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Short Story: The Red Maruti

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The ceiling fan creaked its familiar rhythm above the dining table as Ramesh spread the morning’s Deccan Herald across the wooden surface. The monsoon had finally retreated from Bangalore, leaving behind the kind of crisp October morning that made the city feel like a hill station. Through the open windows of their Jayanagar home, the sounds of the awakening neighbourhood drifted in: the milk vendor’s bicycle bell, the vegetable seller’s melodic calls, and somewhere in the distance, the gentle hum of a BMTC bus navigating the tree-lined streets.

“Appa, look at this,” Ramesh called to his father, Krishnamurthy, who was performing his morning surya namaskars in the small front yard. He pointed to a full-page advertisement that had caught his eye. A gleaming red car dominated the page, with bold letters proclaiming: “MARUTI 800 – A CAR FOR THE MIDDLE CLASS.”

Krishnamurthy finished his final salutation to the sun and walked over, adjusting his steel-rimmed glasses. At seventy-two, he moved with the measured dignity of a retired government clerk who had spent four decades navigating the bureaucratic corridors of Vidhana Soudha. “Twenty-eight thousand rupees,” he read aloud, his voice carrying the weight of consideration. “That’s more than your annual salary, kanna.”

“But Thatha, think about it,” piped up Kavitha, the younger of Ramesh’s two daughters. At twelve, she possessed an infectious enthusiasm that could convince anyone of anything. “No more waiting for buses in the rain. No more walking to the market when Amma’s back hurts.”

Her older sister Priya, sixteen and perpetually practical, looked up from her mathematics textbook. “And how exactly do we afford it? We can barely manage Kavitha’s school fees.”

Sunita emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her cotton saree. After seventeen years of marriage to Ramesh, she had learned to read the dreamy expression that crossed his face whenever he encountered something that represented progress, modernity, or simply the possibility of a better life for his family. This morning, that expression was unmistakable.

“You’re actually considering this, aren’t you?” she asked, settling beside him at the table.

Ramesh worked as an engineer at Bharat Electronics Limited, one of the few government jobs that paid well enough to support a joint family in middle-class comfort. Their house in 4th Block, Jayanagar, two bedrooms, a hall, a kitchen, and the luxury of a separate bathroom, represented years of careful saving and his father’s prudent investment in real estate when the area was still considered the outskirts of Bangalore.

“The waiting list is already six months long,” Ramesh said, continuing to study the advertisement. “If we don’t book now, it’ll be two years before we see one.”

Krishnamurthy settled into his chair with a thoughtful grunt. He had witnessed India’s transformation from British rule through independence, and now, at the tail end of the 1980s, he was watching his country embrace modernity with unprecedented enthusiasm. The Maruti factory in Gurgaon, the result of Indira Gandhi’s collaboration with Suzuki, represented something he had never imagined in his youth: mass-produced cars that ordinary families might actually afford.

“In my day,” he began, and Kavitha rolled her eyes affectionately, “a man was proud to own a bicycle. Your uncle Venkatesh saved for three years to buy his Hercules.”

“But times are changing, Appa,” Sunita said gently. “The children’s school is getting farther as the city grows. And my arthritis makes those bus rides increasingly difficult.”

Priya closed her textbook with a decisive snap. “If we’re going to dream, let’s dream properly. I’ve heard that the car comes in different colours. Red, white, blue…”

“Red,” Kavitha declared immediately. “It has to be red. Like the hibiscus flowers in Lalbagh.”

Over the next few weeks, the Maruti became the gravitational centre around which all family conversations orbited. Ramesh visited the showroom in Malleshwaram three times, each visit revealing new details that he would share over dinner. The car had a four-stroke engine, unlike the temperamental two-stroke scooters that dominated Bangalore’s roads. It could seat five people comfortably, well, four adults and one child. The fuel efficiency was extraordinary: twenty kilometres per litre.

Krishnamurthy accompanied his son on the fourth visit, partly out of curiosity and partly out of paternal duty to ensure that Ramesh wasn’t being swept away by sales rhetoric. The showroom itself was a revelation: gleaming white tiles, air conditioning, and salesmen in pressed shirts who spoke about “features” and “specifications” with the enthusiasm of cricket commentators.

“Sir, the Maruti 800 represents the future of Indian transportation,” the salesman explained to Krishnamurthy with respectful deference to his age. “Reliable, economical, and built with Japanese technology adapted for Indian conditions.”

Krishnamurthy ran his weathered hands over the smooth red surface of the display model. The paint was flawless, the chrome bumpers caught the showroom lights perfectly, and the interior smelled of new vinyl and possibility. Despite himself, he was impressed.

The family held a formal meeting that evening, seated in a circle on the cool terrazzo floor of their front room. This was how the Krishnamurthy household had always made important decisions, democratically, with even the youngest member having a voice.

“The mathematics are challenging but not impossible,” Ramesh began, consulting a notebook filled with calculations. “The down payment is eight thousand rupees. We have six thousand in savings, and I can borrow two thousand from the office cooperative society.”

“What about the monthly payments?” Priya asked. Her practical nature had blossomed into a genuine aptitude for numbers, much to her father’s pride.

“Four hundred and fifty rupees for four years. Plus insurance, registration, and maintenance.”

Sunita looked worried. “That’s nearly half your salary, Ramesh.”

“But think of what we’ll save,” Kavitha interjected. “No more auto-rickshaw fares. No more bus tickets. Amma, you could come to school for my annual day without worrying about the heat.”

Krishnamurthy had remained silent throughout this discussion, but now he cleared his throat. “There is another consideration,” he said slowly. “What will the neighbours think?”

