Tag: life

The House That Longed for December — Short Fiction Part 2

Photo by Stormseeker on Unsplash

Dev’s life could be carried in three boxes. One for his clothes, one for his books, one for his memories. Still, he dreaded the shifting process. His second visit to the house was even more disappointing than the first. The paintings in the bedroom had not been scrubbed off or painted over. The faces still stared at him, draining his spirit, or whatever was left of it.

On the fifth attempt, the broker picked up the call. “Sir, don’t worry, the owner has promised to paint it over before the new year,” the broker reassured Dev.

“That’s still a month away,” Dev said with his eyes wide open, this is not going to happen. The broker stood firm in his stance and ended the call. He wasn’t going to pick up the next call, Dev knew.

He took matters to his own hands and closed the room, locking it, never to open it again. I could live without that room.

The biggest hassle of moving to the new house was lighting it. There was hardly any light coming into the house, even with the windows and doors open. It took him a ton of time and money to get the house lit up enough to be visible at night.

Should I look for a new home? Dev thought to himself, putting down his last set of packages, pushing it to a corner, left to be untouched forever.

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A week passed by.

The house grew on Dev.

His bedroom was a world of its own, spending a large chunk of time moving between his bed, his study table where he stared at his laptop, and then back to bed. His daily routine would extend to the living room and the garden. Yes, there was a garden now. Mrs Sheela, a lovely woman in her 60s who always walked down the street to take her grandchildren to school, gave his house a discerning look and returned with a few rose saplings one day.

“Give it a try, it may help make the house look more homely,” She said, passing the saplings.

“Thanks,” Dev replied bewildered at how to respond to this unsolicited kindness. Should kindness be asked for, or be expected? he thought.

“I was planning on popping in to say hello,” Dev said, embarrassed about not meeting them while moving in. “But got really busy with the shifting.”

“Oh, no worries. I was telling my husband we should visit our new neighbour, glad we could at least meet today,” she said smiling.

“Pleasure is all mine,” Dev responded, shaking his head, glad to find a new company in the area.

“What do you do? Are you working?”

I am a writer Dev wanted to say with a puffed chest. But he didn’t find anything to be proud of in that. He was just a normal kid who won a short story competition in his school, planting the notion that he was a gifted writer. Deep down, he knew he was just another con artist pretending to be something he was not. The publisher’s rejection letter affirmed it. He stopped counting after twenty.

“I work at the state school, joining early next year,” he said, swallowing the ugly truth. Ever since his parents died, Dev hadn’t come out of his apartment. Losing his job, friends and a bunch of his savings. His friend who worked at the ministry begged him to take this job, to find a life outside his apartment. He pulled a lot of strings to get him a job at the state school far away from the city so that Dev could have a new beginning, away from the memories of his parents.

“Oh that’s wonderful, my grandchildren study there. I walk them to school every day,” Mrs Sheela said surprised by the news.

“Yeah, I’ve seen them, they are so happy around you” Dev said, a shadow of the past crossing his face before it returned back to normal.

“Their parents leave them with me when they are out of town, I love their company dearly,” she said, tears filling her eyes as she smiled at their innocence.

“OhI’ve taken up too much of your time. You may have a lot to do, I’ll be on my way,” she said, making her way down the road to her home.

“Have a good day,” he called out, looking at the rose saplings in his hand. How long will it take to make this house homely?

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Christmas was on the horizon.

He still stared at the laptop screen. Not a drop of letter.

Mrs Sheela would occasionally visit his garden, checking on the roses. He met a few other neighbours, who all seemed enthusiastic about the new dweller. What a lovely neighbourhood, he would think often.

Nights, however, had not been so relaxing. The deeper into December it got, his bed started to feel like ice. He had never relied on a heater and still didn’t know if he should buy one now.

One such night, he got a visitor.

He remembered waking up, his blanket on the floor, and a woman in golden nightwear walked up to him. He knew someone who wore the same nightwear. The red petal patterns on it were etched in his memory. His mother stood by the bedside, pulling up the blanket from the floor, covering her son like she used to do when he was young.

“Sleep tight, my child”.

Dev would wake up to the same dream for another three days. Almost as if he was reliving the same night over and over. But one night was different.

The door to the room with the paintings was open.

Dev stood puzzled. He remembered closing it the day he moved in. He had never opened it since. No one else had come inside either.

Is there a cat somewhere, he wondered, looking around to find the imaginary cat that would open the door. There was nothing to be found. He was the only living thing in the house.

The door to the room remained ajar as he went closer. The glimmer that caught his attention on day one, did the same again. He couldn’t back out. This time, he had installed a bulb in the room, lighting it up completely. He walked in with a newfound courage.

