Pink Roses

pink

 

The night was quiet and gloomy and the sky was overcast with dark clouds carving menacing shapes. I turned back and loitered through the balcony to the master bedroom. I could not help staring at the quaint wall clock that had stopped on numerous occasions but today it seemed to be staring at me in the eye and in the eerie silence I could hear the clear ‘tick tock’ sound that reverberated through the house.

“It’s eleven”, I almost whispered to myself and felt a rush of fear gripping me all over. Why hadn’t my husband come home? What took him so long? His mobile was switched off too and I never bothered to take down the phone numbers of his frivolous friends. I wondered why he was friends with those lecherous men in the first place. I mean, he was one hell of a guy. He was intelligent, witty and kind. He made sure he showered me with gifts, every now and then whenever he came back from work. Though, lately, I stopped him from doing so. Why waste time and money on such frivolities after five years of marriage. I mean, I know you would picture me as a cold and thankless woman, but trust me it wasn’t the case.

I used to be enamoured by such displays of affection. But, then I realized over a period of time, all that mattered in a relationship was, your loved one’s presence. If he is there by your side, then that is the greatest gift.

A loud gut wrenching sound of lightening shook me from my reverie and I inadvertently gazed at the clock again. It was half past eleven now. Where on earth was he? Did I hear a soft knock on the door? When I was about to dismiss it as my imagination, the knocking became louder. Why wasn’t he ringing the bell? Oh, the bell had to be fixed. It had malfunctioned after the neighbour’s fiendish children played the horrible prank for around fifty times.

I rushed to the living room and it then dawned upon me that someone was actually banging the door. I went towards the door and stealthily peeked through the key hole. He was standing right there. My husband stood there and he had a big bouquet of pink roses in his hand. He knew I loved pink roses. There was something mystic, something surreal about pink roses. They were not like those red roses that seemed to proclaim your intense love for someone as if screaming from the rooftops. Love is subtle. It should entail passion and longing but I felt it ought not to be loud and flashy. And somehow for me pink roses were an apt symbol for how I pictured love.

My husband knew how to make it up to me whenever he came late from work. The moment he handed me those pink roses I used to feel all mushy and warm. Yes, that was the effect those flowers had on me.

As he knocked the door again, I quickly opened the door. I could brood later. I had always been a brooder. I loved my own company so much so that for a long time I did not want to marry. I felt fulfilled and was apprehensive as to how anyone would fit into my world. It was so till I met my husband. As clichéd as it may sound, he swept me off my feet. It seemed as if we were meant to be together. I realized then, that if you love someone, it did not matter as to how different you were. We had a few shared interests but other than that, we were quite different.

“Where were you? Why were you not opening the door? What took you so long? I was worried.” As he reprimanded me, it occurred to him that he was the defaulter here. He was the one who had come late. He smiled and handed me the pink roses lovingly.

“You think you can do horrible things and then get me these flowers and be saved from my wrath”, I exclaimed. “Yes, you are damn right woman. That is what I presume,” he answered with a glint of mischief in his chocolate brown eyes. I smiled and we hugged.

“On a serious note, it is raining heavily. Why did you have to go all the way to that florist who sells pink roses bouquet? You should have come back home as soon as you finished your work at the office,” I told him.

But he seemed least bothered by what I said. He always went out of his way to keep me happy. I was the only child of my parents. My father had passed away when I was a still a toddler. My mother raised me single handedly. I was extremely close to my mother. But, her untimely death a year ago had shook me. I had least expected this. And I had sleepless nights thereafter. I even had to see a counselor who helped me cope with the loss. My husband stood like a rock during those days of agony and suffering and held my hands throughout. I couldn’t be more grateful to him for his constant presence in my life. Since then, he became all the more thoughtful and nurtured me like a child.

I went to the kitchen to warm up the dinner that I had made for him. We had made it a point to have dinner together, no matter how late it would get for him to reach home. He liked having dinner in the bedroom, plonked in front of the television. It made me furious, but I had made peace with this habit of his and we sat there watching re runs of ‘friends’. Life was blissful. I had nothing to complain about. As we sat eating, I heard a noise. It appeared as if someone was knocking the door. I asked him if he heard it too. But, he didn’t seem to hear it. The knocking kept getting louder and louder. It was still raining cats and dogs and I wondered who could be at our doorstep at midnight. I told my husband that we should go and see who was there at the door. But, he suddenly seemed distant and aloof.

