Adieu Mon Cherie

Ronnie took a deep puff off his cigarette,exhaling life out.

Life had been his subject, in the material sense. His brain was an envied storehouse of knowledge, maintained by his unparalleled brilliance and proverbial memory . He had been  an exemplary student, an Oxbridge scholar and now an esteemed Professor in a top Indian university.

Taking ‘Ulysses’ off of the heavily-stuffed teakwood bookshelf, he turned to the  book-marked page and the  underlined words: ‘Can’t bring back time .Like holding water in your hand’.

Aware of  the stream of trickling tears, behind his spectacles, he now smiled,relishing  the knowledge that  he was just as human.

The food in the microwave was ready and the flickering light of the candle, created a web of brilliant uncertainty .

The cocktail of beauty from Mozart in the gramophone, the pearly letters in the book and his favorite food in his  finest bone china, filled his empty soul.

Post-dinner and the routine medicines, he took the plunge to dissolve  into a permanent darkness, from the 13th floor of his apartment. He was 37.

Word count – 175

Written for flash fiction for aspiring writers based on this week’s photo prompt . Thanks topriceless joy for hosting the challenge.

This week’s photo prompt is provided by Pamela S. Canepa. Thank you Pamela!

 

 

 

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Some things somehow remain 2

‘How we relished the coffee house – the commotion, the imperfection, the enthusiasm of our younger days!’ Animesh remarks.

Girija couldn’t help but smile . ‘ The rescued memories again , they never submerge’,plays like floating silent lyrics in her head as  she looks up at the red sky .

The city was more polluted than ever, its pristine beauty a thing of the past, much like a fading innocence , disappearing behind the cloak of futile age.

‘I have missed you.’ Animesh thinks, craving to hold Girija’s delicate hands.  An impossibility, now. He reminisces on the days when taking her delicate hands in his did not need forethought or permission.

‘This looks like the perfect place, impersonal and unknown’, Girija muses , pointing  towards the new, out -of-place coffee shop . The new coffee shop stood like a  glittery  costume jewelry thrown in with elegant heirlooms, a mismatch with the ancient-ness of the street – an anomaly.

Animesh holds the door for Girija, just like the old times.

Some things, somehow remain.

Note- I took the liberty to take out a page off Animesh and Girija’s life. Randomly . I hope to be able to add in their past and future, in the days ahead, so as to make it whole.

To read the first part , please click here

 

 

A curious heart

Her name was Meera.

She was my next door neighbor in the hostel .We used to travel to college together.

She was like a Rose. Lovely.

Interested boys would urge me to present their ‘love’ interest to her. I had once obliged. Meera  had smiled, dismissively.

She would buy flowers for herself on Valentine’s day, hum love songs in the bathroom.

Girls questioned her sanity and orientation.

Later, she became even more popular for her outstanding academic results.

Meera was intimidating, for average people.

‘I would prefer to die alone than taking a dip in imitation love ‘, Meera would say.

Word count – 100

Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle. Thanks dear Rochelle for hosting the challenge.

PHOTO PROMPT © Kelvin M. Knight. Thank you, Kelvin.

 

Nandaja’s blossoms

‘I wonder why you have been at it for so long, he is not a one to concur’ Sneha says.

‘Sneha,  he will today . It will be my 13th time requesting him . You know, the lucky 13’ , Maya winks.

‘You are wasting your time’, Sneha reprimands.

Mr. Anil Srivastava’s calm demeanor brings the friendly bickering to a sudden halt.

‘Good morning, sir. I was here yesterday and the day before ‘, Maya says.

‘I remember. What is it that you want to know about my humble life’, came Sneha’s unanticipated answer.

‘Sir , I was wondering , if you would be okay with sharing the story of ‘ Nandaja’s blossoms’. I want to write about it  and about you – its mentor.’

Mr. Srivastava opened up to Maya’s questions like he had never before.

He had perhaps sensed her earnestness.

‘ You see these flower pots. My wife Nandaja loved flowers and so I dedicate a pot to each precious orphan in Nandaja’s home. The parent-less or abandoned children too are beautiful blossoms and gifts to our world.’

 

Word count -175

Written for flash fiction for aspiring writers based on this week’s photo prompt . Thanks topriceless joy for hosting the challenge.

This week’s photo prompt is provided by shivamt25. Thank you for our photo prompt!

 

 

 

Some things somehow remain

‘You look gorgeous ‘, Animesh bit his lip as the words unpremeditatedly flew out.

Girija blushed , pleasantly surprised with the realization that she was not just  a machine-like efficient  human being but still a feeling woman.

The beautiful evening sky , the gentle breeze, the serenely swaying trees had  conspired to weave a perfect evening, Girija’s persona dazzling in a brick-red cotton sari .

‘I didn’t know, you were  a visiting faculty here’, Girija said , striving to contain the excitement  in her soul.

Animesh smiled.

Nothing had changed except for the silver highlights in his hair.

‘Do you trust me enough to walk down the lane with me and perhaps have a cup of coffee?’ Animesh asked .

The coffee house was buzzing with a young crowd – big groups of friends, clamoring intellectuals, new couples, committed friends – one could  witness a whole array of friendships within its solid walls .

‘Not here, Animesh, let’s go somewhere else’, she urged. Girija’s voice was somber.

Their days in the Coffee house was long past but memories of those days echoed clear.

She didn’t want her bearing to inadvertently pronounce her overwhelming melancholia for ‘a him’ that was no more .

Dream come true

I have been here all day, for the last three days, holding an umbrella for him, atop this thirsty hill.

He wants to shoot, he says. Instead, he has been shooting me, every day, with an empty plate, but for thick rice and salt in the evenings.

My parents had promised, I would help, as I knew the geography all too well. Besides, he is an old ‘friend’, I, a benevolent soul.

Frankly, I was forced to contemplate schemes for his final un-beautiful goodbye.

Only, he bought me back with the promise of a lead role in his wilderness series.

 

Word count-100

Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle. Thanks dear Rochelle for hosting the challenge.

PHOTO PROMPT © Danny Bowman

 

 

 

Words of silence

‘Can I have a glass of water, please?’, the patient  on the spotless white hospital bed, begs.

Having seated him upright against the impersonal white pillows, the lady holds the tall, nameless glass, carefully, for him to sip from.

‘Where is Sheila?’

‘Sheila is off-duty, today.’

‘You sound familiar.’

The lady pulls the red stool near his bed, takes his curled palm in hers and asks ‘ does your family visit ?’

‘I ask them not to visit, very often. Its unsettling to see someone close, suffer.’

The lady’s silent tears spill on the helpless bed.

‘How I wish I could ride around the park today! Is it bright and sunny?’

‘Luckily, it is’, she smiles.

The lady’s heart skips a beat, as the rusty wheels of his chair falters on the bump outside the main building of the hospital.

‘Are you all right?’, she asks steadying the anxiety and turmoil.

‘Yes, Shireen’, his smile, a ray of sun, tearing black clouds.

He remembered .

Word count- 162

Written for flash fiction for aspiring writers based on this week’s photo prompt . Thanks topriceless joy for hosting the challenge.

This week’s photo prompt is provided by artycaptures.wordpress.com. Thank you artycaptures!