Sunday, December 28, 2008 | | 0 comments

Short Story - The Wishes Unfulfilled

Short Story

December 25, 2008 | 10.20 AM | Version 1.0

Short Story - The Wishes Unfulfilled

Poor Moni, as was her nickname in the many households where she worked could not sleep peacefully today. Her children had gone to sleep crying for new clothes. This thought seemed to rend her heart the whole night and kept her awake. How poor and miserable she was, that she could not provide her children with new clothes for Id? Even she did not have anything nice for them to eat. She had some flour but no sugar and her husband returned at midnight with his hands being empty. She did not like to quarrel with him and kept quiet, but she knew that he had gambled the money he had earned.

The whole night she kept on thinking and thinking – why were they like this? Why could not her children have clothes and sweets like the rich ones? What was her fault? Perhaps, she had erred somewhere and God was punishing her but what was the fault of the innocent children? Did not God see the rags they wore? Did not God see their thin dusty bodies? Did not he say that all are his children? Then why was this that some of his children remained hungry while others had so much to eat that they even feed their dogs with costly food which they can’t even dream of purchasing?

And the fog that bordered the houses in this cold month of November slowly lifted her veil. The cars, all polished and clean began to speed past her house with well-adorned and plump children and with happy faces and jovial hearts. They were all going with their parents towards the prayer grounds. Her children also had risen from their sleep; they had forgotten about the clothes.

A few minutes later her son said to his small sister, “Hey, isn’t it Id today! Come, let’s play.”

And they were playing with a puddle of mud outside their small hut under the wide eyes of “God – The Great.”

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December 8, 2008 | 5.35 AM IST | Version 0.1

Short Story - The Wishes Unfulfilled

Poor Moni, as was her nickname in the many households where she worked could not sleep peacefully today. Her children had gone to sleep crying for new clothes. This thought seemed to rend her heart the whole night and kept her awake. How poor and miserable she was, that she could not provide her children with new clothes for Id? Even she did not have anything nice for them to eat. She had some flour but no sugar and her husband had come home at midnight with his hands being empty. She did not like to quarrel with him and kept quiet, but she knew that he had gambled the money he had earned.

The whole night she kept on thinking and thinking – why were they like this? Why could not her children have clothes and nice sweets like the rich ones? What was her fault? Perhaps, she had erred somewhere and God was punishing her but what was the fault of the innocent children? Did not God see the rags they wore? Did not God see their thin dusty bodies? Did not he say that all are his children? Then why was this that some of his children remained hungry while others had so much to eat that they even feed their dogs with costly food, which they can’t even dream of purchasing?

And the fog that bordered the houses in this cold month of November slowly lifted her veil. The cars, all polished and clean began to speed past her house with well-adorned and plump children and with happy faces and jovial hearts. They were all going with their parents towards the prayer grounds. Her children also had risen from their sleep; they had forgotten about the clothes.

A few minutes later her son said to his small sister, “Hey, isn’t it Id today, come let’s play.”

And they were playing in a puddle of mud outside their small hut under the wide eyes of “God – The Great.”

Saturday, December 6, 2008 | | 0 comments

Short Story - The People Who Killed Him

short storyHe was writhing in pain. They were howling in happiness. He was taking his last breaths with great discomfort and with sorrow and with tears. They were enjoying his pain as was by nature built into them – enjoying the pain of others.

A large crowd was now around him and more were joining to gain a view of the pain.

His fault? The creeping creature’s fault was that while moving he got in front of their views. His fault was the wrath of the fault of nature – the blood seeking psyches of humans.

And there were frantic shouts. And they took into their hands whatever they could find – sticks and rods. And they thrashed him with delight.

And someone whispered that he was taking much time to die. He suggested that they burn this ugly one. And they splashed petrol on that poor soul and burnt him to death. They gave him an expeditious death.

Short story written by Parvez Ahmed on December 5, 2008.

Saturday, November 29, 2008 | | 0 comments

Short Story - The Illusion of Love

Short StoryA small girl told her mother that she wanted to eat sweets. The mother purchased some sweets for her. And the child said, “My mother loves me.”

A school-going boy asked his father for pocket money. The father gave him what he wished. And the boy said, “My father loves me.”

A wife was cajoling her husband to buy her some new clothes. The husband bought for her beautiful clothes. And the wife said, “My husband loves me so much.”

A beggar sitting on a road-corner was crying for alms from the people passing by. Some gave him a coin or two. And he said, “The people are so nice. They love me.”

A boy and a girl loved each other very much. Whenever the boy saw the girl, his penis would become as hard as a rock. Also, the girl, whenever she saw the boy she became aroused. And the boy and the girl said, “They loved each other.”

Short story written by Parvez Ahmed on November 22, 2008. 'Sleeping Venus' is a painting by Giorgione (1477/78-1510).

Friday, November 28, 2008 | | 1 comments

Short Story - She Pained Her Ankle

short storyThe Place was Mumbai. A place of vain lovers and vexing lies. In there lived a lady – a famous lady of the screen.