Was it me, who was hearing the banging of the door? Was I imagining things? It couldn’t be so. I got up with a start and ignoring my husband’s pleas went towards the main door. Yes, someone was actually knocking the door vehemently. I shuddered with fear as I took one glance at the clock which told me it was almost half past twelve. I was too scared to open the door. But, slowly and steadily I peeked through the key hole.

I saw a man standing there. He seemed familiar but I could not make out as to who he was. Strangely, he did not intimidate me. I did not know what came over me and I opened the door. The man stood there, staring at me for a while and then he barged inside while I looked at him questioningly. He turned towards me and took my hands. It took me by surprise. Who was this man and why wasn’t I afraid of him? And why the hell did I open the door for him? These questions loomed large in my mind and I was deeply puzzled and delirious. I felt wobbly and just when I was about to fall, the man held me.

“You did not take your medicines today? Did you?” he questioned. I did not know what he was talking about. I asked him who he was and if I knew him. I also called out to my husband to come to me. But, I was in a kind of trance. My husband did not make an appearance from the bedroom, which was strange. The stranger got me a glass of water, and a couple of tablets, which he made me, gobble quickly. I could not fathom as to why I followed his orders meekly without an iota of resistance. After a few minutes, I felt sleepy and then I felt numb. I was asleep.

“She must have forgotten to take the medicines yet again. I had told her over the phone to take her medicines as I had a meeting today. I think she must have forgotten about it. And she is having hallucinations about her dead husband again. Poor, Shreya, first her mom passed away. Then within a year, her husband Rajat met with an accident while he was coming back from the florist shop. But, she has been my childhood friend. I have always loved her. And I couldn’t leave her alone while she was in this state of emotional turmoil. I married her and though she is gloomy and lost on some days, the doctors say, she is steadily improving. But, she has to take these medicines till the time, she does not recover completely. I should make it a point to come home early. Shreya needs me. Let me take her to the bedroom so that she can sleep comfortably. Thankfully, the bed is made up.

But, where did these come from? I thought she hated these”, he said as he stared at a big bouquet of fresh pink roses that stood in a vase on the night stand.

 

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This is my ‘ Day 5 ‘ entry for the Write Tribe‘s ProBlogger October 2017 Blogging Challenge.         

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Verdict

 

sad

 

It was like any other mundane day spent inside the gated compound. She said her morning prayers, all the while conscious of the fact that the day could unfold any which way. Did she shudder thinking about the worst possible scenario? No, she did not.

She was here in these confined premises for almost four years now. Days turned into nights at a weary pace here and it did little to alleviate the pain that clutched her very being.

It had been nine years since that fateful night which had changed the course of her life. The once happy family was splashed on the cover page of every newspaper. It was followed by character assassination, lewd remarks, contemptible presumptions from all nooks and corners.

She could not even grieve in peace. Men in khaki uniform beleaguered them pushing them to their limits. They were accused of killing their own daughter, the one, who was the apple of their eyes. She was the one, who was the essence of their existence. They had waited with bated breath for her to arrive and emanate joy in their lives.

She had gone. She had gone far away to a place where no one could harm her and where no one could tarnish her dignity.

Nine years had passed by and they still fought, relentlessly with an unwavering hope that justice would prevail one day. It was not an easy road. They fought not just for their freedom. Freedom was oh, so precious! But, for them the outside world would also be a prison. A  prison where they would be caged in the rigmarole of their unfulfilled desires, of family trips that could not be, of birthday parties that were a ritual and the absence of the sheer pleasure of seeing their girl grow and turn into a wonderful human being.

As she sat there, reminiscing of the happy days, she was told that they were acquitted. She looked at the white wall in front of her with listless eyes. She suddenly felt spent. An errant tear came out of her eye from nowhere (she was so good at putting up a brave front) as she realized the magnitude of the decision.

They had not harmed their little girl. Who was the beast who ripped apart their whole life in a jiffy? No one had the answers. She did not know if anyone ever would know.

How would life be outside these walls? She had so much time to contemplate what she would do with her life. She had begun writing and it felt liberating. She knew she would do something to honour her daughter’s memory.

Though, everything had appeared dismal some days ago, today there was hope. There was hope that their verdict would bring home the fact that at times, innocent people have to bear the brunt of unfortunate circumstances and suffer. But, mostly, she hoped and prayed that never again should a parent have to go through the nightmare that she lived all these years.

