Ipshita Majumdar

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Apr, 2020

Stories (8)

8 Stories

140 karma pts

?

“The Missing Photograph” by Ipshita Majumdar

Story in progress***I do miss my home. The beautiful rose garden my mother has toiled over, my grandfather's sagging cane chair, which swings a bit sadly without it's occupant, the smell of pungent spices which blend together and draw out a million different memories playing out over my tongue. I just hate the people who live in it. Each time my feet hit the pebbled garden path to the door, my muscles ache from all the cramps of the 5 hr long bus journey. In hindsight, I could have waited fo...

3 comments 3
Read story

“Thallium Part-2” by Ipshita Majumdar

This is in continuation with Thallium, my previous story. There might be some discontinuities or plot holes. I'll be more than happy to correct:)***Feroz Singhvi aimed her gun at the marked spot on the speckled grey granite overhead and fired. The ceiling of the tunnel rumbled and a few cracks appeared--she stood back and waited. This was her only chance of ever seeing her family again. The sun-feeders had successfully guided Ayush and Tara away from the Himachal Electricity Apparatus for Regulation and...

0 comments 0
Read story

“Thallium” by Ipshita Majumdar

2200 A.D., Shimla, India:“Bappu, my friend lost one of his shoes, can you help me find it?” Five year old Ayush Singhvi looked up hopefully to his father, sitting inside his productivity cubicle. A red icon was slowly beeping on the flexiglass panel enclosing the father-son duo, indicating the end of their family interaction hour. His father, Parth Singhvi, sighed in resignation. “Where did your friend lose his shoe?” Bappu finally asked him, but his eyes kept glancing at the left...

0 comments 0
Read story

“In a Flash” by Ipshita Majumdar

“Escaping again, Zohra?” Sunny Gehlot called out to me as I almost closed the door behind. It was my mother’s memorial service and I was determined not to stay. He wasn’t entirely wrong, this was my last attempt at finding some peace away from the clicks, the microphones and the media ruckus that accompanied my mother, Purvi Mistry. Instead, I swivelled about and thrust the door open, reentering the usually empty house, which teemed with staffers dressed in white. Good children do not talk back.My mo...

0 comments 0
Read story

“Delirium” by Ipshita Majumdar

I had spent an entire afternoon weeping over Kavan Rathore’s death, for the eleventh time in a week. It was disorienting to see him outside the grocery store, that very evening, smiling his heart-wrenching, lopsided smile. It had all started with the flu. The one I caught by getting wet in the rain and jumping into puddles like a lunatic. Why did I do all of the above mentioned things? There is no dignifi...

1 comment 1
Read story

“A few drops of starlight” by Ipshita Majumdar

My name is Ashraf and I was born under the constellation of Orion and its valiant, steady lights.My village used to be one where sparkling diamond lights would light up summer evenings and draw out families to their terraces and courtyard. About a dozen or more unruly heads would run about, zigzagging around woven cots, sprinkled across the streets.The menfolk would spill out into the streets, pondering over the mysteries of a minuscule cosmos, comprising of our village and 2 or 3 neighboring ones, at the most. My...

2 comments 2
Read story

“War of words” by Ipshita Majumdar

1200 A.D. , Near the Ural mountains:  Princess Emzadokht paced up and down, inside a pristine white tent, clenching her fist and crumpling a piece of paper. It was her first ever attempt at poetry. The opening of the tent, embroidered with dragons and djinns, fluttered slightly. She was relieved that they had finally left the treacherous desert behind and had camped near a turquoise blue lake, nestled between the ...

0 comments 0
Read story

“Sorry with no caveats” by Ipshita Majumdar

How do you extract an apology from someone you have hated consistently for close to three decades of your existence?  Of course, you can simply choose not to. But an irritating inner voice, of an 8 year old, screaming and venting, demands closure and peace. You try to drown yourself in the noise of fax machines, traffic, heavy EDM music or even the vacuum cleaner in moments of desperation. Anything to avoid the stifling ...

0 comments 0
Read story

Author bio

Hi! I am a chemistry nerd, habitual philosopher and a newbie writer. My stories tend to focus on the chinks in the armor and the shadows in happy smiles.