A Writing Quill

She had been sitting unwaveringly for the last two hours now. Not a single drop of tear had rolled down her gentle and wrinkled face. The only words she repeated whenever someone would talk to her were, ‘Good for him. Who would look after him if he had been bedridden? I am too old now.’ He was 97, and still took care of his lady, who was in her 80s. She was sick and had aging, fragile bones. He was, though, sturdy enough to hold her hand and walk her inside the house; he had been her delicate buttress-weak physically but morally strong enough to support her. Even though he was sometimes sick, he had never stepped away from performing his domestic duties towards his better half, children, and grandchildren. She had been away at her daughter’s place for a few days after many years and could not talk to him for the last time. She regretted. But they had been together for 65 years, and now they needed no words to communicate; they just knew each other’s thoughts, and so life went on. ...

  The sun was shining bright. The sultry afternoon made Bajender think of his worth on this earth. He was sitting under the tree seeking the cool breeze. But not a single leaf moved, making the place hotter than before. His wife, Sunita, shouted from inside, ‘sunte ho! Pani to bharo .’ The Gram Panchayat had recently arranged for the supply of clean drinking water in the village. As the election approached, they had expedited some delayed works to secure the majority vote by the ruling ‘Sarpanch’. This happens every five years. After the results are out, the Panchayat committee hibernates for nearly 3 years and then resumes the leftover work of the last 3-4 years. Not a single toe moved from him. He was lost. Worldly visuals found him there, but his mind had been oscillating between the past and the future. He time-traveled with the mission of rectifying some mistakes of the past that would change his present and so would reshape his future. His three children were hopping and ju...

  There is always a first time. This recent first time was not at all appreciative for me. I was hurt, and it pained so much that my decision to consider that experience had jeopardized my future decision-making capabilities. But later, I did thank myself for taking it up. The constant shrieking pain in my molar tooth on the extreme left of my mouth drove me to a dental doctor who had 27 years of experience in dentistry (written vividly in her signboard).   My appointment was scheduled at 11 A.M., but it was delayed by 10 minutes for a reason that made me firmly believe in her medical capabilities. She was chanting some mantras loudly and was audible from outside before she began her day at the clinic. I conceived that if she is starting her day with the blessings of God, then she is a lady of great affirmations and would perform her duties with full faith and dedication. My silly musings were interrupted, and I was called inside. The dusky lady in her 50s, after examinin...

  It was Sunday. I hoped the world would stand still, and I would not be required to get out of bed. I had never been so lazy on Sundays, except when I had to reduce my cabinet to essentials. Each shelf meant a separate row for each variety of apparel that belonged to me. The sarees would stand still, supported by the hangers on the right corner. The jeans were supposed to be hung down too, while the t-shirts were to sit quietly near them. The salwar-kameez and the kurtis would lie happily on the lower shelves. And the office attire, consisting of trousers and shirts, would be in a descreet section inside my three-door almirah. These were the images of the wardrobe inside my head. In reality, The sarees were clumsily stacked one upon the other. The jeans, salwars, kurtis, and T-shirts were crammed inside two shelves like a mixed vegetable dish. It took me so much pain each morning to search for the correct pair, and every day, I was determined to declutter my wardrobe early...

  “Hey blud!! Pass me the ball.” The young boy in his early 20s shouted from the centre of the field. I chose to ignore it, assuming he was screaming at his teammates. I gave him a short glance for his unique raspy voice, which might have happened due to his constant screams for an hour, and returned to the book I was reading. I sat on the bench, emplaced at the farthest corner of the ground. The hoarse voice now sounds very near to me when he enquired harshly about not passing him the ball. The ball was lying near my feet. I noticed it now. I was surprised and replied, ‘What? You were talking to some ‘blud’, maybe your teammate. How am I supposed to know?’. ‘Huh! I was looking at you, and by blud, I meant you.’ ‘My name is not ‘blud.’ I made a rather crabby expression.   ‘OMG! FYI, ‘blud’ means friend. IYKYK.’ He laughed, he mocked, and he ran. ‘BTW, that jacket u wear is gucci.’ He shouted. I replied sternly, ‘No, it's Puma. I cannot afford a Gucci man.’ He stopped and laugh...

  The old man would sit by the sea all day, not eating or drinking much except for the loaf of bread with a bottle of water at noon. He would dress like a gentleman and stare at the sea for hours and hours. Few people would come to him and say a few words. The same people every time. He would ask them certain questions, and then they would leave. These people sometimes would laugh; sometimes cry; sometimes smile; and sometimes, left with no countenance. The shopkeepers from a distant would assume whatever they liked. There were a lot of conjectures among the daily visitors of the sea. Some would greet him with a suspicious smile, while a few would stare at him from the corner of their eyes while pretending with some of their workout moves. A teenager was a regular runner. Her mother accompanied her always, who was one among the few visitors mentioned above. She would smile wearily at the old man if their eyes would meet while she tried to sneak it, but unfortunately could not. The...