With bated breath and with a faint smile on her lips, she waited for her long lost freedom.

 

(Author’s Note:  This is a fictional account, wherein I have made an earnest attempt to put myself in someone else’s shoes and gauge as to how Nupur Talwar, mother of Arushi Talwar must be feeling today, when the Allahabad High Court has acquitted her and her husband Rajesh Talwar of the charges of murdering their daughter.)

 

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This is an entry for the Write Tribe‘s ProBlogger October 2017 Blogging Challenge.         

I have made an attempt to do justice to the prompt ‘Bated Breath’.

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The Empty Nest

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They hurried towards the terminal from where Sameer was to board the flight to US. The airport was abuzz with activity despite the late hours. Hema looked at Sameer and was overcome with emotions, yet again. Her husband put his hand on her shoulder, at once aware of the sudden surge of emotions that overwhelmed her.

Hema looked at Sudhir, her husband and pillar of strength for the last twenty five years. He was always a picture of resilience and steadfastness. But today, even he seemed to be grappling to keep his emotions in check.

Sameer, their son was leaving for the US to study for his bachelor’s degree. They had known it all along. They had known that one day he will move on. They had known that it is the parents’ duty to bring up the child and steer him towards his true calling. They had known they would witness the ‘empty nest syndrome’ sooner or later. But, still they were miserable.

Saying that Sameer was brimming with excitement would be an understatement. It was an important day in his life as he was inching closer to his dream.

But, he was also perturbed as to how his parents, would deal with his absence. Their life had revolved around him all these years. And suddenly, they would be bereft of someone who meant the world to them. Though, technology had truly become a boon for all those who were miles apart from their loved ones, still, nothing could substitute the human touch.

His flight was announced and he turned towards his mom and dad. The dreaded moment had come. It was time to bid adieu. His father held his ground bravely while his mom broke down.

Hema got a grip over herself and tried feigning a smile as she did not want to give a tearful farewell to her son. Moreover, in no time, he would be home during the Christmas break, she consoled herself.

As, Sameer walked the shiny grounds of terminal three, a new leaflet turned in the lives of all three of them.

The drive back home was a quiet one for both Sudhir and Hema. Silence spoke a thousand words and they thought it best to keep mum.

It was almost three in the morning by the time they reached home. Hema tossed and turned on the large poster bed as sleep was elusive. Finally, she stood upright and walked towards the living room. On a whim she turned towards Sameer’s room.

As she sat on his bed, unruffled unlike other days, she saw something. It was an envelope. On top of it was written ‘For Mom and Dad’.

It took her by surprise. Slowly, she opened the envelope. It contained a letter.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I know you must be wondering what this is all about. Well, I know, you would have seen this letter within a few hours of reaching home. I know you must be missing me terribly. I know you must be feeling a void in your hearts and home. And I know you must be feeling a million other things which I cannot understand.

I worry about you. But, that is not enough. As you held my hand and helped me walk, today I also intend to do the same.

As I embrace a new way of life with open arms, so will you. All your lives, you have lived for me. But from today, you will live for yourself, with each other.

I am enclosing tickets for a ten day Europe trip. I am sure you and dad will have the time of your life. There is so much beauty in the world and it is never too late to experience it all.

Take care of each other.

PS- Do not worry, I saved the money from the summer jobs. I have never been good at giving surprises but I sincerely hope this one is an exception.

Love,

Sameer

 

As Hema finished reading, she smiled. When did her little boy grow up? She took out the tickets and kept them in the bedside drawer.

She should sleep now. There was so much to be done. She had to tell Sudhir, first thing in the morning. Lots of packing had to be done. The coming days would be busy.

But before doing anything she grabbed her phone and typed a message ‘You are good at giving surprises after all ’- Love, Ma.

The phone beeped. Sameer looked at the incoming message. He grinned from ear to ear.

 

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This is an entry for the Write Tribe‘s ProBlogger October 2017 Blogging Challenge.         

I have made an attempt to do justice to the prompt ‘terminal’.

 

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Down the Memory Lane

 keoladeo1(1)

Ahana climbed the stairs literally huffing and puffing. Climbing the vast array of stairs that would take her to her third floor apartment was maybe not such a good idea, she thought. But after a long exhausting day at work that involved juggling her brain cells but no physical movement at all, she thought this was the least that she could do.

As she rang the bell outside flat number 301, number of thoughts ran through her mind. They involved, whether the domestic help would have finished all the chores, her daughter would have eaten her dinner and did Aman come back from work yet.

