mom ran up behind her and tapped her shoulder. Her mom was a superstitious person. She never called from behind when one was about to leave.

“Agnes, please say a prayer to the Lord before you leave, “she said

“Why, what happened? Anything you are worried about?” asked Agnes

“No, nothing in particular. I had a bad dream early in the morning,” she said

Both of them stood before the huge picture of the Lord and said the following prayer
‘Our Father in Heaven, Holy be Thy Name
Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done
On earth as it is in Heaven
Give us this day our daily bread
And forgive us our sins
As we forgive those who sinned against us
Do not bring us to the test, but deliver us from evil.
Amen.”

Her mom smiled at her and said, “You are a sweet girl, and you always please me”

The work in the office was very tight. She had no time even for a cup of tea. She looked out from the third floor of the seven-storey building. It was dark even at 3 pm, with a heavy drizzle. She did not like it and wanted to leave for home at 5 pm. It was then she heard a strange rumbling sound with thuds. Soon, the furniture started moving, and before she could run towards the exit, the building started to shake and collapse, with the floor leading to the entrance to the office caving in.

With great presence of mind, she went under a strong table. She heard piercing screams; the deafening noise of the entire building collapsing, and the shrieks of the people hit by the falling debris. The power went out, and the space was covered by darkness. There was a sepulchral silence except for the wails and distant voices in a muffled tone. She could not move as some heavy object lay over her. She was cramped in a small space and could not extricate her legs or one hand. It was aching, but she was not seriously hurt. She could not locate her handbag and the mobile to contact others. Luckily, the watch with luminous hands was running. It showed 7 pm, and there was no sign of any rescue people near her. She could hear the cranes, the firefighters and the rescue team working, but trapped as she was in the centre of debris, she remained invisible. Her screams for help were inaudible

It was then she remembered her mother’s dream and her request in the morning for prayer. That made her recite the prayer again with all devotion. She pleaded with tears in her eyes “Father, I lift my hands to you. Please pour down upon me your loving grace, light, peace, mercy, protection, help, and healing. Humbly, I praise and thank you, Lord. In Jesus' Holy Name I pray. Amen.”

She was thirsty and hungry but tried to remain alert. She tried hard to fight the drowsiness that was enveloping her, as she did not want to end her life in a concrete grave. After what seemed an interminable wait, she heard, around 11 pm, some voices nearby lifting hopes in her heart. With a big piece of wood or concrete covering her mouth, her shouts were not heard even by her. As she repeated the prayer again and again, she found the place filled with an ethereal and comforting light. It was as if the Lord Himself was present there to care for her. She mumbled, “Lord, in you I surrender. You are my only resort,” even as a certain calmness descended on her. It was then she heard the bark of some dog nearby before she passed out.

The rescue workers, who were working from above and avoided horizontal rescue, heard the dog barking. They rushed to see that It was circling a particular area. One of the workers managed to enter through a small opening to find a glow from inside a void, where a victim could remain trapped. The glow appeared, as if a torchlight was burning inside. It was otherwise pitch dark around. With help from others, he managed to reach the place to find an outstretched hand. There was no response to his calls. He slid his hand through the opening and felt. The hand was warm. They worked carefully, using props and removing the debris, ensuring that nothing collapsed on the victim.

The source of the shimmering light from the area that attracted the attention of the dog and the rescue men was inexplicable, as no torch was found there, and the dial of the watch was black, when she was removed in a stretcher to the waiting ambulance. What was strange was that the miraculous glow disappeared once the rescue was completed.

"Your Valentine has come home" (1043 words)

  

This old story relates to the mid-nineties 

I was learning DTP at a small private institute because I couldn’t afford college. My mother worked as an ayah at a private clinic. Every day while she was at work, I spent my afternoons at the nearby government library, reading newspapers and magazines, especially the job vacancy pages.

One afternoon, while scanning the employment supplement, a soft shadow passed beside me. I looked up and saw a young girl, about eighteen, pausing at my table before moving to the next one. She was beautiful in a quiet, gentle way, with a small nose, elegant features, and eyes that seemed to carry both hope and worry. Her salwar suit was worn and faded, a sign of her poor circumstances. She had no book in her hands and appeared restless, as though waiting for something.

I went back to reading, but soon noticed her glancing at me. When our eyes met, she looked away. After this happened a few times, I smiled and gently asked if she wanted to say something.

“Sorry, sir,” she said softly. “I’m actually waiting for the supplement you’re holding. When you’re finished, could you please give it to me before others take it?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” I said, handing her the paper. “Please, take it.”

