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Guide to the pronounciation of the names:
-Mohsin is Moh-sin ( Moh rhymes with Though and Sin is just pronounced in the usual way)
-Jibran is Jib-ran ( The J is as in Jug and Jib rhymes with nib. Ran rhymes with barn)
-Mehreen is Meh-reen (Meh is the same as the exclamatory 'Meh!' and reen rhymes with sheen/green)
I hope this helps!
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night to ponder what she was wondering. Most evenings, she would gait across the green grass, politely smile at the other dawdling contestants, and sit by the swimming pool. Then, she would dip her legs into the clear transparent water, look ahead, and repeat the same words. I wish sometimes I could sit next to her by the pool, and ask her the simplest question. Why?Often, I have dreamt of sitting next to her by the pool, in those instances, ...
Mr Roy was sure of one thing the day he retired. He would bury the trophies won in his 30 years of corporate battles in the backyard of his home. And grow brinjals on them.
He had observed; how the gardener tended to the lawn, grew seasonal flowers in the meticulously prepared beds, and harvested bountiful vegetables from the backyard of his company-given accommodation. He had envied the meditativeness he exuded a...
“Don’t you remember, Nana?” Her face was shining with hope and perspiration. Her mad multi-coloured glasses just managed to stay on her nose as she rested her little body across her grandfather’s twitching stomach. “Oh, oh, oh! Beti, the pain, Nana’s tummy–” said Nani in panicked Hindi. Samara leaned back very slightly. Her grandfather’s hand had flailed and latched onto her wrist. His eyes were shut. He couldn’t see that he’d bent her fingers back uncomfortably. Samara’s eyes watered. She hel...
Padmanhab Singh drew the short straw. That meant it was his responsibility to tell Mr. Ramden about the unforgiveable cock-up during a recent surgery. The dyslexic error from the junior doctor unintentionally marked the wrong leg for amputation in the surgery notes, resulting in the non-gangrenous leg of Mr. Harry Ramden being sawn off. Several days of whispered clandestine meetings in the hospital’s basement boiler room, resulted in the decision to finally tell the misfortunate pa...
This story is set in India.
We are running out of time, yelled out Ajmal as he peered up at the balcony of his friend's apartment. If Kamal’s tardiness was one headache, the more painful matter was his contemplation on whether to turn the engine off or not. Chances are Kamal will walk down the stairs as soon as he turns the engine off, but if he doesn’t shut it down now it might just give up for ...
Your eyes pour the moonlight on my path as I turn my back to you. In the dead of the night, I walk with my family, away from my home, my street, my town, and what was till yesterday- my country.There are other families with us. Snaking their way to Lahore railway station. In fear, pain, and certainty that their lives are not theirs anymore. It can be cut, morphed, or smoked out within a matter of seconds. Even if they get on that train to Amritsar and arrive there in one piece, they would just be a wisp of what they once were.<...
Nobody remembered who had brought the rattle home. They all came with platters of sweets and fruits, a tradition in their Indian hometown, to welcome the new arrival. A chubby face they said. A good sign for the family.
They only remembered that it was unusual, a gift for a baby wrapped in shining blue paper. Who brought gifts for a baby? What did a baby need? When they had opened the gift, the children h...
CW: Language, violenceThey had an inkling something was not right when the bundle didn’t bleat. But it was dark and they were a bit drunk. And desperate. Now, under a lush tamarind tree close to the hills and far from the village, they were jolted into sobriety and daylight by the tiny human in the bundle.Rarely in their career spanning 10 years did they commit such blunders. They had occasionally bagged an earthen pot mistaking it to be an ash gourd or heaved a sackful of cow dung cakes believing them to be potatoes. But ca...
A fine coating of sweat on his brow, his furtive glances, and the way he was incessantly scratching at his palms gave the man, third in line to order his meal, away as paranoid, nervous, or both. The lunch crowd at Marigold Masala Fine Indian Cuisine & Takeout had been a steady one, giving Kamya Kumar, who was working the cash register, little time to pay attention to anything but what each customer was orde...
When the world seems too little a place, when a chance to escape seems unavoidable, an endless commotion of memories shows up like a much-awaited gue...
TW: mild themes of DV“Break the cycle, my daughter. Don’t end up like me.” My mother would tell me. The earth has felt the footsteps of countless women before me who’ve fallen victim to the cycle of abuse, passed down from mother to daughter. Like the sun that sets when the moon appears, abuse became the relentless rhythm of repetition. With it, tradition formed the lyrics to this sombre tune, its haunting echoes swirling through the bloodlines, replaying on a constant, agonizing loop. Eff...
I hop over the 20 dot kolam and open the gate. I know I will be sent to Mayura Bakery and Sweets within minutes.I look back at the four swans with cherries in their beaks, encircling a sharp leafed twig. They float on the street outside the gate only when special guests visit us. The guests who could potentially become family.I remove my school shoes and carry them inside. The shoe rack has been shifted from the front door to the back door in honour of visitors.I walk into the living room. A new diwan
The metro I take to work, the polluted air of Mumbai, the faces I smile at and the faces that don’t smile back— they are stained a coffee-brown. The same color as old pages and medieval fables. The lives lived in abandoned childhood homes. Memories turned cinder. The air inside the all-women compartment threatens to asphyxiate me; smoke whisks into oxygen as cigarettes burn against already scorched fingers of these strangely familiar women surrounding me. The...
They were always an odd-couple, not that they were sad, angry, unhappy or into some weird rituals, they were just different from the rest of us. Akash would be 40, though he looked 50 and Jwala would be around 35 but looked 40.
Both of them had a high paying job as they lived in the best apartment in the building, a pent house, drove their respective cars and came back together although in their respectiv...
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