This was not vanity speaking, but practical social wisdom. In the close-knit community of 4th Block Jayanagar, where everyone knew everyone else’s business, the arrival of a car would mark the family as either admirably prosperous or dangerously extravagant, depending on one’s perspective.

“Mrs. Lakshmi next door will probably faint,” Sunita said with a smile. “She still thinks our telephone is an unnecessary luxury.”

“But Mr. Rao across the street has been talking about buying a scooter,” Priya pointed out. “And the Sharmans in the corner house just bought a television.”

The decision, when it finally came, was typically understated. Krishnamurthy simply nodded and said, “If it will make life easier for my daughter-in-law and granddaughters, then we should proceed.”

The booking was made on a Tuesday morning in November. Ramesh took leave from work, dressed in his best white shirt and pressed trousers, and accompanied his father to the showroom. The formalities were surprisingly complex: forms to be filled, documents to be verified, and a waiting list number to be assigned: 2,847.

“Six to eight months for delivery,” the salesman explained. “Demand is very high, sir. The entire country wants a Maruti.”

The wait began.

Winter settled over Bangalore with its characteristic gentleness, cool mornings that warmed into pleasant afternoons, clear skies that revealed the distant Nandi Hills, and evenings perfect for long walks around the neighbourhood. The family’s anticipation grew in parallel with the passing months.

Kavitha developed the habit of walking past other Maruti cars whenever she spotted them on the street, studying their features and comparing them to her memory of the showroom model. She became an expert on the subtle differences between the various colours, the advantages of the deluxe model over the standard, and the proper pronunciation of “Suzuki.”

Priya, meanwhile, had begun learning to drive on her uncle Venkatesh’s scooter, arguing that someone in the family should be prepared to handle their new automobile. Her grandfather watched these lessons with a mixture of pride and terror, remembering when women in his family had rarely left the house unaccompanied, let alone operated motorised vehicles.

Sunita found herself calculating and recalculating the family budget, shifting small amounts between savings and expenses to ensure they could meet the monthly payments without compromising on education or healthcare. She also began scouting locations for a parking space, since their narrow house had no garage.

Ramesh threw himself into research with the dedication of an engineer. He borrowed books about automobile maintenance from the BEL library, studied traffic rules with the intensity of a law student, and began a notebook documenting every Maruti owner he met and their experiences with the car.

Spring arrived early in 1989, bringing with it the jasmine season and a telephone call that sent Kavitha racing through the house like a messenger from the gods.

“It’s ready! It’s ready! The showroom called, our car is ready!”

The delivery was scheduled for a Saturday morning, allowing the entire family to participate in this momentous occasion. They dressed as if for a wedding: Krishnamurthy in his silk dhoti and cream kurta, Sunita in her best Mysore silk saree, the girls in matching pavadai-davani sets that their grandmother had stitched specially for the occasion.

The showroom had transformed their transaction into a celebration. The red Maruti 800 sat in the centre of the display area, draped with marigold garlands and adorned with a small silver Ganesha idol on the dashboard. A photographer captured the moment as Ramesh accepted the keys from the showroom manager, his family gathered around him with expressions of joy and pride.

“Congratulations, sir,” the manager said formally. “May this car bring your family many years of happiness and safe travels.”

The drive home was a journey of barely three kilometres that felt like an odyssey. Ramesh gripped the steering wheel with both hands, maintaining a steady speed of twenty kilometres per hour while his passengers provided a constant stream of commentary.

“The engine is so quiet!” Sunita marvelled.

“Look how smoothly it turns!” Priya observed.

“Everyone is staring at us!” Kavitha announced with unabashed delight.

And indeed, their progress through Jayanagar resembled a slow-motion parade. Neighbours emerged from their houses to wave and smile. Children on bicycles rode alongside them for short distances. Even the traffic constable at the 4th Block intersection offered a salute as they passed.

Back home, a crowd had gathered. Mrs. Lakshmi from next door stood with her hands folded in namaste, genuinely happy for her neighbours despite her initial scepticism about their extravagant purchase. The Sharmans brought sweets. Mr. Rao from across the street walked around the car twice, examining it with the thoroughness of a prospective buyer.

“Beautiful colour,” he declared finally. “Very auspicious.”

Krishnamurthy performed a small puja, breaking a coconut near the front wheel and sprinkling the car with holy water from their morning prayers. It was a synthesis of ancient ritual and modern technology that perfectly captured the spirit of changing India.

The first family outing came the following day, a Sunday drive to Lalbagh Botanical Gardens. What had previously been a complex expedition involving bus connections and considerable walking was now a simple matter of driving to the parking area and walking directly to the glasshouse.

They spent the afternoon among the flower displays, but the real entertainment was watching other families admire their car in the parking lot. The red Maruti had developed a small court of admirers, children who pressed their noses against the windows, adults who walked around it appreciatively, and fellow car owners who struck up conversations with Ramesh about mileage and maintenance.

“It’s like owning a celebrity,” Sunita whispered to her husband as yet another stranger approached to ask about their driving experience.

The car transformed their daily routines in ways both large and small. Grocery shopping became a family affair, with weekend trips to Russell Market that would have been impossible with public transportation. Sunita’s visits to the temple expanded from the neighbourhood Ganesha temple to the grand Dodda Ganesha Temple in Basavanagudi. The girls’ social world expanded as drop-offs and pick-ups from friends’ houses became feasible.

Most importantly, the car seemed to expand their sense of possibility. When Kavitha’s school announced a field trip to Mysore, the family was able to offer to drive some of her classmates, turning the journey into an adventure rather than an expensive impossibility. When Priya received admission to the prestigious National College for her pre-university studies, the daily commute became manageable rather than prohibitive.