She smiled, and said, “Thank you. Someone told me there was an advertisement I should see today.”

As she walked back to her seat, I noticed her long hair, neatly braided, falling almost to her hips. She moved with a quiet grace. Though I had no real interest, I picked up an astrology magazine and pretended to read, stealing glances at her now and then. I noticed she did the same.

After about half an hour, she returned the paper, paused at my table for a moment, and then left.

That night, as I lay on my bed dreaming of my future, a steady job, a stable life, her face kept appearing before my eyes. I turned restlessly, cursing myself for not asking her name, where she lived, or if she came to the library every day.

The next day, I went to the library wearing my best T-shirt and jeans. My heart sank when I didn’t see her. I took a few newspapers and sat at the same desk, hoping she would come.

About thirty minutes later, she arrived in a hurry. I saw hope in her eyes as she scanned the room, and then they rested on me. I smiled and pointed to the empty chair opposite.

When she sat down, I said, “I’m Selva. I’m learning DTP and live near the Pillaiyar temple in the next street. I come here every day. I was lucky to meet you yesterday. What’s your name?”

“I’m Akila,” she replied softly.

When I asked what she did, she said, “I stopped school after Class 11. I’m preparing for the typing examination.”

“Why didn’t you complete Class 12?” I asked gently.

“I have no parents,” she said. “I live with my uncle near the flour mill. He’s kind, but he can’t afford my fees. My aunt asked me to stop studying and look for a job. I know typing.”

 “I’m really sorry,” I said. “I hope you get a job soon. I’ll collect the job supplements every day and keep them ready for you.”

From that day on, we met almost daily at the library, except on Sundays. Slowly, without realising it, we became close to each other. We talked about our dreams, our fears, and our hopes for the future.

When her eighteenth birthday came, I wanted to give her a small gift, but she refused. “My aunt watches me closely,” she said. “If she sees anything new, she’ll ask questions and stop me from coming here or attending typing classes.”

Still, our bond deepened. We didn’t need gifts; our conversations, smiles, and shared silence were enough.

One day, I noticed her eyes were swollen, her face pale and sad. She tried to hide it, but I asked what was wrong. After some hesitation, she said, “My uncle has decided to move back to his village near Salem this Friday. We can’t afford to live here anymore. I don’t want to leave Chennai. I want to stay here permanently.” Her voice broke. “I feel like crying all the time.”

I was shocked. I held her hand and said, “Don’t worry, Akila. We’ll find a way. We still have three days.”

Then, in a trembling voice, she said, “Selva… I’m shy to tell you this. Please find a way to keep me with you.”

“I understand,” I said. “I’m in love with you too.”

That night, I spoke to my mother. She listened quietly and then said, “I’ll speak to the clinic owner. They’ve been looking for a receptionist and a record assistant. Akila can stay with us until we arrange something at the clinic. Don’t lose hope.”

I was overjoyed.

Two days later, my mother said, “The clinic owner has agreed to employ her and provide accommodation. Let’s go speak to her uncle tomorrow.”

I barely slept that night.

The next morning, we went to Akila’s house near the flour mill. An elderly woman pointed to a locked door and said, “The poor girl cried for two days. Her aunt kept her locked, fearing she might run away. They left very early this morning.”

My heart shattered.

My mother held me as tears flowed uncontrollably. “Don’t cry,” she said softly. “We tried our best. Maybe she’ll write to you someday.”

As we walked back home, defeated and heartbroken, we heard the flower seller near the temple tell someone, “They’ve come.”

We turned.

Akila was running toward us.

 She fell at my mother’s feet, sobbing uncontrollably. “I escaped at the bus stand just before the bus left. My uncle wanted to chase me, but my aunt pulled him inside. I have no one now, only you and Selva.”

My mother lifted her gently and said, “Don’t worry, child. We were just coming back from your house. Everything is arranged.”

Then she turned to me with a smile. “Selva, your Valentine has come home.”

Akila stepped inside our house with her right foot, and with that single step, she walked into my life forever.

 

The Right Choice (845 words)

Meera’s two-wheeler had stubbornly refused to start that morning despite her repeated attempts. As she had to rush to be at the office by 10 am for an important meeting, she ran to the bus stop. Autos fully occupied passed by at high speed, with her anxiety growing by the minute. Not one three-wheeler stopped.

The sky was cloudy and slightly dark with the possibility of rain. Reluctantly, she boarded the bus as anything was better than being drenched.