One day while she was taking a walk in the morning, she tumbled upon a stone on the road. She lost her balance and fell down. She was hurt, especially, for she was a soft fairy and, unlike those woman of the slums that lived a few miles away from her she was not used to falling and thrashing and the pains of life, for she was meant to delight the penises of the commons and the rich ones and the famous ones and, how could a soft fairy who delighted so many men’s penises be hard and differential to itches and bruises like that of the ragged and ugly and poor and dirty slum woman.

And it came to pass that a small-time politician saw the fall of the screen goddess. He without wasting a moment ran to the leader of his party and narrated the fall of the siren to him.

And the leader of his party immediately called the press. He told them that the present government was worthless and was unaware of the common man’s plight on the road. He also told them that if his party wins the coming elections he would make sure that roads are free of stones and ladies walk safely without any concern.

He finished his statement to the reporters by saying, ‘The Prime Minister is a man totally unaware of the stones on the road. Brothers and sisters of this, our great nation – I know you will this time want a man more capable - and I know you will vote for my party.’

The newspapers carried the incident and the opposition party’s narrative on their front pages and in bold headings.

The ruling party got wind of this and quickly issued a statement. This is what their spokesman said to the reporters, ‘This is a matter grave and serious. A lady – the most beautiful lady on earth is hurt. We have numerous proofs as to who committed the crime. We have strong evidence as to who placed the stone on the road. Brothers and sisters of this our so high nation – you know – you know it very clearly – the opposition is mad – they have become restless for power…’

As the news channels aired this news, the opposition party became furious. They held a meeting and declared that they would hold a protest rally.

The next day, a massive herd of humans processed towards the parliament of India led by the chairman of the opposition party.

And he was live on television, directly from the front of the citadel of power – the Indian parliament. The chairman of the opposition opened his mouth – ‘Shame!’ After that, he became silent for a few moments while nodding his head as if in despair. Again, he opened his mouth, ‘Shame on the Prime Minister, the cabinet ministers – ladies are being hurt by stones on the road and you sit quietly. Shame on you! Such a feeble government I have not seen in my whole life… We – our party demands a CBI inquiry into the matter and a special committee to be set up, so that no stones ail any ladies on the road.’

When the parliament sat that day, the whole opposition shouted vociferously demanding an explanation from the Prime Minister about the matter.

The Prime Minister of India being a very old man somehow managed to stand on his two feet. Two officers supported him from both his left and right side so that he did not fall down.

And he cleared his voice – waved his hands over his head as a gesture for the wild Indian herd inside the parliament to become silent. He then moved his lips with much effort and pain from his side for he was and old and ailing man.

A small extract from the Prime Minister’s speech –

‘Children small and strong – children able to hear my voice – children of this great nation – hear me – hear my voice. I, the Prime Minister of your country – I stand firmly in front of you – and I say that – no more stones on the road. I have setup a committee and the CBI shall give me the accurate numbers of stones on the road. Children – hear me – I – your Prime Minister – stand firmly in front of you – there shall be no more stones on the road.’

Short story written by Parvez Ahmed on November 27, 2008. The photo of the buffaloes is not to be confused with our great politicians.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008 | | 1 comments

Short Story - The Bodyguards of Big the Bull

Short StoryGuards! And Big the Bull was a powerful bull. He was not like the numerous common bulls that roam the earth. He was a special bull – a bull made to rule – a bull to rule without a brain.

Big the Bull’s office was a majestic one. It was called the Armed Forces Headquarters. He adored his chair, for he knew that this was the tool that gave him the stick with which he ruled over the other bulls and frightened them and bowed them and sometimes killed them if they did not walk on the line his masters suggested.

And Big the Bull traveled not in one car but in a dozen armored cars. One day, some common bulls asked him the reason of his traveling with so many cars and bodyguards. He replied that he was doing this to protect them and their families and helping to stabilize carbon dioxide levels.

And what? Big the Bull was on a television channel – Cat News! Why? A letter came to his office threatening him for the protecting business he did.

And Big the Bull was ‘bodyguarded’. A thousand stout and dumb bulls were hurried to his office for protecting him. The bodyguard bulls were ordered to remain always with Big the Bull by another officer bull – the security officer in charge of Big the Bull.

And they followed Big the Bull wherever he went. They did not leave him alone even inside his bathroom when he peed. One was always behind his back, another in front, one stood on his left side, another on his right side, one on top of him, another below him (somehow crouching in the small space between Big the Bull’s polished boots), one on top of his right ear, another on top of his left ear, one stood above his back, another below his stomach, one somehow managed himself below his right nostril, another below his left nostril and the rest followed behind his back.

Cat News flashed this footage of Big the Bull with his bodyguards and praised him for his dexterity in eliminating crime from this world. And the common bulls praised him for his steadfast stand against crime.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008 | | 1 comments

Short Story - Grandpa Rabbit’s Treasured Carrot

Short StoryOld grandpa rabbit had a carrot. It was much larger than the average carrot. And grandpa rabbit loved it very much. It was the jewel of his life. It seemed to be the inspiration of his life. It seemed that his whole life centered on that carrot. It was his life source and without it, he would perish.