Six months after the delivery, Ramesh calculated that they had driven nearly eight thousand kilometres, trips to relatives in Mysore, weekend outings to Nandi Hills, and countless small journeys that had previously required careful planning and considerable expense.

“The car has paid for itself in saved bus fares and auto-rickshaw rides,” he announced at dinner one evening.

“No,” Krishnamurthy corrected gently. “The car has paid for itself in possibilities we never imagined.”

As 1989 drew to a close, the red Maruti had become as much a part of the family as any human member. It had its own personality, a slight reluctance to start on particularly cold mornings, a preference for being parked in the shade, and a tendency to attract admiring glances wherever it went.

On New Year’s Eve, as fireworks lit up the Bangalore sky and the family stood in their front yard reflecting on the year that had passed, Kavitha made an observation that would be repeated in family stories for years to come.

“You know,” she said, leaning against the warm red hood of their car, “I think this is the year we stopped just dreaming about the future and started driving toward it.”

The adults smiled at her earnestness, but privately, each of them acknowledged the truth in her words. The little red Maruti had done more than provide transportation—it had carried them into a new version of themselves, a family unafraid to embrace change and confident enough to believe that better days lay ahead.

In the distance, a church bell tolled midnight, welcoming not just a new year but a new decade. The 1990s stretched ahead, full of promise and possibility, and the Krishnamurthy family was ready for the journey.

Short Story: Echoes of Memory

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The first drops of monsoon rain struck the weathered stone steps of the Rajabai Clock Tower, and Meera Sharma felt her world tilt sideways.

She pressed her palm against the Gothic archway, the same way she had done… when? The memory flickered at the edge of her consciousness like candlelight in the wind. Her assignment from the Heritage Preservation Society had been simple: photograph the colonial-era buildings in the Fort district before the rains made the work impossible. But standing here, watching the storm clouds gather over Mumbai’s skyline, she felt an inexplicable dread settling in her chest.

Run, Kamala. Run before they find you.

The whisper came from nowhere and everywhere at once. Meera spun around, but the courtyard was empty except for a security guard dozing under a canvas awning. She’d never been called Kamala in her life.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Arjun, her research partner: Meeting cancelled. Strange dreams again. We need to talk.

Arjun Malhotra had joined the heritage project six months ago, bringing with him an encyclopedic knowledge of Mumbai’s independence-era history that often startled their supervisors. He was brilliant, dedicated, and lately, deeply troubled by nightmares he wouldn’t discuss. Meera had found herself drawn to his quiet intensity, the way he seemed to carry some invisible weight.

Thunder cracked overhead, and suddenly she wasn’t standing in 2024 anymore.

The year was 1924, and Kamala Devi’s sari clung to her legs as she ran through the narrow lanes of Girgaon. The monsoon had started early that year, turning the unpaved roads into rivers of mud. In her hand, she clutched a leather portfolio containing documents that could change everything, proof that someone within their freedom-fighting group was feeding information to the British authorities.

Someone she trusted. Someone she loved.

Behind her, footsteps splashed through the puddles. Getting closer.

“Kamala!” Vikram’s voice echoed off the tenement walls. “Please, let me explain!”

But there was nothing to explain. She had seen the money changing hands in the shadows of Crawford Market, watched him pass along the names of their comrades who had subsequently disappeared into the British prisons. How many freedom fighters had died because of his betrayal?

She turned into a dead-end alley, her heart hammering against her ribs. The old warehouse loomed before her, its broken windows like dead eyes. Nowhere left to run.

“Kamala.” Vikram appeared at the mouth of the alley, his white kurta soaked with rain and mud. In the lightning’s flash, she saw tears streaming down his face. “They threatened my mother. My sisters. I had no choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” she whispered, backing against the warehouse wall. “You chose their lives over our cause. Over our people’s freedom.”

“I choose you,” he said, stepping closer. Something metallic glinted in his hand. “Come with me. We can leave Mumbai tonight. Start over somewhere else.”

“With blood on our hands? With the screams of tortured patriots in our ears?” Kamala pressed the portfolio against her chest. “Never.”

The knife entered her stomach like a cold whisper. She looked down in shock at the spreading crimson stain on her cream-colored sari, then up into Vikram’s anguished eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed as she slid down the wall. “I’m so, so sorry, my love.”

Kamala’s last coherent thought was not of pain or fear, but of a fierce, burning determination: somehow, someday, there would be justice.

Meera gasped, finding herself on her knees in the courtyard, rain soaking through her jeans and cotton shirt. The security guard was shaking her shoulder, speaking rapidly in Hindi.

“I’m fine,” she managed, struggling to her feet. But she wasn’t fine. The memories, Kamala’s memories, felt more real than her own childhood. She could still taste the copper of blood in her mouth, still feel the betrayal cutting deeper than any blade.

Her phone rang. Arjun.

“Meera?” His voice was shaky. “Something’s happening to me. I keep remembering things that never happened. A woman named Kamala. I think… I think I killed her.”

The phone slipped from her numb fingers, clattering on the wet stones.

Three hours later, they sat across from each other in a small café in Colaba, two cups of chai growing cold between them. Arjun looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks, his usually immaculate appearance dishevelled. Dark circles shadowed his eyes.

“It started three months ago,” he said, staring at his hands. “Dreams at first. Then waking visions. I thought I was having a breakdown until…” He looked up at her. “Until I saw you at the heritage site and recognised your face. Not Meera’s face. Kamala’s.”

“You killed me,” Meera said simply. The words should have filled her with rage, but instead she felt only a deep, bone-weary sadness. “In 1924. In an alley behind a warehouse in Girgaon.”