“Mumma”, exclaimed her shiny five year old opening the door and embracing her as she usually embraced her Winnie the Pooh teddy. Ahana always looked forward to this part of the day, when after a hard day at work she would be welcomed by her daughter. Each day it felt surreal and pushed in to oblivion, her everyday skirmishes with the ever growing Delhi traffic, the air which was polluted to the core and the daily squabbles of grabbing a seat in the Metro, which brought her home.

Ahana at times felt an urgent need to renounce everything and retreat to a place which was close to nature and which did not have the chaos and confusion of the city life. But both she and her husband had become a part of the corporate ladder and the usual strings of life pulled them back. Careers had to be made, life full of luxuries to be maintained, children to be sent to those pricey schools and so on. Human aspirations knew no bounds.

“I have a surprise for you”. Ahana looked at Aman who sat next to her on the large poster bed. Aman, despite the forty years, possessed a boyish charm and he never ceased to sweep her across her feet. He would diligently plan her birthdays and shower her with gifts from time to time. Ahana expected another such wonderful gesture from her endearing beau.

“I have planned a weekend getaway for us”, retorted Aman animatedly. “We will be going to Bharatpur to the Keoladeo National park. Ahana knew instantly why Aman had planned this trip. And Keoladeo National Park was not just any other place. It held a special significance in Ahana’s life. The mere mention of it transported her to another world.

For Ahana it was symbolic of her childhood. It represented those carefree, unscathed years when she was closer to nature and when days were filled with mirth. Ahana’s father who was a professor in a government college was posted in Bharatpur and she spent almost all her school years in the sleepy small town. Those were the nineties, when people had ample time in hand and when sources of recreation were far and few.
Ahana’s father was a learned man and she always had an image of their house which had more books than the place could accommodate.

The Bird Sanctuary was visited so very often and as her father’s interest grew in birds so did the number of books on birds found in the house. Ahana along with her parents and brother would visit the Bird Sanctuary which used to be flooded with people from all over the world especially in winters. Keoladeo was known to be home for a host of migratory birds. Prominent amongst them used to be the “Siberian Crane”. Every year during winters, the park turned a nesting area for a variety of bird species.

Siberian Crane was the most awaited each winter as it flew down crossing long distances. In the nineties itself their number had started dwindling and it was declared an endangered species.

Ahana still vividly recalled as to how they would visit the Park for a Sunday picnic carrying with them a number of books and a binocular. One of Ahana’s favourite books used to be the one on migratory birds by the prominent ornithologist, Salim Ali. At that time, it appealed to her as it was colourful and had beautiful pictures of a wide spectrum of birds. Both she and her brother knew names of numerous birds owing to their exposure to the “bird paradise”. Ahana would look at the foreigners who had come from far flung places, with fascinating eyes. Many of them would spend hours observing birds.

The Park had wetland on both sides with a road that stretched far across to a temple. Ahana could recall the surge of excitement she used to experience riding a bicycle on the narrow road with thickets of wetlands on both sides.

The last time she visited the park was when she was fifteen or sixteen years old. Thereafter her father shifted base and they moved to New Delhi. She lost herself in the usual humdrums of life and here she was working as an Analyst in a premium firm. But whenever she went down the memory lane and thought about her growing years, she would envisage the big old barricade that took them inside the Bird Sanctuary. It was forever etched in her heart and still after so many years she could recognize a variety of birds and felt a close bond with nature. She always dreamt of buying a house somewhere away from the smog and sordid air of the metropolitan cities.

She at times felt distressed with the thought that she could not make her daughter experience nature at close quarters. Sporadic visits to the city zoo did not feel like being in the nature’s lap. Her daughter was taught at school about wild life and how we should conserve the endangered species and save Mother Nature. The other day itself, Ahana helped the little girl make a poster about saving tiger. And most of it involved googling the details and taking a print out of a tiger’s picture. At times she wondered, was making posters for your children’s school projects enough? Didn’t they, the so called learned lot have a responsibility greater than that towards Nature? But then, soon the conscience wrecking thoughts used to be shoved down in the labyrinths of mundane chores.

Ahana knew that Aman had an inkling that she was a Nature lover deep down and that is why he had arranged for this particular weekend getaway to one of her favourite spots. Also she many a times felt claustrophobic amidst the noises and the fast paced life and yearned for the quiet to hear the noises inside her own head and gain a fresh perspective on life.