Everyday he opened his old chest and held the carrot in his hands. When the carrot was in his hands, his eyes would twinkle as like the stars. And after a quick look he would deposit it back again in his chest and lock it lest his grand children snatch it from his hands and devour his precious carrot – his jewel – the sole reason of his life.

And years later when grandpa rabbit had died, his grand children decided to open his treasure chest. When they opened the chest, they found only a decayed carrot and it was of no use. They threw it away.

Short story written by Parvez Ahmed on November 19, 2008.

Monday, November 17, 2008 | | 0 comments

Short Story - The War between the Two Ant Kings

short storyIn a land vast and rich, lived two ant kings. They ruled over their own kingdoms, which were divided by a river. On one side of the river lay the kingdom of the white ants while on the other lay the kingdom of the black ants.

One day in the palace of the white king was confusion and chaos. Soldiers and servants, ministers and all the other king’s men ran from here to there inside the palace. All were shivering – no, not from cold but from fear. The king of the white ant had lost his golden comb that day. He was furious about his lost comb. They searched and searched but still the comb was nowhere to be found in the palace.

Drums were beaten and the news spread throughout the kingdom. A reward was announced for anyone who might get news about the comb or its whereabouts.

And the sword makers in the kingdom heard about the news. They held a meeting in secret and talked for long.

In the evening, they went to the palace of the king. The sentry at the palace gate stopped them but when they told him that they had come with the news of the lost comb, he ran to his officer and told him about them.

The officer of the palace guard informed the king about the sword makers. The king immediately granted them in.

And the sword makers emptied their words into the ears of the king. They told him that the black ant king stole the golden comb.

The king became mad with rage. He dismissed the sword makers after paying them their reward. Then he called his General and ordered him to prepare his army.

And the sword makers were very happy. Their swords were selling like sweets. All their old stocks vanished within a few hours.

Meanwhile, the news of the white ant king’s preparation reached the black ant king through a letter his spy sent him with the help of a trained pigeon. He also prepared himself for war after receiving the news.

And the sword makers of his kingdom were very happy. Their business also was extremely good.

And as the sun rose the next morning and its thorn livened up the earth, the white ant king marched against the black ant kingdom.

After marching for two days the two kings met each other on an open field. Swords clashed, pilums were hurled, lances pierced through chests, arrows ripped through the throats and the battle continued.

After a few hours, the whole battlefield was littered with the dead bodies of thousand and thousand of ants.

The war continued until the eventide when, none except the two kings were on the battlefield. Deep into the night they fought each other. Wounds, a hundred were on their bodies, and still they kept on fighting.

At last, when it was the time for the cocks to crow, not a single drop of blood remained in the bodies of both the kings. All had oozed out through their numerous wounds. They both fell down and were dead.

After the awful news reached both the kingdoms that nobody lived that war, people became as like mad. The womenfolk and children and relatives of the dead ants cried and cried, till at last, there were even no tears to complement their cries.

The sword makers, they were now rich and were with their wives.

Short story written by Parvez Ahmed on November 17, 2008.

Saturday, November 15, 2008 | | 1 comments

Short Story - A Bottle of Water

Short StoryA few years ago, somewhere on earth a drought occurred. Thousands of people, plants and animals perished. The land cried for water, its wails from its painful cracks rocked the heavens, as like the sounds of a thousand unheard thundering storms that take place in the oceans, far from human ears.

The villagers of one village stocked some of their drinking water in bottles and buckets and drums and all other vessels they could find during the arrival of the drought. It had served them well – at least they had drinking water though it was a little muddy.

After some days when only one bottle of water was left and except that nowhere on earth remained even the tiniest drop of water; a great quarrel erupted amongst the villagers over who should drink that water. Old and young all inserted their voice into the mighty struggle.

When the villagers were shouting at each other, one amongst them tried to run away with the bottle of water and this started a chain-reaction of the bottle being snatched by many hands. This continued for sometime until the bottle was crushed between the mighty might of their fingers and voices.

Short story written by Parvez Ahmed on November 10, 2008.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008 | | 2 comments

Short Story - The Journey of Three Youths

Short StoryThree friends sat out on a long journey to visit another kingdom in a distant place. They had started out very early - before sunrise.

They kept on walking until it was midmorning and their stomachs urged them for food. And the three friends sat down under a tree and shared their food among themselves.

After having breakfast, they again started on their way. They had hardly walked for a few minutes when they came upon a tavern. Upon seeing the tavern, their mouths began to water. And they looked at each other for a decision. One of them gave a slight nod of his head and entered the tavern and the remaining followed behind his back.

And they ordered drinks for themselves along with fried pork meat. When they had taken about three glasses each, two of the lot stood up and said that it was enough and they should continue on their journey. However, the one, which first entered the tavern, did not like their idea. He scolded them and told them to go away. And he drank more wine until he was totally intoxicated and lay flat on the floor of the tavern.

