Opinion. Poll.

 It was her wont to draw the drivers of the cabs she would take into conversation. She felt it was a safety feature too. Engage them in a chat and let them know she was alert. 

Since it was election season, she invariably talked politics with them. “Where is your vote at?”, “Who do you think is winning this time round?”, and “Do you think there is any wave this time?”, were here usual questions. She remembered well that previously too the answers provided by the drivers had made her understand the mood of the electorate at large. And, the drivers were never wrong. They seemed to have their ears to the ground and knew what and who the voters wanted. Their answers had correctly predicted the results of the last four elections, both at the state and the centre. 

As a neutral person, it didn’t matter to her who won - she knew it didn’t make a difference to her at the end of the day. Yet, she did feel a thrill when she heard the responses this time.  She promptly crossed her fingers as she heard the same prediction from the driver while reaching home safely, through the dust storm and sudden torrential rain. 

#shortstories

#veryshortstories

#tinytales

Vote. Note.

His vote was in his village, a good 400 km away from the city he lived in. He wanted to vote and make it count. He wasn’t sure if his ‘masters’ would let him take the much needed three-days leave to head home, cast his vote (influence others in the family too to vote a particular candidate), and return. He chose to try his luck  

“Saab! I need leave”

“Why re! Only last month you went home stating your father wasn’t well!”

“Saab! Elections are there and I want to vote. And not miss”. 

“Oh! You want to collect the goodies the candidates give? What’s the going rate per vote?”

“No idea Saab! I am not interested in it also. You already pay me well”, he lied, even as he cringed within. The paltry money wasn’t enough, but he needed the job and the shelter to survive. 

“Arre wah! So, who do you want to vote for?”

“Who else Saab? Our favourite leader!”

“Good! See, even an uneducated person like you has learnt the importance to vote for leadership! I’m impressed. You must promptly return after voting. No more free holidays for next month too!”

“Theek hai Saab. Aap bahut achhe ho (you’re a very good man)”. 

The master beamed and handed him a ₹500 note, and he feigned reluctance while accepting it. 

As he stepped away from His Master’s Villa, he breathed a huge sigh of relief. He knew who deserved his vote and he knew he didn’t need to reveal. 

#inspired 

#timytales

Smile

I learnt to smile today
Smile for the sake of smile itself
Not because someone smiled at me
Or  there was a happy news
Or someone complimented me
Nothing like that happened.

I learnt to smiled today
Just like that
Without a reason
Despite my anxieities, troubles
Despite my desire to run away from every responsibility
Like always.

I smiled today
And, the world inside smiled back at me.

Engage-men-t

 ‘I just saw your post on X. Congratulations on your engagement’, read the text from her ex. She had posted a cryptic video indicating she was hitched. Very few had read through the text accompanying it and understood the underlying message. She preferred it that way too. As expected, very few had reverted with gushing messages, asking for details. 

She was surprised though that her ex had gone through and got the message too. She hadn’t expected him to watch it at all, nor him deciphering it.  “Thanks”, she sent the reply.  The phone buzzed immediately. He had called instead of responding to the text. She answered hesitatingly. Not because there was any remnant of animosity post breakup but she hated phone calls during the weekend. 

He straightaway began shooting questions.

“What happened to Sat that you were dating earlier?” 

“Well, we didn’t find time for each other.  I guess we weren’t meant to be!”

“How did you zero in on Om then?”

She took a long pause, and her mind ran through the past few years before she responded. 

“You there?”

“Yeah. Was thinking for a bit. Jogging my memory”. 

“Jogged enough to tell me?”

“Here you go! I dated Min.  He turned out to be possessive, controlling, and when things turned bad, he even stalked. I had to go through hell”. 

“Sad…”

“Then there was Ris. He was too smitten to do anything beyond seeing me. I didn’t want that adulation. After that, there was Po. He wanted to go back to his roots, and find a girl from his community to settle down”. 

“Wow!”

“Sat and I tired each other out, I guess just by playing the waiting game. Every man has been a lesson..”

“Gosh, you dated so many guys back to back?” 

“The princess possibly kissed hundreds of frogs before finding her prince, including you”

“Hey, I wasn’t that bad”

“I know you weren’t. But that’s beside the point. I alone know though how it is date guys, break up and find courage enough to date again”. 