It was a cold December morning when they began the drive from Delhi to Bharatpur. Half way to Bharatpur, Ahana had already started feeling good. Her daughter Ira was bubbling with energy and kept asking questions as to what all they would witness. As they reached Keoladeo National Park, Ahana got down instantly and felt nostalgia looming large over her. It looked the same, yes almost same, barring a few changes. But, it looked desolate. There were tourists but it did not have the hustle bustle which Ahana was accustomed to and expected to witness. Nevertheless, she was overjoyed. So many memories were associated with this place and she wanted to forge her way inside the Park immediately.

After reaching a certain point, Ahana told Aman to get bicycles on rent so that they could go further. She suddenly took over from Aman as this was her domain, her area of interest. She sat riding a bicycle steering her way in the Park. The same quiet, hampered only by varied chirpings, echoed. But, she could not help but notice that the wetland on both sides seemed dry and there was hardly any water. It was not a welcome sight. Birds too were fewer as compared to those flocks of birds which she used to see far and beyond, when she used to come earlier.

She stopped and saw a guide cum rickshaw puller explaining something to an intrigued foreigner at a distance. She reached up to him and asked him about the scarce water on both sides of the road. To this the guy informed her that the Park was witnessing a severe water crisis, owing to which fewer birds visited each year now.

It at once dawned upon Ahana as to why the number of birds as well as the number of tourists had dwindled. She looked towards the right side of the road which had a small swamp of sorts. There was a small group of Painted Storks. She was filled with grief seeing a handful of these beautiful birds which were the charm of the Park, back then, and what howling noises they made around their little ones which reverberated in the surroundings.

Aman had also reached towards her by then and looked at her questioningly. He knew something was amiss. Ahana narrated him what she was told a little while earlier. Aman was visiting the Park for the very first time and so he could not fathom the gravity of the situation. For him and little Ira, it was like a walk through a jungle safari.

For their sake, she lifted her spirits and got engrossed in clicking pictures of the birds and telling them their names. Ira was the one who was excited to the brim. She kept pointing at various birds and looking at them through her tiny binocular. Ahana was happy that she could bring her daughter to the place where she spent so many afternoons and which brought her closer to nature.

As they reached the end of the trail, tiredness took over. But the serenity of the Park was still intact, Ahana mulled, sitting on one of the benches. Further conversation with the officials, told her that Siberian Cranes which made the Park one of its kind, no longer visited the Park. Ahana remembered that in nineties itself hardly two or three Siberian Cranes used to visit. But it was heart breaking to know that the ones that visited the Keoladeo National Park had become extinct. And then the current water crisis was hanging over the head like a Damocles’ sword.

She was perturbed to see her favorite place succumb to the trails of time. In her mind she still reckoned it to be the same place which was untarnished by man made perils and which would always be there for her to offer her peace and quiet and make her one with Nature. How naïve she had been! Worldwide climate changes had defiled the Park too.

As they were driving back to Delhi in the car, Ahana was unusually quiet. The next day was a Monday and so they would get back to the grind. She reached office at nine and sat on her desk fiddling with the keys on the laptop. She had a deadline to meet. But, instead she found her staring at a webpage about the Keoladeo National Park and the Siberian Cranes.

For the next couple of hours, she read extensively about the problems that plagued the Sanctuary. Water crisis was the most harrowing issue that the Park faced. As Ahana delved further in her search, she came across an NGO that was formed some months ago that focused on pursuing the government and taking steps to replenish water, thereby facilitating an increase in bird population.

Ahana was delighted that steps had already been taken in the direction to uplift the Park. She immediately without second thoughts called up the lone mobile number mentioned on the website. After conversing with Mr. Sanyal, an ornithologist himself, she felt at ease. Since the time she had come back to Delhi, she felt restless and ill at ease. She wanted to do something to conserve the Park. She felt she owed it to the Park. So, when she became a member of the NGO and made a mental note to visit Bharatpur every weekend, she took a sigh of relief.

She felt as if she was freed of shackles that had since then imprisoned her. Nature was calling out to her and she had finally answered its plea. She wanted to make a difference, however insignificant it be. She wanted to go to the Keoladeo National Park once again with all its former glory with her little girl and show the next generation that everything was not lost. We can still make a difference and we will.

 

      This is an entry for the Write Tribe‘s ProBlogger October 2017 Blogging Challenge.         

I have made an attempt to do justice to the prompt ‘nostalgia’.