The remaining two continued on their way.

Towards midday, they were on a path inside a deep jungle. And they came upon a very handsome maiden in that jungle. She called both of them with the wink of her angelic eyes. Again, one of the two friends parted from his fellow and went with the maiden. And the maiden took him into a very beautiful cave and sat beside him. When he tried to kiss her, she disappeared but again reappeared in another corner of the cave. After fruitlessly trying for hours to kiss her aphrodisiac body and lips he was dead tired and he fell asleep inside the cave.

And the last of the three friends continued his solitary journey – the one who had not heeded to the call of the maiden. He walked until it was evening when he came upon a hilltop wherein was a very big gun. The gun attracted him very much – he was captivated by it. He though about the power that the gun would bestow upon him – he would be the most powerful man in the whole kingdom. Therefore, he decided to carry back the gun with him. He pulled on the giant gun with all his might but it did not move even an inch from its place.

And today, after many decades are the pages of history, we still can find him on top of that hill, pulling the gun in hope of ineffectual power.

Short story written by Parvez Ahmed on November 10, 2008. 'The Lady in Red' is a painting by Jacqui Faye Michel.

Sunday, November 9, 2008 | | 2 comments

Short Story - The Train That Left the Rails

short storyThere was a train, which plied between the districts of Hailakandi and Karimganj. It was the only train on that route.

Every morning it would start its journey from Hailakandi and reach Karimganj on the forty-five mile long meter-gauze track, and in the evening, it would return once more to Hailakandi.

The train was bored by the track and the same journey it made on that meter-gauze track daily.

And one night at the Hailakandi Junction when the station was completely deserted, the train decided to get down from the rails and leave the station forever. But as it got down from the rails, it could move no more. There started a terrific pain in its wheels and it started crying and shouting but nobody heard it. The train became senseless after a while.

In the morning when the officials at the junction arrived, they saw the crippled train and were very angry. However, they ordered a new train for the junction.

And still today after the passing of so many years, the crippled train lies where it was – now a box of rust.

Short story written by Parvez Ahmed on October 4, 2008.

Saturday, November 8, 2008 | | 0 comments

Short Story - Sweets for an Angel

short storyIt was a market day in the eastern part of the small town of Hailakandi. On both sides of a small road, adorned with potholes of numerous shapes and sizes, and near the aged but, somehow still functioning meter-gauze railway crossing sat numerous traders with a variety of goods, especially, ripe orange colored betel nut.

Everywhere in the villages of Hailakandi, this year the betel palms were full of betel nuts. The villagers were happy with their ripe betel nuts. This year the price was also good and demand for betel nuts was soaring everywhere.

All of the traders had brought their share of betel nuts from the wary villagers after numerous sessions of painstaking negotiations about the price of the nuts except for a few who had employed a method that was a little different from the former one. They stole the betel nuts from the villagers’ homes in the nighttime.

The sun was still a few strides from its home and business was going on at a brisk pace in the quite rudimentary marketplace on both sides of the road on the railway crossing.

At the same time, a few hundred meters away from the market place, in a small hut a tiny girl was crying. She wanted to eat some sweets but her mother had no money to give her. The girl’s father was a rickshaw puller and her mother worked wherever she could find some work. They were very poor and somehow could only manage a single meal daily.

The mother of the child tried to console her but she failed. The girl now started crying vehemently. She was just a small child and like the other children wanted to sweeten her tongue.

The mother of the child was very sorry for her child. She was very sad that being a mother she could not give her child a few sweets. Suddenly, she remembered that she had some betel nuts in her possession. Those, she had received from the house where she had worked the whole day yesterday.

And the mother patted the child and kissed her and consoled her by saying that she would pay her money to buy sweets. The girl was very happy and she became silent.

The mother of the child counted the betel nuts. There were eighteen pieces. She gave the child four betel nuts and told her to sell them at the marketplace and use the money to buy sweets. She also warned her daughter not to accept less than fifty paisa for each betel nut.

And the child went to the marketplace with a bright smile on her face. However, no trader bought her merchandise of four betel nuts. They scolded her and turned her away.

And the girl with tears rolling down on her face started back on her way, when, suddenly a beggar noticed her. He stopped her and asked her the reason for which she was crying. After hearing it, he gave a laugh, gave her a kiss and purchased her betel nuts with a two-rupee coin.

Short story written by Parvez Ahmed on October 4, 2008.

Friday, November 7, 2008 | | 1 comments

Short Story - The Tower Touching the Sky

short storyHe looked down from his luxurious chamber. It was on the 95th floor of the Heaven Tower. He had strived for the sky and, indeed reached it. Today he was very far from land – a huge 95 stories of distance.

The last thirty years he only craved for wealth – the more he got the more he wanted. Girls, he had aplenty – models and heroines. Indeed, he had built heaven on earth.

However, today, as he looked down from his chamber on the 95th floor, the land beneath seemed too far away for him. He had lost touch with it. He had lost touch with nature. He had lost touch with happiness. He had lost touch with actuality. He had lost touch with the simple joys of life. He had lost everything. Now, he was only a mummy – a living-dead one.