“Sorry I asked. Didn’t mean to hurt you”. 

“I know. Your question helped me understand why I chose what at each point of time. And, also get ready to be slut-shamed, called a maneater, and so on”. 

“Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself”. 

“I am not. I am matter of factly stating what the world calls a woman vis-à-vis a man”. 

The phone went quiet.

Empty Wishes

 The phone had been indicating the incessant flow of messages. Mostly over WhatsApp. She knew they all were messages from all the men (and some women) that she knew and didn’t - wishing a Happy Women’s Day. She was in no mood to read the once-a-year ritualistic, well-meaning but not-meant-in-real-at-all words. 

As the day progressed, she couldn’t read her book anymore and the pull of social media made her pick the phone up. Even the office group was super-active, with the same old wishes recirculated from the previous years. She couldn’t resist anymore, and wrote. 

“I hope the men at least today will do something in real than just wish the women around. That they would go back and assume all the chores that are casually assumed to be done by the women of the house. Doesn’t matter if it’s mother or wife or even the maid. Be it cooking or dusting or folding those damn clothes. I hope they will serve food to everyone, clean up after, and then sit for their meal. I hope they stay home and let their women step out, and not fret when they return late, nor bristle when they respond with a , ‘Why do you ask?’, to your question, ‘Why are you late?’ Then your women’s day wishes would feel true”. 

The responses were swift and on expected lines. She smiled contentedly, and went back to her book. 

#shortstories #talltales

Freedom

Her manager at work walked to her seat with a quizzical expression. 

“Heard you’re hosting lunch to your colleagues and friends today?”

“That’s right!”

“What’s the occasion?”

“Does one need an occasion to be happy? Or to eat? Had wanted to do this for a while. It’s happening now”. 

“Oh! I thought you were celebrating something. Like your birthday. But I know it’s not due for a few more months”. 

“Don’t forget to join in, Amit”, she told the manager. 

She smiled as he left. She was celebrating indeed. The tenth anniversary. Of her freedom. Nobody needed to know, she mused, as she took the pen on the desk and crossed out another line from her bucket list. Ten years of abuse-free life was sure worth celebrating, and happiness deserved to be shared, even if not expressed. 

She would host cocktails to her close friends later that evening, at the swanky new place near home. But before that, she would return home in the evening and raise a toast to the knife that was instrumental in her gaining the freedom. She still kept it close to her, now encased in a glass box, the red stains - now black - on it intact. 

#shortstories #talltales

Show-Not-Tell

“Can’t admire enough! The play of colours is both interesting and alluring”, she gushes. He could sense the sincerity in her words. Awash with a positive rush of blood, he says, “Thank you!”

She is at his home for the first time, since they have reconnected. 

“I didn’t know you were so accomplished. I haven’t seen much of your works being posted by you on any of your social media accounts”. 

“I haven’t made any effort. Also, I don’t paint frequently. It takes me a lot of push to pick up the brushes”. 

“But, I already see several adorning the walls here; enough even to hold an exhibition!”

“Done over a long period of time”, he shrugs his shoulders. 

“You should share this with the world. Why don’t you approach someone for an exhibition at a gallery?”

“I’m happy without doing any of that?”

“Why? Don’t you want to be well known? Anyone in your place would love to!”

“I love being recognised. Like how you appreciated my art. But I can’t handle large scale attention and adulation. Happier with smaller doses”. 

“Strange! Won’t you want your paintings hanging across galleries, or you remembered even after you’re long gone?”

“It wouldn’t matter to me once I’m dead, no?”

“Gosh! That’s morbid philosophy!”

There is silence for a while as they step out of his studio, and sit in the drawing. He makes coffee for both, and sits next to her. “You and I have both lost people in our lives. Initially we would dwell a lot over the loss, and gradually the memories started fading, and we continued to lead our lives…”

“What is the point of all this?”

“I am coming to that. I mean to just indicate this. Even the closest of the people do not remember the dead always. What matters - to them and to us - is living. Here and now. It’s perfectly fine for someone to leave a legacy behind. I do not desire that”. 

There is a long pause as she processes what he has said. “May be your legacy would be not leaving behind one!”, she says as she takes his hand in hers. 

“You could say that. Sounds good”.