SHORT STORY/SATIRE – ‘The ‘conference room’ was a corner of the studio floor with big glass windows, seven bean bags, and toys scattered around. Raman Ronadhona had taken a bean bag next to a stuffed bulldog. The Founder-CEO, the 30-something Chaman Chaturkumar, stomped in and plonked into a huge tan bean bag shaped like a chair. He had a frown on his face and didn’t look happy.’
SHORT STORY/SATIRE – ‘Those were tough days. I had sold my scooter to loan money to a local businessman, Firki bhai. He put it in a business that eventually sank because, as it became apparent later, he knew nothing about that line of business! And when I asked for my money back, he avoided me! It’s not like he wasn’t rich already; he just wouldn’t return what he owed me!’
A SHORT STORY: “Five-year-old Mili was enjoying a Sunday outing with her father, Ashutosh. They had not come to Connaught Place since before the pandemic, and Ashutosh was keen to see how things were.”
A SHORT STORY
“It had got dark earlier than usual, and the park looked like a dark-green canvas with splotches of white. Sheru was sitting cross-legged, ladylike, facing a girl swinging on the swing, as if guarding her. But he saw me a fraction of a second before I saw him. And in that time, he had wagged his tail, got up, and started limp-running to intercept me on the walkway…”
One of the most common expletives in North India (and I’m sure elsewhere) begins with ‘chu’. It is naturally uncivil and, you guessed it, ‘unparliamentary’. What is interesting is that some locals dampen the auditory (but not the semantic) blow of the word by replacing ‘chu’ with ‘phu’.
The real social distance has always been there. A short story on the different lives of different classes during the COVID-19 lockdown. Will society ever bridge the distance?
The tall young man walked up to the counter like his dad owned the sun and everything under it – typical of some of God’s favourite men in Delhi.
Some people on my friends list clearly overdo the filters. They exude this luminescent amber glow from their faces like they’ve been recently promoted from human to angel; like they’re hiding their halos behind their backs out of modesty.
What Mr Bhagat’s real issue is that he doesn’t get the kind of ‘respect’ that literary fiction writers get. Even Stephen King alludes to this in his book On Writing. As always, people are at fault—not Mr Bhagat, not Ms Desai.
But no tube lights — no source of the white light that jaded my senses for decades — narrow, white cylindrical tubes that flickered to life and indicated that the sun had gone down. Inside the home and outside in the streets. In Bombay, Calcutta, Delhi, and Bhubaneswar.