Short story written by Parvez Ahmed on October 3, 2008. 'The Soul Attains' is a painting by Sir Edward Burne-Jones (1833-1894).

Thursday, November 6, 2008 | | 4 comments

Short Story - The Marriage of the Cock and the Hen

short storyMoneylust, the cock was extremely busy today. Because this was the day for which he had waited a long-long time, and which seemed to him like eternity.

Today, he is going to marry Attraction, the daughter of Protection, the hen and Business, the big fat cock.

Protection and Business were also very busy. They were preparing attraction for the wedding.

However, Attraction was feeling all hot and restless inside but she was wise enough to hide those sensations within the deepest dungeons of her self.

For Moneylust, finally, his solitary dreams were over and at last, he could taste the nectar of her breasts and instead of tiring his hands in tasteless masturbation, he now could delight his penis in her soft and tight vagina.

For this day, Moneylust had worked very hard. He had done every type of wicked deed in the midst of his general good business. He had amassed money in great quantity by looting the poor and tricking the helpless ones. For, he saw that this was the only way in which the other great cocks had secured the most rich and the most beautiful breasts and vaginas.

Short story written by Parvez Ahmed on the on October 2, 2008. 'The Tepidarium' is a painting by Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema (1836-1912).

Thursday, October 30, 2008 | | 0 comments

Short Story - The Two Magical Powers

Short Story - The Two Magical Powers

Short StoryThere lived a man by the name of Aloptin in a small village in a far away land. The village was unlike any we know. It was an enchanted village.

Many years ago when Aloptin was a boy, there was a severe storm in his village. The homes of the villagers were destroyed by the storm. Aloptin’s home was also destroyed. Their crops were destroyed. Their food stock was depleted within a few days and the villagers had nothing to eat.

And an old man with a beard touching the ground appeared in the village. All the villagers flocked to see him.

And they came to know that the old man was a magician – a magician of great power.

And he told the villagers that he would give them a magical power but they had to choose only one among the two options he would grant them.

The first option was that he would give them some seeds and everyday they would have to plant them in the field and in the evening their crops would become ripe. They could eat them but the next morning they would have to plant them again.

The second option was that whatever they would wish would become true. However, he warned them that they would never ask for a girl or a women otherwise their whole village would become dark and they could only open their eyes at midnight and that too for a few moments only. And they would never die but their life itself would become a torment to them.

Hearing this all the villagers asked the great magician to grant them the first wish. However, Aloptin and some other boys and a few girls did not consent to this. They wanted the second option.

And their grew a loud noise. The villagers began to quarrel among themselves.

And the old man raised his voice in a prophetic manner and ordered them to be silent. He commanded them to divide themselves into two groups.

And the people did as he said. Those who wanted the seeds parted themselves from their fellows.

Then the magician gave them what they asked for and he disappeared.

Aloptin and his friends scolded the other villagers and said them that they were foolish to miss such an opportunity.

And Aloptin and his friends got what they wished for – rare wines and nuts, precious cloths and gems, the best ornaments and perfumes and numerous other things. However, as time passed by they became lazy and decadent and they wished for the forbidden thing. And one day Aloptin conjured a damsel of heavenly beauty and slept with her. His friends also did the same.
But as the sun rose the next morning, Aloptin and his friends were unable to open their eyes and the part of the village where they resided turned dark.

The other villagers cried and cried, and they prayed to their God, and they offered incense to their God but nothing changed the situation.

Still today after many generations had passed by, Aloptin and his friends suffered for their lust.

Short story written by Parvez Ahmed on the 29th of October, 2008. The painting in the short story is painted by Henri Fantin-Latour.

Monday, October 27, 2008 | | 0 comments

Short Story - Huts and Skyscrapers

He built towering skyscrapers. A dozen or so belonged to his mighty empire. He had money, a sea of it. He had the most beautiful wife in the world – the haughty crown of a gold statue. He had children, healthy and hearty. He had friends, thousands of them, clad in money, guilt and vanity and the whole world of things good, bad and useless and useful and dirty and nice and magical and simple.

Everyday he went to bed at midnight but his sleep came to him nearly in the morning.

A few miles away from that towering symbol of success, lived a poor rickshaw puller. He could not afford his meals daily. He had no wife. He had no children. He had no friends. He had no money. He had no suits. He had no house. He slept on the footpath but his sleep came to him the moment he closed his eyes daily.

Written by Parvez Ahmed on the 28th of October, 2008. The portrait was painted by Rembrandt Harmensz van Rijn.

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Short Story - The Lion and the Rabbit

Deep inside a dense jungle, a lion sat waiting for food. It was a week since he had anything. Now, today, it is a matter of life and death for him. The churning shrieks of his hungry stomach – he could bear no more.

And in that same jungle, a rabbit was running with the last few bits of energy in his body. The recent drought had gulped the rabbit’s food in the jungle and everyday he had to travel for miles to feed himself. Death lurked in the shadows of the trees and in each step he took but still, he could not stop. There is only one choice for him – either to face death or to die.