The same faces that welcomed him on the first day, stared at him again. A lot of them. He searched the room, but still nothing.

But his eyes were drawn to something else. A face in the wall that looked so familiar. There was no mistaking it this time. Mother? was his first thought. No, this face looked recent, he had met her yesterday. Mrs Sheela.

What? Dev reached out to touch the face but took a few steps back. Am I dreaming? he thought, trying to wake up, but he was not.

He walked out of the room straight to the garden locking the room and the main door behind. But it did not help. The face followed outside, this time smiling and talking. He wasn’t listening to anything Mrs Sheela was saying, his mind wandering about.

“Son, are you alright?”

“Yes, yes…” Dev looked back at the house, he then turned and hastily moved towards her. No.

“There’s faces…,” his thoughts trailed off.

“I don’t understand, did something happen to your face?” she looked worried, moving her hands toward him with motherly care.

“There’s a painting of you on the bedroom wall,” Dev managed to speak out a complete sentence.

“Painting?” Mrs Sheela asked, still sorting out what happened to the young man.

“The girl painted your face on the bedroom wall.”

“Dear, what are you saying? what girl?”

“The girl who lived here before me? You’ve never met her?” Dev stared at her eyes. Has everyone gone mad?

“Nobody has lived here since I was born,” she said holding his shoulder as she saw him trembling, missing his footing, falling on his knees.

The roses started to shed their petals one by one.

So did his life.

The House That Longed for December – Short Fiction Part 1

Photo by Patrik László on Unsplash

Five had always been a lucky number for Dev. Until his parents died on the fifth of May earlier that year, which coincidently was also his birthday. So, no matter what, he would rent the fourth house the broker would show him today.

He got out of his car, the early morning winds of the bitter December welcomed him to the new neighborhood. Dev gently walked toward the overly joyful broker waving at him from across the street. What could make a man so energetic at 8 in the morning? Dev thought as he lazily waved back without a smile.

“Glad you could make it,” the broker greeted Dev with a strong but calming handshake. Money Dev responded to his previous thought.

“Yeah, a little early for house hunting isn’t it?” Dev said, taking a look around the area. He could hear the bustling voices of children getting ready for their school and the parents yelling at those still asleep. I also miss my bed. 

“I know, such short notice, but I must say, you are very lucky,” the broker replied, clapping his hands as though he was about to show a magic trick. “Not just one house, I have two houses to show you today. All in the same neighborhood.”

“Oh”, Dev had been looking for a space to rent for the past six to seven months, with no luck. The winter cold has made him determined to have a solid roof above his head.

“Right this way” the broker guided him to his white-painted house that stood majestically with a garden filled with roses. I’d love to call this place my home Dev thought as the smell of the flowers hit me on his first step to the house, reminiscing about his childhood home and his parents. How could a lovely object bring such painful memories? 

“This way, please”, The broker waited at the door, staring at Dev, who stood at the gateway, eyes closed. 

Dev walked in. The two bedrooms and the kitchen easily outshined his run-down apartment. Not to mention the extravagant living room which was already furnished with a newly-looking couch and tables, that he couldn’t afford in a long time. It was perfect.

He planned on placing his 32″ TV facing the east, so he could comfortably place his coat hangers near the door without stumbling on his way in.

He was happy, for the first time since the winter started. He was. Until the broker decided to announce the rent for it. 


“Rs 50k per month,” he proudly told him. Dev’s heart sank, he felt the house was laughing at him, you cannot afford me, peasant.

“No, no” Dev shook his head, disappointed, irritated. “I agreed on 25k max.” He walked out of the house, smile vanished. 

“Oh don’t worry sir, I was just showing you how lovely the place was, the actual house is just opposite the road. The broker came out and pointed to the house where Dev parked his car. 

There were no gardens or roses to welcome him, rather the stench of overgrown grass pushing him away. 

The house looked okayish, nothing like the dream home he had just seen. The broker waved his hands for Dev to step in, the room was dark, with sunlight slowly hitting the walls and reflecting on the darker corners that remained. 

There was no furniture this time, no fans, bed, lights, appliances. He had to buy everything from the start, which can cost more than what he can afford if the rent is not right.

“Any chance to get within 25?” Dev asked, half-heartedly, with no intention to choose, even if it did. 

“That’s why you are lucky, it will only cost you 10K per month,” The broker replied. 

“What?” Dev stood shook, no owner in the right mind would rent this house for that low, no one that’s normal. 

“Who died here,” Dev questioned taking a step forward to the broker. “Did someone murder anyone here?”