Arjun flinched as if she’d slapped him. “The British were going to kill my family. My mother, my two younger sisters. The officer, Captain Morrison, showed me photographs of their bodies, other informants’ families who had refused to cooperate. He said it would look like a robbery gone wrong.”

“So you gave them our people instead.”

“Yes.” The word came out as a whisper. “And when you found out…”

“I tried to expose you. To save others from the same fate.”

They sat in silence as the rain hammered against the café’s windows. Around them, Mumbai’s life continued its relentless pace: street vendors calling their wares, traffic honking, people rushing through the downpour with newspapers held over their heads.

“Why now?” Meera asked finally. “Why are we remembering now?”

Arjun reached into his laptop bag and pulled out a manila folder. “I’ve been researching it. Cross-referencing historical records with our… experiences. I think it’s because of the construction project.”

He spread photocopied documents across the table. Municipal records, architectural surveys, and newspaper clippings from the 1920s. Meera’s breath caught as she recognised a grainy photograph of the warehouse where Kamala had died.

“They’re tearing it down next month,” Arjun continued. Building a shopping complex. But first, they had to do a structural survey of the foundation. They found something.”

He handed her a recent newspaper clipping. The headline read: “MYSTERIOUS REMAINS DISCOVERED IN GIRGAON CONSTRUCTION SITE.”

“The construction crew found bones,” Arjun said. Wrapped in fabric. The forensics team is calling it a cold case from the independence era.”

Meera’s hands trembled as she held the article. “They found her. They found me.”

“The remains are in the police evidence locker. They’re trying to identify them, but the records from that period…” He shrugged helplessly. “Most were destroyed or lost.”

“But we know,” Meera said. “We know who she was. Who killed her? Where it happened.”

“What are you suggesting?”

She looked directly into his eyes, the same dark eyes that had filled with tears as Kamala died. “I’m suggesting we give her the justice she never got. We solve her murder.”

“Meera, I can’t…”

“Vikram’s name isn’t on any of the historical records as a freedom fighter. In this life, you’re a historian with an impeccable reputation. The police would listen to you.”

Arjun was quiet for a long moment, processing. “You want me to confess to a murder I committed in a previous life.”

“I want you to help me prove what happened to Kamala Devi. The British records still exist. Captain Morrison’s files were transferred to the national archives after independence. If we can prove she was murdered for her political activities, she could finally be recognised as a martyr.”

“And what about… this life? Us?”

The question hung in the air between them. In her recovered memories, Meera could feel the love Kamala had felt for Vikram before the betrayal, a love so deep it made the betrayal cut even deeper. Looking at him now, she could sense the echo of that connection, complicated by knowledge and pain.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I know that Kamala loved Vikram until the very end, even as he killed her. I know that you’ve spent ninety years carrying guilt that followed you into this lifetime. Maybe that’s punishment enough.”

Over the next week, they worked together like the scholars they were, piecing together the historical puzzle of Kamala’s death. Arjun used his connections to access the British colonial archives, while Meera interviewed elderly residents of Girgaon whose grandparents might have remembered the freedom fighting activities in their neighbourhood.

The picture that emerged was exactly as their memories suggested. Kamala Devi had been a courier for the independence movement, carrying messages between different revolutionary cells. Several freedom fighters had been arrested in July 1924, all betrayed by someone with inside knowledge. Kamala had disappeared shortly after, presumed to have fled the city.

Captain Morrison’s files, when they finally gained access to them, contained payment records to an informant identified only as “Subject V.” The amounts and dates matched perfectly with Arjun’s memories.

But it was Meera who found the most crucial piece of evidence.

“Look at this,” she said, spreading a hand-drawn map across Arjun’s kitchen table. She’d found it tucked into a notebook that had belonged to her grandmother, a notebook she’d never bothered to read carefully until now. “My grandmother was Kamala’s cousin. She kept some of Kamala’s belongings after she disappeared.”

The map showed the streets of Girgaon, with several locations marked in Kamala’s careful handwriting. Safe houses, meeting points, dead drops for messages. And in the corner, written in a different ink, was a note: “A betrayed me. Evidence hidden in Warehouse 7. Tell no one until the British are gone.”

“She documented everything,” Arjun breathed. “Even after she discovered my betrayal, she was still trying to protect the cause.”

They took their evidence to Inspector Rashid Khan, a senior officer known for his interest in historical cold cases. Khan listened with growing fascination as they laid out their research, carefully omitting any mention of recovered memories or reincarnation.

“Remarkable work,” Khan said, examining the documents. “If even half of this is accurate, Kamala Devi deserves recognition as a freedom fighter. But you understand, solving a hundred-year-old murder case…”

“The remains,” Meera said. “If we could search the area where they were found, there might be more evidence. Kamala’s note mentions hiding something in the warehouse.”

Khan was sceptical, but their research was thorough enough to warrant a controlled excavation of the site. Three days later, they stood in the rubble of the old warehouse as forensic archaeologists carefully sifted through a century of accumulated debris.

“Here,” called Dr. Priya Nair, the lead archaeologist. “Metal box, wrapped in oilcloth.”

Inside the box was a collection of documents that made Meera’s heart race. Letters in Kamala’s handwriting, describing the informant’s activities. Photographs of money changing hands. And most damning of all, a partial confession in Vikram’s handwriting from 1924, apparently started but never completed.

“My name is Vikram Malhotra,” the confession began, “and I have betrayed everything I believed in…”

Standing in the ruins where Kamala had died, Arjun read his own words from a century ago with tears streaming down his face.

“It was never supposed to happen,” he said. “I kept trying to find another way, to protect both my family and the movement. But Morrison kept pushing, demanding more names, more information. When Kamala found out…”

“You panicked,” Meera finished.