From morning till noon, and from noon to afternoon, and from afternoon to the time when the sky in the west became red, the lion kept on waiting for his food – for a prey – for a glimpse to the jewel of life – blood, and the hungry pangs of his stomach were unbearable – the pain of hunger – the pain of life – the pain of death; and the rabbit, his strides now were very slow due to the injury in his foot he got in the noon. His body felt like a mountain to him and the way in front – an open door into an empty interior.

And fate – the cruel, crooked, wicked witch flourished its merciless fingers. The rabbit was now in front of the lion.

Written by Parvez Ahmed on the 27th of October, 2008. 'The Lion with the Rabbit' is a painting by Eugene Delacroix.

Saturday, October 25, 2008 | | 0 comments

The Birth of the Boy and the Death of the Rose


A child is born.
A rosebud comes out.

The child becomes a boy.
The rose now is rich in color.

The boy goes to school.
The rose becomes scented.

The boy sees a rosebud in his class.
The rose now is rotted.

Written by Parvez Ahmed on the 25th of October, 2008. The Girl with a Pearl Earring (1665) is a Portrait by Johannes Vermeer.

Friday, October 24, 2008 | | 0 comments

Short Story - The Boy and the Apple

A poor boy who lived in Hailakandi worked at the house of a minister.

One day while sweeping the floors of the minister’s house, the poor boy saw the son of the minister eating an apple. Now, the rich color of the apple brought water in his mouth and he craved for a piece of it.

Instead of asking the minister’s son for the apple, the poor boy closed his eyes and imagined himself in an apple orchard. Then he plucked one of the best apples from the orchard and ate it. After that, he opened his eyes. He was contented and happy.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008 | | 2 comments

Short Story – Aren’t We All Collecting Dry Twigs and Leaves?

An old man who used to live in a small village of India had a fanatic obsession for collecting dry twigs and leaves. The whole day he would wander about the village and collect the dry twigs and leaves that had fallen from the trees. By evening when his jute bag, which he carried on his shoulders, would become full and he would proceed towards the river that flowed through the village. Then he would empty his jute bag in the river.

This procedure he carried on daily without fail. The people of the village tagged him as inane and they neither advised him nor obstructed him in his activity.

However, one day when the old man was emptying his bag in the river a young boy saw him. He became curious about it and could not understand why the old man emptied his bag full of dry twigs and leaves into the river. For him it was a useless thing.

The boy decided to follow the old man.

The young boy quietly followed the old man and he saw the same thing daily – the old man would collect the dry twigs and leaves and in the evening would all throw them into the river.

On the seventh evening of his pursuit of the old man the boy could no longer hold himself and as the old man was just about to empty his sack in the river, the boy asked him in a somewhat irritating voice, ‘What is this madness, that you pursue daily? Why? Can’t you do any fruitful work?’

And the old man looked towards the boy, gave a small smile and returned to his work of emptying the sack.

The boy repeated his question.

The old man, now, had finished his work but he sat still looking at the water carrying away his twigs and leaves without replying to the boy.

And again the boy repeated his question, this time his voice being more louder.

The old man stood up, stared at the boy and began to laugh so loudly that the boy became afraid. But, after a moment he regained his usual composure and laying his hands on the boy’s shoulders said to him, ‘Son, what other than this are the people of the world doing? Aren’t they all collecting dry twigs and dry leaves?’

Written by Parvez Ahmed on the 18th of October, 2008.

Thursday, October 16, 2008 | | 0 comments

Short Story - The Mad Man and His Shadow

And he jumped to the right, stopped and looked downwards. No, it was still with him. This was maddening. He had been trying for hours now, to get rid of the strange anomaly that was following him but it was adamant, it followed him wherever he went.

He was exhausted and he decided to surrender to it.

‘Vile wretch – you will not let me live in peace – you will follow me wherever I go and vex me with your presence,’ this he declared to his adversary and then he sat there, the mad man in a corner outside his small hut and he fell asleep.

And when night arrived, he woke up. Suddenly he was exalted, the persistence nagger – it was there no more in the darkness and he was now free.

Wednesday, October 15, 2008 | | 0 comments

The Branch That Parted the Tree

In a garden of a certain king was a huge mango tree. People from far and wide who came to visit the king was awestruck by the size of the tree. They praised it for the giant shade it provided for them.

The tree however remained humble and it never boasted of it in front of her smaller counterparts in the garden.

And it came to happen that one of the branches of that tree seeing the enormous fame of her mother decided to separate itself from her.

The mother and the sisters of the branch tried to stop it from going away but in vain.

And the branch separated itself from her mother and rooted herself at a distance in front of her mother thinking that visitors would praise her and forget about the tree in the back.

A few months later, a horrible drought took place in that kingdom. Plants and animals were hit hard by it.

And the branch that parted itself from her mother could no longer sustain herself and the scorching sun and the lack of even the tiniest drop of water ended her life.

