A Day for Double Celebration (1427 words)

“I am Deepa, studying in Class Six, and I wish to narrate an incident that happened almost every day.

It was around seven in the evening, and my father was due home at any moment. I was washing the vessels while my mother put the finishing touches to the dinner she had prepared. We wanted to complete the kitchen work before he came.

I had offered to wash the vessels, though she was reluctant to let me. She always became tense around that time, and not without reason. My father was an alcoholic and, when drunk—as he invariably was in the evenings—he became violent. He would beat my mother black and blue for no reason, venting on her all the frustrations he had suffered during the day. Then he would leave her bruised and sobbing on the floor, hurling profanities at her, gulp down the food she had prepared, spread himself on the sofa and fall asleep, snoring loudly.

It was a daily ritual that we dreaded but could do little to avoid.

Whenever I pleaded with my mother to leave him and move away, she would always say, “He is a good man when he is sober. He doesn’t know what he is doing when he is drunk.”

I heard the sound of his car. Soon, he was banging impatiently on the door. My mother hurried to open it. I hid behind the kitchen door, afraid of his drunken fury. I hated him intensely.

A resounding slap was followed by his angry shout.

“You slut! Why do you keep me waiting outside? Don’t you hear me banging on the door? Are you deaf?”

“Could you not wait for a few moments? I was in the kitchen making rasam and waiting for it to boil,” my mother pleaded, holding her burning cheek.

She knew he was completely drunk and dreaded the rage that was about to follow.

“How dare you talk back to me today? I will teach you a lesson you will never forget!” he roared.

He pulled off his belt and lashed at her mercilessly. She cringed in pain and begged him to stop. Finally, he stopped, kicked her and staggered towards the sofa.

I waited until he had fallen asleep before tiptoeing towards my mother. She was sobbing, more hurt by his inhuman behaviour than by the pain of his blows. I caressed her and asked her to come to her bedroom.

“He has fallen asleep without eating his dinner. You go to your room. I will join you soon. Don’t worry. This is nothing new,” my mother whispered.

“Don’t you have any self-respect? Why do you allow him to demean you like this? Who cares whether he eats his dinner or not?” I said angrily.

She patted my cheek with a faint smile and signalled me to go to my room.

I could not sleep for a long time. I kept thinking about how this cruel routine could ever be changed. The next day was my mother’s birthday. I wanted it to be a happy day for her, free from harsh words and violence.

Let me confess that, on the days when my father was particularly cruel to my mother, I sometimes wished, in my anger and hatred, that he were dead.

The next day at school, I sat alone on a bench, watching my classmates play. My thoughts were with my mother. I wanted to buy her a gift but had no money.

Suddenly, someone gently placed a hand on my shoulder. I turned around to see my teacher, Swarna Madam, smiling at me.

“Why aren’t you playing with the others? And why do you look so sad?” she asked.

Did I ever tell you how much I loved my teacher, Swarna Madam? I trusted her deeply and confided in her whenever things became unbearable at home. She knew my father’s name and where he worked. I also knew that her brother worked in the city police force, though I had never imagined that this fact would one day change our lives.

“Ma’am, today is my mother’s birthday. I have nothing to give her. But more than a gift, I want it to be a happy day for her, free from the daily scolding and beating. I shudder at the thought of that drunken monster coming home in the evening and hitting her,” I told her.

“No, Deepa,” she said gently. “You should not speak of your father like that. I do not like it at all. Did you say today is your mother’s birthday? Don’t worry. I hope your father comes home sober and is kind to your mother. Meet me before you go home. Now hurry to your class; the bell is ringing.”

When I met her after the evening bell, Swarna Madam hugged me.

“Don’t worry, Deepa. Your father will be nice to your mother today and, hopefully, hereafter. Here is a small bouquet, a token gift from both of us for your mother. Give her my regards and good wishes.”

It was only five when I reached home. The house was clean, and the air was fragrant with incense from the puja room. The sweet aroma of cardamom and saffron rose from the kheer my mother had prepared. She looked charming in her clean sari.

My father was not expected before seven, yet my mother kept pacing near the front door, waiting for him.

Then I heard a gentle tap on the door.

Who could it be at that hour, I wondered.