“My dear sir, no one died here, nobody was killed here, do not worry about that,” the broker said brushing past Dev into the kitchen. Dev followed him closely past. 

“Then why is it so low,” Dev queried again. 

“This place, the construction is not completed yet,” the broker led him to a scaffolding, that was the kitchen. The room was hardly finished, with bricks and cement still lying out on the floor. The entire area was well shut with no doors to go to the backyard. 

A room was there, but no one would call it a kitchen.

“The owner has a lot of financial issues, he is not able to sell due to some cases and the only way is to rent it out.” The broker continued, convincing Dev. “Believe me, sir, many people have already rented this place, a person just vacated yesterday, that’s why I called you early today before someone else got the wind of it and snatched it away.”

Dev stood, collecting the possible excuses to not choose the house. This was the fifth house he saw topped the list he could think of. 

If his excuses to leave and reason to stay were put on a scale to balance, one side would weigh down easily. It won’t be his excuse. 

“Alright. I will take it,” Dev sighed, I’ll bite he thought. 

“Wonderful sir,” the broker jumped with joy, “let’s go to the office and finish the paperwork,” he walked out the door not bothering to wait. 

Is this the place I will be calling home? Dev sighed kicking off the dust from his pants, looking around. He picked up his phone to take a few photos of the house before he left. 

On his third click, he caught a strange glimmer on the bedroom wall. A mirror? He peered through the door, opening it, adjusting his eyes to the darkness. He held out his phone torch to the corner. He took light steps, not wanting to disturb anything that didn’t want him there. 

The torchlight now hit the walls, and when the lights reflected, Dev took a few sudden steps back. 

“What!” he called out, nothing but the air coming out. Faces. or paintings of faces. Drawn on the wall. If he was standing on a museum floor, he would have admired how detailed the art was. But this was going to be his home and the drawings did not impress him. 

He turned around. The painting covered the entire bedroom. This is not right, his phone slipping down from his sweaty hands. He rushed out, catching the broker before he got in the car. 

“There’s faces in the bedroom wall,” Dev exclaimed, a little out of breath. “Many faces.”

“Oh, don’t worry sir, that’s nothing to bother about,” the broker waved him off.

“What do you mean by not to worry,” Dev raised his tone offended by the broker’s dismissal. “There’s faces of people painted on the walls of the bedroom.”

 “Sir let me explain,” The broker spoke, lowering his tone, relaxing his body. “The last person just vacated yesterday, she was an artist, a gifted one. I’ve seen her works, such amazing talent. She drew them, I saw them too, they look fabulous.” 

Dev stared at the broker who kept convincing him not to worry about anything. 

“Let’s do one thing, sir,” The owner lifted his phone, “I’ll talk to the owner and get the room painted so it won’t be trouble for you, what do you say?”

He was not convinced, but he nodded and got in his car. He looked at the house through the windshield.

It was faces, who would paint faces on the wall? 

He was half relieved from what the broker told him. Another excuse to keep him tied to the house. 

He didn’t know what to do, he didn’t have any more money.
He didn’t feel at home.

To call a King a ‘King’

Who’s a King?

Will a broad-shouldered,

heavy-hearted, rugged chested,

body be called a King.

Or a kind, merciful

and just heart be called a King.

Does the wisdom of the World

make a King?

Or does a scar on the face and

bruises on the body make a King?

Am I a King?

with the wisdom, I’ve conquered and

the scars I’ve earned.

The heaviness in the heart and

the majesty in my look.

Would golden plates and

diamond crowns with a

gleaming sword packed upon

shinning sheath make me a King?

Does a book in hand

with a pen full of words

and the will to write

with a mind to think

make me a King?

Either would not,

until the winds around my frail skin

and the sky above my wounded head

Call me King.

Photo by Pro Church Media on Unsplash

UR LOCATION – your privacy is your priority.

Hi everyone, It has been a while since I posted here and today I am happy to announce to you that I made a shortfilm named UR LOCATION, which takes place entirely on google maps.

When your privacy is not relevant anymore, keep an eye out for the uninvited guests.

UR LOCATION is a computer screen-based short film , just under 2 minutes. It deals with privacy and its concerns.

I would like to talk more about it but it is better if you could watch it.

So please spare a few minutes and watch my short film and that would be very much appreciated.

Thank you………

Rules of Jungle

There came the three,

The silent, short and troubled,

Settled down a tree,

Asking one and other

The first talked first,

About the rules and laws of jungle,

The second felt last,

While the third raised the fist.