Her mother and her sisters survived the drought but it was very painful for them to see the demise of the branch.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008 | | 0 comments

In The Faint Rays Of A Cold Moon

She was in the kitchen stirring the custard in a pan. It was for her 14-year-old womb’s fruit.

He adored his mother. Now, he comes near her.

She fondled his hair with her free hand.

He embraces her. He is his mother’s only child. The lone child of a divorced wife.

The cold night of a cold moon arrived. Mother and child both contented and happy, went to their bed. Quickly, they fall asleep.

After about an hour and a half of sleep, the boy had a dream.

And the dream was such -

He was sitting by the side of an ethereal stream. It was running down from a hill with vivacious and joyful sounds. Behind his back was a garden – a garden of rich colors. It was unlike any on earth.

And from the stream emerged a beauteous lady. She had a golden crown on her head. She was a queen. But her face was veiled with a thin silken screen with sharp symbols drawn on it.

And she walked to the garden. She plucked a heap of flowers. Then she came near him and kissed him on his lips.

He was warmed by the kiss. A kind of joy unknown to him ran through his veins.

And the queen made a bed with the flowers. They lay down on it – she on top of him.

Her eyes, as they met his, made him more joyous. They were so beautiful. But her face, he could not see nor did she removed her veil.

And when he tried to remove her veil, she stopped him. Then she gave him another kiss which filled him with more warmth.

Then she laid bare her breasts. The were small, supple and erect. She took them near to his mouth. He sucked her nipples. She made some ecstatic sounds which filled him with all the more warmth.

And when it was morning, she left him weak and starved. But as she was leaving him, her silken veil fell and the Queen was his…

At this moment, the boy’s sleep was broken. His body was very cold. The blanket that he and his mother wore had fallen down from their bodies. As he was putting on the blanket over her body, his eyes fell on her naked bosom. The strings of her nightgown had opened in her sleep. She was beautiful in the faint rays of the cold moon.

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An Epic Quarrel Between Two Varieties of Rice

December 30, 2008 | 9.15 AM IST | Version 1.0

Short Story - An Epic Quarrel Between Two Varieties of Rice

There, in an obscured corner of India called Nitainagar, lay a small paddy field. Two varieties of rice – softly shook their golden stalks to the sway of a gentle wind.

Everything was peaceful until one afternoon, a few weeks before harvest-time, when the thin-scented variety of rice began to shake their stalks with a proud and lofty sway. Now, this caught the attention of the other group of rice – the sticky variety of rice.

The sticky ones could no longer withstand the pride displayed by the thin-scented ones and they shouted to their counterparts, ‘Hey – you weak and of the smelling kind – what is that makes you so restless?’

Highly annoyed by the vulgar remark, the thin-scented rice plants replied, ‘Ha – you – ha – offspring of filth – of the nose-less kind! What do you know of smell – the heavenly aromatic smell?’

The war of words started. It continued for quite a while when a group of returning sparrows overheard the ongoing skirmish and their leader halted the flock. He whispered something into their ears.

And the leader of the sparrows with all his folks advanced towards the paddy field.

Seeing the sparrows arriving, the rice plants stopped their quarrel.

‘Friends – mates – why – what’s the matter?’ The leader of the sparrows asked the rice plants with a childlike simplicity and friendliness.

‘Matter – what’s the matter – ask them – the nose-less kind!’ The thin-scented rice plants replied to the leader of the sparrows.

‘Weaklings - they are – they are weaklings. See their husks – they have got no shine on them,’ the sticky ones shouted loudly.

‘Friends – mates – wait a little. Everything shall be decided now and here. Why not let my fellows decide who among you is more better? By tasting a little of your-’ at this point the leader of the sparrow’s mouth watered but he continued, ‘yes, by tasting a few grains, we can decide it all. So, are you ready?’

The thin-scented rice plants looked towards their sticky counterparts with a disdainful stare and gave the nod of affirmation to the leader of the sparrows. The sticky ones followed suit.

And the leader of the sparrows could no longer resist the open-invitation. He jumped at once with his kind and ate some of the grains from a few thin-scented rice plants with a greedy relish. Then he did the same from a few of the sticky variety of rice-plants.

And after a long breath he declared, ‘Our friends, the thin-scented ones prove to be of worthier ancestry and are better than our sticky friends.’

The other sparrows assented to his declaration.

At this declaration, there arose clamorous cries and abuses and the war once again started after the momentary peace.

Once more, the leader of the sparrows was heard speaking with his thin, shrill and high-pitched voice, “Wait – my friends – wait – don’t quarrel. We have only tasted a few grains. Maybe the other ones prove to be entirely different.’

The rice plants once more assented to his plan.

In this way the sparrows continued, sometimes declaring the thin-scented rice plants the winner and sometimes the sticky ones when a fresh spate of quarrelling would start once more and they would again taste a few more grains in the pretense of solving the problem.

And when it was dark, there was not a single grain of paddy left on the field except the empty stalks. The sparrows were nowhere near the field now, only the cries and shrieks of the rice plants prevailed over the melancholy atmosphere, and pain with darkness made it more painful.