“I couldn’t let her expose me. My sisters were so young, my mother had already lost my father to British bullets. But afterwards…” He gestured to the incomplete confession. “I couldn’t live with what I’d done. I tried to write it all down, to turn myself in, but I was too much of a coward.”

“What happened to your family?”

“Morrison killed them anyway, three months later. Said I’d outlived my usefulness. I fled Bombay that night and spent the rest of that lifetime running from what I’d done.”

The confession, combined with the other evidence, was enough to officially classify Kamala Devi as a martyred freedom fighter. Her name would be added to the memorial wall at the Gateway of India, alongside other recognised patriots. The story made national news: “Lost Freedom Fighter Finally Gets Recognition After Century-Long Mystery Solved.”

But for Meera and Arjun, the real resolution came later, in the quiet of his apartment as they sat looking through Kamala’s recovered letters.

“She wrote about you, you know,” Meera said, holding up a letter dated just weeks before the betrayal. “About how much she loved you, how proud she was to fight alongside you for India’s freedom.”

“Don’t,” Arjun whispered.

“Vikram has such a pure heart,” Meera read aloud. “Sometimes I think he cares too much, loves too deeply. But that’s what will make us strong when independence comes. Love for our families, our land, our future.”

“She was wrong about me.”

“Was she?” Meera set down the letter and looked at him. “You made a terrible choice out of love for your family. It was wrong, but it wasn’t evil. And you’ve spent two lifetimes trying to atone for it.”

“How can you forgive me? How can you even look at me?”

Meera was quiet for a long moment, feeling the weight of Kamala’s memories alongside her own feelings. “Because,” she said finally, “I think that’s why we both came back. Not for revenge, but for understanding. For the chance to heal something that was broken.”

“And us? In this lifetime?”

She reached across the space between them and took his hand. “I don’t know what we are to each other now. We’re not Kamala and Vikram from 1924, we’re Meera and Arjun from 2025. We have different choices to make.”

“I want to try,” he said. “If you’ll let me. I want to see who we can become when we’re not carrying the weight of old wounds.”

Six months later, Meera stood once again in the Fort district, but this time in front of the newly unveiled memorial plaque for Kamala Devi. Arjun stood beside her, and she could feel the peace that had settled over both of them like a blessing.

“Do you still dream about her?” she asked.

“Sometimes. But they’re not nightmares anymore. She’s at peace.”

“Good.” Meera squeezed his hand. “She deserves that.”

As they walked away from the memorial, leaving flowers and a quiet prayer behind, neither of them looked back. The past had been honoured, justice had been served, and the future, their future, stretched ahead like an unwritten page.

Sometimes, Meera thought, the greatest stories weren’t about the wounds we carry, but about our courage to heal them. And sometimes, love was patient enough to wait not just years, but lifetimes, for the chance to begin again.

Behind them, rain began to fall on the memorial plaque, washing the stone clean and carrying their whispered prayers out into the vast, forgiving sea.

Short Story: Breaking Barriers

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In the bustling city of Lahore, Pakistan, Amina Khan grew up in a modest household, deeply influenced by her mother, a dedicated schoolteacher. From an early age, Amina learned the value of education and the importance of fighting for one’s rights. Her mother’s stories of struggle and perseverance instilled in her a desire to make a difference.

Despite societal pressures to conform to traditional roles, Amina pursued her studies with determination. She earned a degree in sociology from the University of Punjab, where her passion for women’s rights blossomed. It was during her university years that she first participated in the Aurat March, an annual event advocating for gender equality. This experience opened her eyes to the systemic issues faced by women across Pakistan; issues that were often silenced or ignored.

One fateful day, while volunteering at a local women’s shelter, Amina met Fatima, a victim of domestic violence. Fatima’s harrowing story of abuse and resilience struck a chord with Amina. Inspired by Fatima’s bravery in seeking help, Amina decided to take action. She organised workshops at the shelter focusing on legal rights, self-defence, and mental health support for women like Fatima. As word spread about these workshops, more women began to attend—not just to learn but also to share their stories. The shelter transformed into a safe haven where women could reclaim their narratives and find strength in the community.

Amina’s initiative quickly gained traction. She began speaking at community events, sharing her vision for women’s empowerment. Her passion resonated with many, and soon she found herself leading a grassroots movement in Lahore. However, not everyone welcomed her efforts. Traditionalists viewed her activism as a threat to societal norms.

During a heated community meeting, an elder accused her of “spreading Western values.” Undeterred, Amina responded with grace: “Empowerment does not mean abandoning our culture; it means enriching it by ensuring every woman has the right to choose her path.” This moment marked a turning point for Amina. Her words sparked discussions among community members about adapting cultural practices to promote equality rather than suppress it.

Despite her growing influence, Amina faced significant personal challenges. Balancing activism with familial expectations weighed heavily on her shoulders. Her father often questioned her choices, fearing that her public persona would bring shame to their family.

In one poignant conversation, he expressed his concerns: “Amina, this path is fraught with danger. You risk everything for these women, who may never appreciate your efforts.” Amina listened but remained resolute. She understood that change required sacrifice and that true empowerment often came at a personal cost.

Recognising the need for broader support networks, Amina initiated partnerships with universities and businesses to create mentorship programs for young women entering the workforce. She believed that economic independence was crucial for women’s empowerment.

Through these programs, young women learned essential skills such as coding, entrepreneurship, and financial literacy. The initiative attracted attention from local media, further amplifying Amina’s message. During one mentorship session at a local tech hub, Amina met Sara, a talented coder who had faced discrimination in her job search due to her gender. Inspired by Sara’s resilience and talent, Amina encouraged her to apply for tech competitions aimed at women.