There came the fourth,

Who cannot stand the noise,

Settling in middle,

The fourth spoke in murmers,

The third one lost the calm,

The Fist rose again.

The second found the sound,

Yet jammed it down the throat.

Day was neat and pure,

The tree was green and dry,

The rules and laws of jungle,

Stayed the same as then.

But the three of them and fourth,

Lost a teeth or two.

Burning Shadows- Chapter 1

There are times when one must choose to give up or hold on, picking the right one is important because once taken there won’t be a turning back. Even after seventeen years of working as a journalist at the Nation daily, I must admit I never thought about giving up on a story but now I must. I should have said no when my boss asked me if I could spare a minute on the Christmas evening. Expecting treats and gift I was welcomed by a ragged man at the office shivering from the cold outside, his face pale and wrinkled. My boss gestured me to the chair next to the man, I barely noticed his eyes which were tightly shut, as if he was afraid to see me.

“He asked for you,” my boss told me as I sat down next to the man, “I am Shirley,” I held my hand out, he smiled and thanked me for meeting him. He introduced himself as Janak, told me he had seen me on television, his mother was a huge follower of mine, I felt proud of myself, but the face suddenly went grave his grip on my hands tightened, I had the urge to pull it back but his voice broke my thoughts.

“My mother is missing,” his voice shaking, each sound took a struggle to come out, when it did, it barely made above a whisper, I leaned in to listen. “She had been gone for three days,” he pulled out a photo of an old woman around ninety in a wheelchair, the man solely seemed above sixty and it was not the perfect age someone went missing. I looked at my boss, who had a foolish smirk on his face, he nodded me to continue, I turned to the man and asked if there were any daughter or grandchildren she could have gone to, but his response was simple, “No, I was all there was.” He assured me that all her belongings were at home, there was no way she could have gone without him knowing. He continued after a momentary silence.

“I live at the riverside, I went to the local police station but no one seemed to have an interest in it, they said they had more important jobs in hand and will look into mine when there was time,” tears rolled through his closed eyelids, he was shaking when he rubbed it with his hand.

“My mother and I would always watch your programs, when I had lost all my hopes in the police I didn’t have any other choice but to come to you. I know you are a good person always trying to find the truth, I even remember when you went against the government itself when all others hid under the tables afraid.” His smile grew wide; I could see that he had huge admirations for me as both his hands now held mine.

“I know that this isn’t the kind of things you go after, an old woman who went missing, who knows if she couldn’t take anymore from her son, cracked up and ran away,” his smiles turning to a thin line, “But I can promise you that was none of the cases, she loved me and I loved her back more, the only friend I had, she would never leave me even if I died she would come to my grave every day”

The police would not be interested in such petty cases, I knew, even though it was their job to find her, the elections were on its way and there were duties of national importance at hand under which the missing case was one they could simply put down as a woman who cracked and ran away. Which was the reason why journalists like me thrived in the country, doing the businesses of police, no wonder the man came to me when he had given up on them.

“Would you find my mother for me?” the man asked, hope shadowing his face, I could see he almost opened his eyelids to look but chose not to. With the elections coming up I was on a very busy schedule, sparing my time on a missing case could only result in me being pushed behind others who are racing to be the first. But the man came for me, asked specifically for me, he had put all the hopes on me and I couldn’t turn down an old man on a Christmas night. I agreed to follow the case and meet up with him very soon.

“I don’t have much money, but..” he started to put his hands to the pocket but I stopped him, after all those years of running after money I knew when to say no. I had made enough to last me a lifetime, that was enough. He smiled, tear rolls running down his cheek.

“What happened to your eyes?” I asked out of curiosity which I regretted as it came so hard it may have sounded rude to the other person, but he kept the smile as if it was not the first time someone asked him.

“I am afraid of shadows since I was born, so my mother taught me to close my eyes when I am afraid. I don’t open them when she is not around.”

The wind outside was chilling, the moon at its full shedding the lights out to the streets. I asked the man if he needed a ride, but he waved off the offer.

“It is a lovely night to be walking, I will be fine,” he said as he went out of the main door to the streets, he turned back one more time.

“Merry Christmas,”

“Merry Christmas,” I said, waving goodbye to the man as he walked through the paved road. My boss waiting behind, he had his doubtful eyes hanging on me.

“You sure about that, Shirley”

“Yes, you called me in.”

“Very well then, It’s on you, I won’t let you take off any time from the office,” He said and I nodded agreeing, “Strange fellow that man, put a bit of care on where you step,” he said as he walked into the building.

“I will,” I stood outside watching the old man’s figure fading in the black of the night. Unaware of the terrors that waited for me.