My mother hurried to open it, as was her wont. Her face suddenly lit up.

My father entered, singing the “Happy Birthday” tune, much to her delight and surprise. Behind him stood a man of his age in a police uniform.

“Meet my college mate, Asokan,” my father said. “I learnt only today that he is a senior police officer in our city. He happened to meet me at my office, much to my surprise, just as I was leaving. He insisted on coming home with me. I couldn’t shake him off and go to my usual haunt.”

He gave a sheepish smile.

Then he looked around and asked, “Where is little Deepa?”

I ran towards him from my corner, unable to believe what I was seeing.

“Deepa, I haven’t forgotten that today is your mother’s birthday. I got the hint from the banner you put up in the dining room—‘Happy Birthday!’” he said with a loud guffaw.

He handed two packets to my mother. One clearly contained a cake from a famous bakery. The contents of the other remained a mystery.

“Do you want to know how this buddy of mine found me after so many years?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.

“It seems his sister works at your school. She knows where I work and is also aware that today is your mother’s birthday. Apparently, you have been telling your teacher every little thing about us and all that happens at home!”

“No, Appa,” I protested. “I don’t gossip with anyone. I only talk to my class teacher and answer the questions she asks me.”

“Is Swarna your class teacher?” his police friend asked.

I nodded.

Suddenly, I remembered that Swarna Madam had once told me that her brother worked in the city police force. Everything became clear.

Swarna Madam had quietly taken action. She had arranged for her brother to meet my father and, by a remarkable coincidence, he had turned out to be my father’s old college mate. Perhaps that unexpected meeting, the presence of someone my father respected and probably his strong advice, had made him pause and reconsider the life he was leading.

I now understood that Swarna Madam had not merely comforted me or given me a bouquet. She had taken my distress seriously and had found a way to bring help into our home.

I ran inside and began setting the table with the cake and candles. Then I brought out the bouquet I had kept hidden and placed it in the empty vase.

The house was ready for celebration.

My mother stood in an expensive new dress at the centre of it all, smiling through tears of happiness.

That day, I felt that we were celebrating for two reasons: my mother’s birthday and a day of love and peace without bitterness. But really, it seemed more than a double celebration.

Thanks to my dear Swarna Madam, it was the day Hope entered our home—a hope for love and harmony that would remain forever.”

The strange ways of destiny (803 words)

It was well past midnight.

Subodh sat alone in his tiny rented room, staring at the razor blade lying on the table. The silence around him was oppressive, broken only by the slow ticking of an old clock. He felt trapped beneath the crushing weight of despair. Every attempt he had made to improve his life had failed. No matter how hard he worked, misfortune seemed to follow him like a shadow.

He was the eldest son of a large family in a small village. Their meagre landholding had barely sustained them even in good times. Then the government acquired a portion of it for a private industry, leaving the family with almost nothing. Hunger had become a familiar guest in their home.

Subodh worked in the city for a modest salary and sent home whatever he could keeping the bare minimum for himself. It was never enough.

That evening he had received a desperate message: his father had been admitted to the hospital, and money was needed immediately. Subodh had nowhere to turn. When he approached his employer for an advance, he was not only refused but also humiliated. The employer accused him of neglecting his work and threatened to dismiss him.

That was the final blow. It seemed to Subodh that he had fallen into a bottomless pit from which there was no escape. Tomorrow promised only more suffering than today. For months he had fought against thoughts of ending his life, but now they seemed stronger than his will. Death appeared to be the only way to silence the pain.

He locked the door, picked up the blade, and sat motionless, trying to gather the courage to slit his wrists. It seemed to him the quietest, most peaceful way to die.

Then came a knock. He ignored it. The knocking grew louder, more urgent. Still, he remained silent.

Suddenly he heard the anguished cries of a woman outside.

“Please! Please open the door! My son is dying!”

Something in her voice pierced the darkness clouding his mind.

Without opening the door, he asked, “What happened?”

“I live next door,” she sobbed. “My husband isn’t home. My son is very sick. Please help me take him to the hospital.”

For a moment, Subodh forgot himself. He unlocked the door and followed her.