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The Old man and the dog

old-man-and-his-dog

She waved her daughter goodbye and turned back walking with sluggish steps. The morning hours brimmed with chaos and it was only after she would send her daughter off to school, that she would feel exhaustion looming large over her like rivulets running down her back.

It had been only a month since they had moved to the new apartment, in the heart of the city. Everything looked alien to her and she yearned for a sense of familiarity to dawn upon her soon. She missed the window in her old house, which overlooked the green fields and the wooden almirah which had a yellow spot in the centre. The yellow spot at that time seemed to bother her. It appeared to botch the look of the otherwise new almirah. But, today as she piled her clothes in the new house, she missed the ‘yellow spot’. She missed a million other things. Most significantly, she missed her old space because it had become an extension of her.

Since last couple of days, while dropping her daughter off at the society gates, she had noticed something. She had seen an old man clad in a lungi and a shirt sitting outside a small brick house which stood like a shadow lurking out of nowhere. The old man had the same steadfast expression each day and she saw him sitting at the same place each day, staring at the road listlessly. A street dog plonked nearby and he also had the same expression of nonchalance which seemed almost akin to the old man sitting next to him.

She found it queer to find him sitting in the same place each day. Every morning, she would look at the old man and the dog and walk away with laborious steps. At times, she lingered a little longer, but then pulled herself out of her reverie and moved on as she could not afford to hamper her daily schedule.

It had become a ritual of sorts for her to watch the old man and the dog. She found solace in seeing that something in her life stood upright as a fixture.

One morning as she strolled towards her house and craned her neck to find the now familiar sight, she was stunned. The old man was not on the chair where he sat everyday and the dog was also nowhere to be seen.

She was confounded for the rest of the day and could not focus on anything. She realized that it had become a pattern for her to see the man sitting in the quaint corner house. She had taken a fancy to this newfound pattern. It was but natural for her to fall for a pattern in the new place where she was struggling to find her footing.

Where was the old man today? May be he went out somewhere. It would have been good for him to break the monotony and drudgery and break free, even if for a day or two, she thought. She felt she was not so much different than the old man. Like him, she too wanted to be at the same place, looking at the same scene.

The next day, she woke up with a big smile on her face. She looked around and realized her new home was wonderful.

Life is not worth living if you tread a set pattern. It is the multitudes of vicissitudes that define life. She resolved she would fall in love with life each day and break the moulds of complacency and pattern. Patterns are delightful, only if they push you forward, not if they stagnate you. It had taken an old man and a dog to make her realize this.

 

This is my first entry for the Write Tribe‘s ProBlogger October 2017 Blogging Challenge.  

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‘The Coffee Fanatic’ #FFFAW #Flash Fiction

coffee

 

 

Rehan sat in the café, staring outside, reminiscing the good old days.

Those were the days when there were no hushed up mornings, no fleeting deadlines and days were not segmented into hours of meaningful existence.

She was like the sweet smell of jasmine which lingers filling you with intoxicated frenzy, long after you have stepped away from its vicinity.

They drifted apart and he got busy following the hackneyed course of life.

He bumped into her one day. She looked the same, yet she looked different.

He got to know that she was a widow.

He remembered how she used to call herself a ‘coffee fanatic’.

Today, as they sat next to each other, she said she does not drink coffee anymore.

Where was his ‘coffee fanatic’?

He was determined to bring her back. For her sake and for his sake, mostly. Yes, he was a selfish man.

He called out, “Two cups of latte please”, while she looked at him unbelievingly.

 

(Word Count: 163 words)

 

Linking up with the amazing Priceless Joy who hosts a weekly Flash Fiction Challenge #FFFAW. Thank you shivam25 for the photo.

 

photo-20170821154600166

 

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The Proposal #FridayFictioneers #FlashFiction

hearty-bread

Soft breeze rustled whisking away the autumnal leaves to places unknown.

He was besotted with her from the day he had met her.

It was at this bistro, on this table that he had proposed to her. He did not have a ring and there were no other shenanigans that filled the air, barring a bread.

“My heart belongs to you”, he had said.

It has been two years since the day he proposed.

The fiendish clutches of destiny snatched her away a little too quickly. But, he knew his heart is still hers and would be so forever.

 

(99 words)

 

 

Linking up with Rochelle Wisoff for Friday Fictioneers, a photo prompt flash fiction. Thanks © Kelvin M. Knight for the photo.

ff-movie-camera

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