There was barely room to stand. Men stood around her on all sides, their bodies close, their breath heavy. The smell was oppressive, but she had no choice. She clutched her bag to her chest and tried to shrink into herself.

“Where to?” the conductor barked.

She told him her stop. He tore a four-rupee ticket and shoved it into her hand.

She extended a fifty-rupee note. “I’m sorry, I don’t have change.”

His voice turned sharp. “No change. Give exact amount or get down.”

“I only have one two-rupee coin,” she said, her voice soft with desperation. “You can pay me the balance when I get down.”

Without a second thought, he whistled for the bus to stop. “Return the ticket and get down quickly.”

“It’s drizzling outside,” she pleaded. “Please don’t throw me out. Just help me.” She looked around and saw the other passengers watching her with curiosity, with an air of indifference.

Before she could say more, a gentle but firm voice rose from a nearby seat. “How can you do that?” an elderly man with a prominent beak-shaped nose said. “Can’t you see it’s drizzling heavily? Here, take this.” He held out a five-rupee coin. “

The conductor muttered something indecent and thrust a one-rupee into the man’s hand.

Meera stood frozen and surprised. It had all happened so quickly. “Sir, I don’t have the change,” she said, flustered. “Please take this fifty-rupee note. I will collect the balance later whenever we meet.”

He smiled softly. “Never mind. Four rupees is not a big amount. Are we not human beings? Don’t we have sisters and daughters like you? Let it be.”

He got up at the very next stop to get down. His shirt was worn, his chappals cheap, his face stubbled, but to Meera, he looked, though poor, like the kindest man she had ever seen.  His face stood permanently etched in her heart.

Two months later, Meera’s father called her.

“Meera, are you free today? I’m going to the orphanage. The manager has resigned, and we need to appoint someone new immediately. Will you come with me and help in the selection?”

She agreed immediately.

The orphanage was her father’s life’s work, a sanctuary for destitute and lost children who had nothing but hope. They were given shelter, food, education, and a chance at a future through vocational training. Her father wanted someone capable of handling the big responsibility.

As the interviews began, candidates came and went, some experienced but demanding higher compensation, some inexperienced but eager for money, some simply uninterested in the social work or the children themselves. Meera’s father had asked her to rate each one.

Then the last candidate walked in. Meera’s heart skipped a beat when she saw him.

The same beak-shaped nose. The same stubbled face. She was sure it was him. The man from the bus.

He stood respectfully, unaware of the recognition by her. She asked him gently to sit.

Her father studied his résumé. “You have no experience managing an institution. You’ve worked only as a clerk in a small store. Why do you think you’re suitable for this job?”

The man paused, then spoke quietly. “It’s true, sir. I have no experience. But I have many children. I know what it means to care for them. I will love these boys and girls as my own. I may lack qualifications and experience, but I promise sincerity and dedication. I need this job badly for running my household, but more than that, I want to serve.”

Her father nodded unsurely. “We’ll let you know in half an hour. Please wait.”

After he left, Meera turned to her father. “Appa, I know who I want.”

“Who?” he asked.

“The last gentleman.”

Her father looked aghast. “What? He has no experience. No managerial background. I’ve already crossed his name.”

“Appa,” she said softly, “experience can be gained. But compassion cannot. It is inherent. These children don’t just need an administrator; they need a kind heart. All the others came looking for a job. This person came to serve.”

Her father raised an eyebrow. “How do you know he has compassion? Are you trusting mere words?”

Meera smiled and told him about the bus, the rain, the rude conductor, indifferent passengers and the kind stranger who paid her fare without expecting anything in return.

Her father fell silent.

That afternoon, the man was appointed, not just as the manager, but as administrator at a salary higher than originally planned.

A thousand words will not leave as deep an impression as one good deed

 

 

The Mysterious Brass Compass (1030 words)

  

 Ramiah, a wealthy brass merchant in Kumbakonam, lived in a spacious bungalow set on a vast plot of land in the outskirts. He lived a peaceful life with his wife and two sons.

Once, during a pilgrimage to Benares, he visited an antique shop and noticed a beautifully crafted circular brass compass with a needle at its centre.

“Ah, that’s a fine piece,” Ramiah said, lifting it carefully. “How much does it cost?”

The shopkeeper shook his head. “Sir, it’s defective. The needle does not point north or south. It’s of no use.”

Ramiah examined it closely. “Defective or not, it’s beautiful. I’ll take it.”

The shopkeeper smiled. “Very well, sir. Since you’ve purchased so much already, you may have it free.”