The boy lay unconscious, his breathing shallow. At that unearthly hour, not a single vehicle could be found. Subodh ran through deserted streets searching desperately until, some distance away, he finally found an auto-rickshaw.

The doctors rushed the boy into the emergency ward as soon as they reached the hospital.

Subodh waited outside with the anxious mother until nearly three in the morning. Only after the doctors assured them that the boy had survived the immediate danger did he quietly walk back to his room. Completely exhausted, he fell into a deep sleep.

The next morning, he went straight to his neighbour’s house.

“The doctors say he’ll be discharged this evening,” the woman said, her eyes brimming with gratitude.

Subodh smiled faintly. For the first time in many days, the darkness within him had begun to lift.

Later that afternoon, something unexpected happened. His employer called him into his office.

“I was in a terrible mood yesterday,” he admitted awkwardly. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way.”

He handed Subodh two thousand rupees and asked him to send it home

Subodh accepted the money with quiet disbelief. It was not much, but at that moment it felt like a lifeline.

That evening he visited the boy in the neighbouring home. The boy, about sixteen years old, struggled to his feet and bent down to touch Subodh’s feet.

“You saved my life,” he said, tears filling his eyes.

The boy confessed that he had failed his board examinations. Unable to bear the shame and convinced he had disappointed his parents beyond forgiveness, he had swallowed rat poison in a moment of despair.

“If you hadn’t taken me to the hospital,” he said softly, “I wouldn’t be alive today. You’ve shown me that one failure isn’t the end. I’ll study harder and pass next year.”

Subodh stood silent. A strange realisation dawned on him.

It was not he who had saved the boy. It was the boy who had saved him.

Only hours earlier, both of them had believed death was the only escape from their suffering. Yet fate, in its mysterious wisdom, had brought them together at the very edge of despair. In reaching out to save another life, Subodh had unknowingly rescued his own.

As he walked home beneath the fading evening sky, the world no longer seemed as dark as it had the night before. For the first time in a long while, tomorrow no longer frightened him. It held hope, something he had almost forgotten existed.

 

Silence is the most eloquent speech of love (714 words)

 

The view from the revolving restaurant atop the towering building was breathtakingly panoramic. Shalini and Shekhar, both in their twenties, were in high spirits as they leisurely shared a bowl of creamy pasta with mushrooms and roasted garlic. They were far more engrossed in each other’s company than in the meal, which remained largely unattended.

They giggled often, covering their mouths shyly as they spoke in hushed whispers, exchanging what could only have been sweet nothings. Newly married, perhaps by the look of them, they were possibly talking about their dreams for the future, her culinary adventures, or the home they hoped to build together. They might even have been discussing when to start a family and how they would balance careers with raising children. Whatever the subject, their conversation was filled with laughter, playful banter, and frequent moments of holding hands.

When Shekhar’s mobile phone rang and he turned away to answer it, Shalini’s gaze wandered across the restaurant. In a quiet corner opposite her sat an elderly couple.

The gentleman, probably in his late seventies, had neatly combed silver-white hair and wore corduroy trousers with a striped T-shirt. His wife, graceful in a blue silk sari, carried herself with quiet elegance. Shalini imagined she must have been a striking beauty in her young age. They sat together in silence.

A large masala dosa rested on their table, from which they ate slowly, watching each other. Their only visible movement was their left hands, gently intertwined throughout the meal.

Shalini found herself wondering how a couple could remain so silent when she and Shekhar had hardly stopped talking since they had arrived. Yet there appeared no sadness between them. They smiled softly at one another with an ease and grace that only years of companionship could bring.

A waiter approached their table carrying a bouquet of deep red roses. He placed it gently before them. Each time he returned, the old man handed him a small slip of paper.

Perhaps it is their wedding anniversary, Shalini thought. Maybe they are quietly celebrating while missing children who probably live abroad.

Still, she expected such an occasion to be marked with cheerful conversation, bouts of laughter, and celebration. Instead, there was a sacred stillness enveloping their table.

When Shekhar ended his call, Shalini shared her observations. He too found it unusual that the couple had hardly exchanged a word throughout the meal.

Having finished their dinner, they asked for the bill. The waiter arrived with the bill folder, and after Shekhar paid—leaving a generous tip—Shalini could no longer suppress her curiosity.