Sara’s success in securing a scholarship for an international coding boot camp became a symbol of hope within their community—a testament that with support and guidance, women could excel in fields traditionally dominated by men.

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As Amina’s movement gained momentum, backlash intensified. Threatening messages began appearing on social media aimed at silencing her voice. During one particularly tense week leading up to International Women’s Day, she received anonymous threats warning her to stop her activism or face dire consequences.

Instead of retreating in fear, Amina organised a rally to coincide with International Women’s Day—a celebration of achievements and a call to action against ongoing struggles faced by women in Pakistan. On the day of the rally, thousands gathered despite threats from extremist groups attempting to intimidate participants. The atmosphere was electric as speakers shared their stories of resilience and hope.

“We will not be silenced,” Amina declared from the stage. “Our voices are our strength!”

The rally garnered national attention and sparked discussions about women’s rights across various platforms.

In recognition of her work, Amina received an award from an international human rights organisation for her contributions to women’s empowerment in Pakistan. This acknowledgement brought new opportunities; she was invited to speak at conferences around the world about grassroots movements and the importance of local solutions in addressing global issues. However, she remained grounded in her mission: empowering women within her community first and foremost.

Years later, as Amina looked back on her journey during an anniversary celebration of the Aurat March in Lahore, she reflected on how far they had come together as a community. More people were discussing women’s rights openly and local governments began implementing policies aimed at protecting women’s rights. Many women who attended her workshops started their initiatives or entered leadership roles within their communities. Amina recognised that while challenges such as systemic misogyny and economic disparities remained, her work had planted seeds of change that would continue to grow long after she was gone.

Amina Khan’s story is one of resilience against adversity, a testament to what can be achieved when individuals dare to challenge societal norms in pursuit of justice and equality. In Pakistan today, as more women like Amina rise up against oppression and advocate for their rights, they embody the spirit of empowerment that is crucial for building a more equitable society. Through education, advocacy, and unwavering determination, these women are reshaping their destinies and inspiring future generations to continue the fight for gender equality in a fight that transcends borders and resonates globally on International Women’s Day and beyond.

Short Story: The Emerald Legacy

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The sun hung low in the sky over Mumbai, casting a golden hue over the bustling city. Inside the Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sangrahalaya, excitement buzzed through the air. The museum was hosting an exclusive exhibition featuring the legendary emerald necklace known as the “Vishakha Necklace,” said to be one of the finest pieces of jewellery in India.

Detective Arjun Mehta stood outside the museum, eyes scanning the crowd. He had been called in to investigate what was supposed to be a routine security detail for the exhibition. But as he entered the grand hall, he felt an unsettling tension in the air.

The necklace was displayed under glass, surrounded by security personnel and museum staff. As Arjun approached, he overheard whispers among the guests, their excitement palpable. “Did you hear about the necklace? They say it’s cursed,” one woman said to her friend. “Cursed? What do you mean?” her friend replied, intrigued. “The legend goes that every emerald represents a life lost in a tragic love triangle centuries ago,” the woman explained. “It’s said that anyone who possesses it will face misfortune.”

Arjun raised an eyebrow at this. Superstitions were common in India, but he had always believed that crime had more tangible roots than curses. As he continued to observe, a sudden commotion erupted near the display case. A guard shouted, “Stop! Thief!”

Arjun’s instincts kicked in as he rushed towards the scene. He pushed through the crowd just in time to see a figure dart away from the display, clutching a bag that bulged with stolen goods. “After him!” Arjun shouted, sprinting after the thief.

The chase led them through the museum’s labyrinthine corridors and out into the streets of Mumbai. Arjun was determined; he had trained for moments like this. But just as he was gaining ground on the thief, a sharp turn into an alleyway caused him to lose sight of his target. Breathless and frustrated, Arjun stopped to catch his breath and assess the situation. He pulled out his phone and called for backup while scanning the area for any sign of the thief.

Back at the museum, chaos reigned as security personnel secured the area. Arjun met with Inspector Rao, who had arrived on the scene. “What do we know?” Arjun asked, his mind racing. “The necklace is gone,” Rao replied grimly. “The thief managed to evade capture. We’re reviewing security footage now.”

Arjun nodded and turned his attention to the display case. The glass was shattered, and shards lay scattered on the floor. He crouched down to examine it closely when he noticed something glimmering amidst the debris—a small emerald pendant that had fallen from the necklace. “Interesting,” he murmured, picking it up carefully. “This could be a clue.” As they reviewed security footage, they saw a hooded figure slip into view just before the theft occurred. The thief moved with agility and purpose, but their face remained obscured.

“Any leads on who this might be?” Arjun asked. “Not yet,” Rao replied. “But we’ll track down any known criminals in this area.” Arjun felt a growing sense of urgency. The Vishakha Necklace wasn’t just valuable; it held historical significance tied to an ancient tale of love and betrayal that had captivated him since childhood. That evening, as Arjun sat at his desk poring over old records about the necklace’s history, he found himself drawn into its tragic past.

The Vishakha Necklace was said to have been crafted centuries ago for a beautiful princess named Vishakha, who lived in a grand palace overlooking a lush valley. She was known for her beauty and kindness but found herself caught in a tumultuous love triangle between two brothers—Rajendra and Vikram—both noble warriors vying for her affection.

Their rivalry escalated into jealousy and betrayal, leading to tragic consequences that would haunt their families for generations. It was said that each emerald represented one of their lost lives—each stone holding within it a fragment of their sorrow. Arjun leaned back in his chair, contemplating how this dark history intertwined with present events. He needed to dig deeper into both the theft and its connection to this ancient tale.