Back home, Ramiah placed the compass on his table in his room at the shop as a decorative piece. The needle constantly oscillated and never settled in the proper direction. One day, a woman who had earlier purchased a vessel and had visited his room returned, distressed.

“Sir,” she said anxiously, “I think I lost the tiny screw from my diamond earring here. It must have fallen on the floor.”

“Don’t worry,” Ramiah replied kindly. “We’ll search for it.”

They searched the floor and the surrounding area thoroughly, but the screw could not be found.

Just then, Ramiah noticed something unusual. “Strange… the needle has stopped,” he murmured. “Look, it’s pointing toward the almirah.”

They moved the wooden almirah aside, and to everyone’s astonishment, the missing screw lay beneath it. As soon as the screw was picked up, the needle resumed its restless oscillation.

Another incident soon followed. One morning, the supervisor approached Ramiah with concern. “Sir, the ornate bell from the shop is missing.”

“Bring the employee in charge of that area here,” Ramiah said calmly.

When the employee was questioned, he replied firmly, “I know nothing about it, sir. I have not taken anything.”

When Ramiah placed the compass on the table facing the supervisor and the employee, the needle oscillated rapidly, then turned and pointed straight at the man and stopped.

Ramiah said softly, “Do you see this? The compass is pointing at you.”

“That means nothing! The supervisor is also standing with me,” the employee protested nervously.

Ramiah asked the employee to move to a corner, but did not change the position of the compass. The employee moved, and instantly the needle turned again and pointed at him.

Ramiah’s voice hardened. “Shall I call the police?”

The man’s face turned pale. “No, sir! I confess. I took the bell. I’m sorry.”

From these incidents, Ramiah concluded that the compass had a miraculous power to identify lost objects and expose falsehood.

He confided this secret to his close friend and former schoolmate, the postmaster.

“This is extraordinary,” the postmaster said in amazement. “But what good is it if the compass remains in your room, where only a few people come? “Let it stay on my table at the post office,” the postmaster said. “Hundreds of people visit daily. It could help many for free.”

Ramiah smiled. “You are right. Take it.”

Soon, its power became widely known. One day, a young girl cried, “Uncle, I’ve lost my anklet!” Another day, a boy said tearfully, “Sir, I’ve misplaced my exam hall ticket!” A worried farmer once pleaded, “My land deed is missing and without it, I am ruined.”

Each time, the compass led them to their lost belongings.

In the centre of Ramiah’s land stood a large mango tree that bore fruit abundantly each season. He gave most of the harvest to his servants, the nearby temple, and the municipal school, keeping only a small portion for his family.

In his old age, he called his sons and said, “My time is passing. I am handing over the business to you. Take good care.”

He built two identical bungalows on either side of the mango tree, one for each son, with the tree serving as a natural boundary.

One evening, Ramiah spoke to the postmaster. “I want my sons to continue giving the mangoes as I have done.”

“That is wise,” the postmaster said. “Why not leave written instructions for them? Send it to the post office. I will deliver at the appropriate time”

Ramiah agreed and wrote identical letters to both sons, instructing that after his death, 20% of the harvest be retained for personal use (including friends, relatives, and servants), and 40% each be donated to the temple and the municipal school.

He informed his sons about the arrangement and also spoke privately to the temple trustee and the school headmaster.

After Ramiah’s death, the sons approached the postmaster and made a deal with him for a consideration that the letters would not be delivered.

Soon afterwards, the postmaster suffered a stroke that left him paralysed and unable to speak. A young woman took charge of the post office.

When the mango season began, and the tree was awash with mangoes, the sons stopped the charitable distribution and began selling the mangoes for profit. When the temple trustee and the school authorities approached the sons, they denied any knowledge of any letter from their father.

When the temple trustee and school authorities approached and apprised the young postmaster, she said kindly, “I will do my best to help you.”

As she looked around the office, her eyes fell on the ancient brass compass. This must be the compass everyone talks about, she thought

She picked it up and said aloud, “If there are letters from Ramiah remaining undelivered here, please show me.”

The needle promptly moved and pointed toward an old steel trunk in the corner hidden behind a gunny sack

Inside the trunk, she found the undelivered letters. The police and the school’s lawyer were present when the trunk was opened in front of the two sons.

“These are your father’s letters,” the lawyer said firmly.

The sons looked stunned. “We… we did not know about these,” one said weakly. “We promise,” the other added quickly, “that we will follow our father’s instructions in full.”

Thus, truth prevailed, and Ramiah’s generosity lived on, guided even after his death by the mysterious brass compass.