“Forgive my inquisitiveness,” she said. “I’m just curious. Is everything all right with the elderly couple in the opposite corner? I haven’t seen them speak to each other even once. Yet the bouquet of roses suggests they’re celebrating something happy.”

The waiter smiled.

“Madam, I have known them for many years. They come here often and always ask for my table. They are the most loving couple I have ever had the privilege to serve. Today is their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Their children live abroad, so they celebrate quietly by themselves.”

“I noticed the gentleman giving you little slips of paper whenever you came to their table,” Shalini said.

“Oh, those?” the waiter replied gently. “Those are simply the names of the dishes they wish to order.”

He paused before continuing.

“It is life’s cruel irony, Madam. The lady was born unable to speak, and the gentleman lost his hearing almost completely about five years ago. Yet they remain the most loving couple I have ever known. Possibly they communicate through handwritten slips in their home”

The words lingered in Shalini’s mind.

She remembered the tenderness with which they had held each other’s hands, the warmth of their smiles, and the serenity that surrounded them. Behind their silence lay a lifetime of shared joys, hardships, sacrifices, and unwavering loyalty.

No words passed between them. No spoken conversation was possible. No elaborate gestures were needed. Their love had long ago learned a language beyond speech.

As Shalini and Shekhar walked past their table on the way out, they instinctively paused, bowed their heads ever so slightly, and smiled in silent admiration.

For some hearts, silence is the most eloquent speech of love.

 

 

Beyond the Debt (558 words)

Every evening, after closing his small business in town, Ramu walked the two kms back to his village. The bus route was longer, and after eight p.m the buses stopped running altogether.

This stretch he used was short, lonely and dreaded. On one side lay an old burial ground where funeral pyres often smouldered into the night. There were no streetlights, only the pale glow of the moon on fortunate evenings. Though not a timid man, Ramu would quicken his steps as he passed the place, his lips moving in silent prayer.

Often, he had the uncanny feeling that someone was walking close behind him. As a boy, he had been warned never to turn around or answer strange voices on lonely roads at night. So, he would walk faster, his heart pounding, clutching the little book of God’s thousand names that he carried in his pocket like a shield.

At times, he glimpsed shadowy forms near the burial ground—figures draped in white, standing motionless or gliding silently through the darkness. They never approached him, but they were enough to make him wish he had started for home much earlier.

One evening, heavy rain lashed the countryside. By the time Ramu left town, the sky was black and a fine drizzle still hung in the air. The path was slippery, and he moved cautiously, praying more fervently than ever.

Then he saw him. Standing a little ahead was Govind.

Ramu stopped in his tracks.

Govind had died in a terrible road accident a few months earlier.

The two men had been friends since childhood. They had walked this road together countless times, laughing, talking and comforting each other through its eerie darkness. 

A few days before his death, Govind had borrowed ₹5,000 from Ramu. After the tragedy, Ramu had never mentioned the loan to Govind’s widow, unlike others who had recovered their money from her.

 Now, impossibly, Govind stood before him. The narrow wooden bridge across the swollen creek lay just ahead. The apparition stood at its entrance, waving his arms urgently, signalling Ramu to go back.

 Though fear gripped him, the familiar face of his friend steadied him.

“Govind,” he called softly, “why are you stopping me? We all miss you. Your wife and children still weep for you.”

The figure did not speak.

For a few moments, it remained perfectly still. Then it once again raised its hands, firmly directing him to turn back.

A strange feeling came over Ramu. Without understanding why, he decided to obey.

He set down the bundle he was carrying on a culvert, stepping away from the bridge.

At that very instant, a deafening crack and lightning split the night.

The wooden bridge gave way and crashed into the raging creek below.

Ramu stood frozen.

Slowly, before his astonished eyes, Govind’s figure faded into the darkness and disappeared.

Had he taken another step, he would have been swept away.

Long after the rain had ceased, Ramu remained there, staring into the night, hoping his friend would appear. He never did.

Taking the longer route home, Ramu finally reached his village and narrated the strange incident to his worried wife.

Then, with tears in his eyes, he said quietly, “What a noble friend Govind was. The money I lent him was a small debt. Tonight, he repaid by saving  my life.”