The next day, Arjun visited local historians and jewellers who specialised in antique jewellery. He learned more about Vishakha’s story—how her love had led to heartbreak and how her spirit was said to linger around her beloved necklace. One historian shared an intriguing detail: “The necklace is rumoured to have been hidden away during times of strife but always returns when true love is threatened.”

Arjun couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was more to this story than met the eye. He decided to visit Vishakha’s palace ruins located outside Mumbai, hoping to uncover any additional clues about its legacy. Upon arriving at the site, he marvelled at what remained of the once-magnificent structure. As he wandered through crumbling walls adorned with intricate carvings depicting scenes from Vishakha’s life, he felt an inexplicable connection to her story.

As dusk fell over the ruins, Arjun noticed something glimmering among some stones—a small locket engraved with initials matching Rajendra and Vikram’s initials. His heart raced as he realised this could be another key piece of evidence linking to history and present events. With newfound determination, Arjun returned home and began piecing together everything he had learned about Vishakha’s story and its connection to modern-day events surrounding her necklace.

He reached out to local police departments across India to track any known criminals who might have connections to stolen artefacts or historical jewellery thefts. Days turned into weeks as he followed leads across Mumbai and neighbouring states but found nothing solid. Just when he thought he might hit a dead end, Arjun received an anonymous tip about an underground auction happening in Goa where stolen artefacts were rumoured to be sold. Excitement coursed through him; this could be his chance not only to recover the necklace but also to uncover more about its dark legacy.

Arriving in Goa under cover of nightfall, Arjun found himself at an old warehouse by the beach, where whispers of illicit dealings filled every corner. He blended into the crowd as bidders gathered around tables laden with stolen treasures from across India—artefacts that should have been preserved in museums instead of sold for profit. As he scanned through items on display, his eyes landed on something familiar—a velvet cloth covering what appeared to be an ornate box adorned with emeralds.

Heart pounding with anticipation, Arjun approached cautiously while keeping an eye on potential threats around him—the last thing he needed was to be discovered while pursuing justice for Vishakha’s legacy. “Ladies and gentlemen,” announced an auctioneer with flair as he unveiled several items before them—including what seemed like pieces from ancient royal families—before revealing what everyone had been waiting for: “And now we present…the legendary Vishakha Necklace!” Gasps filled the room as people leaned forward eagerly; this was it—the moment Arjun had been waiting for!

As bids began flying around him like confetti at a wedding celebration—Arjun knew time was running out before someone would walk away with not just history but also tragedy wrapped around those emeralds forevermore! He stepped forward boldly amidst shouts of excitement until finally raising his hand high above everyone else’s heads: “I’ll take it!” Silence fell over everyone present; eyes widened in disbelief at seeing someone challenge their intent on acquiring such valuable heritage without hesitation!

“What do you think you’re doing?” demanded one man from across whom Arjun recognized immediately—an infamous dealer known for trafficking stolen artefacts throughout India! “I’m here for justice,” Arjun replied firmly, meeting his gaze head-on while feeling adrenaline surge through him like fire igniting passion within!

Before anyone could react further—the lights suddenly flickered, ominously plunging them all into darkness! Panic erupted among bidders scrambling towards exits while others sought refuge wherever possible! Seizing this opportunity—Arjun dashed towards where he’d seen earlier glimpses of light shining through cracks, revealing hidden passageways leading deeper inside warehouse walls.

After navigating through narrow corridors illuminated only by faint glimmers reflecting off dusty surfaces, Arjun finally stumbled upon another room filled with artefacts piled haphazardly against walls; among them lay several boxes containing remnants from centuries past! In one corner stood what appeared like remnants belonging specifically connected back towards Vishakha herself—a small altar adorned with beautifully crafted sculptures depicting moments captured between love triangles long forgotten yet still haunting those connected forevermore…

Suddenly footsteps echoed behind him, causing an adrenaline rush once again, forcing him into action! Turning swiftly—he confronted none other than Rajesh—the dealer whose greed knew no bounds! “You think you can just take what isn’t yours?” Rajesh sneered menacingly while brandishing a weapon threateningly towards Arjun’s direction! “I’m here not only reclaiming history but also restoring hope,” Arjun declared defiantly, standing tall despite fear coursing through his veins, knowing well the consequences if failed today!

With quick thinking—he lunged forward, knocking the weapon aside and sending Rajesh sprawling backwards, crashing against shelves spilling artefacts everywhere, creating chaos around them both! Amidst the confusion, Arjun seized the opportunity to grab hold tightly of the necklace clasped firmly within grasp before fleeing towards the exit, where sirens blared outside, signalling police arrival nearby!

Back at police headquarters after recovering stolen items, including the Vishakha Necklace itself—Arjun felt the immense weight lift off his shoulders, knowing justice prevailed today, restoring honour—not just the family name but the entire legacy entwined within emeralds representing lives lost long ago.

As news spread throughout the community regarding recovery efforts made by local authorities alongside brave detectives working tirelessly behind the scenes, people began gathering outside, celebrating triumph over darkness bringing light back into lives affected deeply by the loss suffered throughout generations past…

Among those celebrating stood an elderly woman dressed elegantly, wearing traditional attire adorned beautifully, resembling designs reminiscent of ancient times; she approached slowly, reaching out towards Arjun and grasping hands tightly, expressing gratitude beyond words could convey…

“You’ve done what many thought impossible, young man,” she whispered softly, tears glistening in her eyes reflecting hope restored once again, reminding everyone present of the importance of preserving heritage passed down generations, ensuring future generations would never forget stories woven intricately together through time itself.

Weeks later, after successful recovery efforts concluded, the Vishakha Necklace returned to its rightful place within the museum, showcasing not only beauty craftsmanship but also tales woven throughout centuries, capturing hearts and minds alike and reminding all visitors of the importance of cherishing love and enduring even amidst trials faced along the way.