Case of Dead rats

If there are moments to cherish in life, hold it, treasure it because when things go downhill they will let pull yourself up. But there is only so much one can do to keep it sane. When the brisk monsoon comes calling the name of chilling winds of midnight, make sure to stay inside underneath your warm and cosy blankets or the dead rats will find you. To all the misfortunes I may have burdened myself with, no one had the mind to tell me that, if they did I would have stayed there. When a dead rat bathed in the crimson of what I could assume was its blood was found in the porch I choked on the coffee in my throat assuring me again that walking into one’s porch isn’t the best idea to do in the morning, try the garden, that would be better. Anyway, I had put down my cup of brewed coffee, slowly turning cold.

Picking up the remains was one thing and washing away the blood another. It took a considerable time of my lovely, engaging morning to dig a grave for a garbage rat who had the misery to be torn to pieces by a rowdy cat, which I now spotted strolling around my backyard watching me do the dirty business for him. Snow white with green sharp eyes, walking to a rhythm of its own. One rat could not make me late for the office, but the traffic did and I blamed the stinking cat for that.


There will always be a rising urge to do certain things that we promised ourselves not to do ever, at the least for me I didn’t have another choice but to walk straight into the porch the next morning where I was warmly welcomed by a severed body of a garbage rat, luckily I hadn’t taken the coffee early which saved me from puking over it. I must admit this one was a bit bigger than the one I found yesterday and the rowdy cat if not, a ruthless killer was doing a good job at that. I dig the grave near to the one found last day, hoping they both belong to the same family and wouldn’t want to put them apart in their final sleep. As before the cat walked in the distance watching me with its keen eyes. I couldn’t help but throw a stone at it to save me from its dreadful stare.


Let it go was my first thoughts when I was able to catch the rowdy cat in a netted basket the next evening, I would have if he didn’t put another ugly dead rat at my doorstep to the porch early this morning, three days on a row I have seen a dead rat to start my day, which I can guarantee did no help to make the day any better but only made it worse hour after another. But its sharp eyes were calm and pleading, its soft cry was enough to melt my heart to raise the basket and let it free. It ran faster that I couldn’t spot him when he rushed through the sidewalk. Last chance.


It truly was the last chance, when I sat in the car’s driving set ready with the basket on the backseat ready at my arm’s length, waiting for the cat to jump in anytime soon at the doorstep pulling the ugly carcass for me to see when I wake up as he did early that morning. A week, seven days in a row, the menacing cat left me filthy rats torn to pieces. This time I couldn’t let it pass by. I was determined to catch it red-handed and do whatever I had to make sure it didn’t repeat it ever. So I decided to stay up all night in my car, still and silent, except for the rain that made monstrous echoing through the porch. I cursed like never before on the cat for making me stay out in the cold night. Ones or twice I drifted off to sleep but made myself wake up, there was more pressing issue than one sleepless night.

It was nearing dawn, I could tell, the rain got even stronger as the night passed. The smell of wet soil brushed through my nose, making my already drowsy eyes weigh heavier, another ten different smells came with it. One particular made me nauseated, it took me some time to place the stinking smell, the dead. I could tell that because I have been seeing dead rats at my doorstep every morning for the last seven days I was more than familiar with the smell and there it came again. I leapt over my seat to have a good look at the outside where the cat must be, there wasn’t any however the stinking arose to a level that I wasn’t even sure if it came from the outside, anyway I chose to get my basket to ready myself to leap into the ground if I find the rowdy cat.

Fear always arises from questions when one can’t find all the answers and that is when it captures us. But it can only follow until we find the unanswered a logical explanation, for my knowledge was limited to find the answers that remained, moreover I couldn’t even find the right questions in the first place. My first and foremost question was Who killed the cat? As I looked back at the basket, inside the snowy fluffy cat lay in the pool of its blood. The sharp, uneasy eyes stayed shut, letting itself sleep through all the tortures it had gone through. My second question was How did a dead cat manage to get inside my car’s backseat? I was sure that the cat was not inside before and there was no other way it could have got in unless it learned to open the door and chose to die inside by gutting itself. It was enough questions for me to get out and run into the house.


The last part of fear comprises suspicion, we always try to tie in each event that we can’t understand to our fear, which rises suspicion over anything that happens to us, the dead rat that lay at the doorstep as I made my way into the house kept on feeding the fear in me. For everything that happened on that night and seven days before, I was convinced enough to shut my porch with brick and wood and bar my door hoping it would stop whatever evil that was in play outside. And I truly agree with the fact that it did help to keep the evil at bay, to an extent. Now, I find dead cats at my kitchen sink.