Arjun stood proudly beside an elderly woman who’d come forth earlier, expressing gratitude and witnessing firsthand the impact made through perseverance and resilience displayed throughout the journey taken together, restoring faith lost long ago.

“I’m honoured you chose me to help restore legacy,” Arjun said, sincerely looking deep into her eyes, feeling warmth radiate between them both, knowing the connection forged transcended beyond mere physicality, embracing unity shared amongst souls intertwined forevermore.

As they gazed upon stunning emeralds glistening brightly under lights, illuminating a room filled with laughter and joy, celebrating triumph over adversity—it became clear the journey didn’t end here, but rather a new chapter unfolding, inviting everyone to partake in discovering beauty lies within stories shared, connecting generations past, present, and future alike, reminding all hope remains alive, even in the darkest moments faced along the way.

And so they stood together united by purpose, celebrating life, love, and resilience, knowing together they’d overcome challenges faced, paving a path forward, ensuring light would always shine bright, illuminating hearts and souls alike guiding them homeward bound forevermore…

Job Search Woes: An Interview Episode

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While I am actively looking for a new position, I thought I’d do a series on job search woes. This will document the random and sometimes funny and weird people I meet while looking for a new position. Here’s the latest one….

Earlier this week I went for an interview, which should rate as one of the weirdest ones I’ve ever gone for!

Early in the week, I chanced upon a position in one of the job boards I frequent which really appealed to me. This was very similar to a previous position I was doing and I could do the job easily. Plus the position would also stretch me professionally (or so it seemed) and so very excitedly I applied for the position. This was around 10 am in the morning. Sometime around 1:30 pm in the afternoon, I get a call from someone asking me if I was interested in coming down for an interview. I don’t think they mentioned the name of the company (or perhaps I didn’t hear it?), but I agreed and we discussed dates and times and agreed to meet the next morning. Soon an email arrived from the person I spoke to earlier confirming the interview, but again no company name, just the time and address.

I reversed searched the number from where the phone call came and got the name of the company. When I logged into the job board, I was very excited to see it was for the job I had applied that morning. I did notice that the same company had multiple positions open at that point, but didn’t really check them out. I was very excited thinking that they had seen my resume and since I checked all the items they needed for the position, decided to call me for an interview so soon. Boy, was I to be proven wrong! I spent the rest of the day preparing for the interview.

During my research of the company, I came across some points which made me a bit nervous. Like this place, I had worked briefly at another place which had a similar structure and was essentially a one-man show. The owner/founder called all the shots and if they were unhappy with someone, out they went, justified or not. I hated working there from my second week and could not wait to get out. I am sure I do not want to be in a similar environment.

The next day I reached on time for the interview. When I arrive at the venue, while searching for the stairs to get up to the office, I saw two women seated at some chairs downstairs in the open. From the body language, it seemed that one lady was interviewing the other. My feeling was that this was my interviewer and the person they were interviewing was the person before me. I did wonder why they could not do the interview in the office but walked to the office to find out.

At the office, which was a small open-plan office, I was met with 4 youngsters (early to mid-twenties, all of whom from the accents and the way they spoke English seemed to come from the same Asian country). I was asked to fill up an employment form, which had no space to write anything (even the space for telephone numbers was woefully inadequate). So I wait there for the lady to come up to interview me. She comes up after a bit and then starts my interview. She asked me to go downstairs with her which I did. Now comes the fun part.

While walking down to the chairs arrangement, she starts by asking me if I have sales before. I found the question a bit funny because the position I had applied for was not a sales position. I thought she was pulling it from my resume and started talking about all the times I did sales and what I did in the different roles.

She keeps talking more about sales, asking me about big achievements and targets when she realises that I’ve applied for another position. She turns to me saying, “Oh, I see you’ve come for this position and not the other one”. I say yes and start talking about why I am a good fit for that position. So then she starts reading my resume and can’t find the information I am talking about. That’s when I ask her if she has a copy of my resume and she says, “Yes, I have this”, showing me a print-out. The print out was a screen shot from someone’s phone with just the top quarter of the first page of my resume (I have a three -page resume). The paper she had just had the accomplishments and core competencies, with nothing of what I had done previously. So I laughed and told her this is just a fraction of my resume and asked her if I could send her a copy. I didn’t have a soft copy with me but emailed her a forward from another application. All this while talking to her about myself.

Later, on reading my resume, she asked if I was interested in this other sales position. When she explained the position, I did say it was interesting, but I am clearly not very interested in it. She also spoke about working late on a regular basis, but I was quite pissed off by then, so I told her that while working late was not an issue with me, I am a big proponent of work-life balance. I also brought up my India trip in November (even though I wan’t going to at this stage), but I wanted to put all my cards on the table so if they do want to proceed further, they have all the information. As with all companies, salary also seems to be an issue here, with her asking if I will reduce my asking salary.

We quickly wrapped up the interview in less than 30 minutes (including the time I took to send her my resume) and she said she will speak to the CEO and see if she can try to arrange for a second interview with the CEO based on my resume for the position I applied for.

What was so strange to me was that it looked like they’ve just called all candidates who applied for an interview, without even going through their resumes. Second, they can’t even print out a legit, full copy of the resume which the job board would have sent to them. Third, they don’t even know the position the candidate has applied for!

I’ve pretty much written off this company and am not expecting anyone to call back. But the position (as it sounds on paper) was fascinating and if it is as it looks like, it’ll be something I’d love to do. So let’s see what happens. So far, they’ve not gotten back to me, though I suspect they won’t.

Ah well, c’est la vie….