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Version 0.1

Short Story - An Epic Quarrel Between Two Varieties of Rice

There, in an obscured corner of India, called Nitainagar, lay a small paddy field. Two varieties of rice – softly shook their golden stalks to the sway of a gentle wind.

Everything was peaceful, until one afternoon, a few weeks before harvest-time, when the thin-scented variety of rice began to shake their stalks with a proud and lofty sway. Now, this caught the attention of the other group of rice – the sticky variety of rice.

The sticky ones could no longer withstand the pride displayed by the thin-scented ones and they shouted to their counterparts, ‘Hey – you weak and of the smelling kind – what is that makes you so restless?’

Highly annoyed by the vulgar remark, the thin-scented rice plants replied, ‘Ha – you – ha – offspring of filth – of the nose-less kind! What do you know of smell – the heavenly aromatic smell?’

The war of words started. It continued for quite a while when a group of returning sparrows overheard the ongoing skirmish and their leader halted the group. he whispered something into their ears.

And the leader of the sparrows with all his folks advanced towards the paddy field.

Seeing the sparrows arriving, the rice plants stopped their quarrel.

‘Friends – mates – why – what’s the matter?’ The leader of the sparrows asked the rice plants with a childlike simplicity and friendliness.

‘Matter – what’s the matter – ask them – the nose-less kind!’ The thin-scented rice plants replied to the leader of the sparrow.

‘Weaklings - they are – they are weaklings. See their husks – they have got no shine on them,’ the sticky ones shouted loudly.

‘Friends – mates – wait a little. Everything shall be decided now and here. Why not let my fellows decide who among you is more better? By tasting a little of your-’ at this point the leader of the sparrow’s mouth watered but he continued, ‘yes, by tasting a few grains, we can decide it all. So, are you ready?’

The thin-scented rice plants looked towards their sticky counterparts with a disdainful stare and gave the nod of affirmation to the leader of the sparrows. The sticky ones followed suit.

And the leader of the sparrows could no longer resist the open-invitation. He jumped at once with his kind and ate some of the grains from a few thin-scented rice plants with a greedy relish. Then he did the same from a few of the sticky variety of rice-plants.

And after a long breath he declared, ‘Our friends, the thin-scented ones prove to be of worthier ancestry and are better than our sticky friends.’

The other sparrows assented to his declaration.

There was an outbreak of clamorous cries and abuses and the war once again started after the momentary peace.

Once more, the leader of the sparrows was heard speaking with his thin, shrill and high-pitched voice, “Wait – my friends – wait – don’t quarrel. We have only tasted a few grains. Maybe the other ones prove to be entirely different.’

The rice plants once more assented to his plan.

In this way the sparrows continued, sometimes declaring the thin-scented rice plants the winner and sometimes the sticky ones, when a fresh spate of quarreling would start once more and they would again taste a few more grains in the pretense of solving the problem.

And when it was dark, there was not a single grain of paddy left on the field except the empty stalks. The sparrows were nowhere near the field now, only the cries and shrieks of the rice plants prevailed over the melancholy atmosphere, and pain with darkness made it more painful.

Sunday, October 12, 2008 | | 0 comments

The String Broken

And so he started on his way. The soles of his feet were paining. Life seemed miserable. His whole body was throbbing. There was now no point in existence. Everything was bleak. The sun-rays totally blinded him. The air felt obnoxious. The trees felt like demons stretching out to devour.

However, he continued on his way, now, speeding up more. The boys playing cricket seemed like a horde of hellish beasts squabbling over something.

At last, he came to his destination. He was one step from his goal. He stepped forward but immediately retracted his feet. He looked towards the sky. With a feeling of disgust he looked down. Then again he stepped forward but again he pulled it back. He looked back. No, there was nobody. He became mad. Why was he not able to take the plunge to oblivion? Was somebody pulling him? No. Then what was it. He was puzzled. Again he stepped forward but no this time nobody pulled him back. He was falling at free-fall speed.

Oh! the pain - the heart rending urge - the urge for life. But no, there's no chance now. The bullet that leaves the gun cannot be back. The words that leave the mouth cannot be back. The bubbles that burst cannot become bubbles again. Life once lost can never return.

He crashed down at a spot below three-hundred feet from where he took the plunge. He was a heap of malformed mass - a distorted design of drippy sentiments.

Sunday, October 5, 2008 | | 0 comments

The Bird and the Bough

It was a dark and rainy night. Near the grand mansion of a very rich man was a mango tree. The tree was not inside his mansion but it lay opposite the road. An ailing and aged bird just somehow managed itself between a bough of the tree.

However, as the night grew more darker and lonelier, and the storm more ferocious and hostile, the bough seemed to offer little protection to the ailing bird. Raindrops attacked her from all sides at a blistering pace. Still, she bore the pain and once more hid her shivering body in her all-the-more shivering wings.

She would not leave the bough's shelter. For in the small depression of it, she spent her childhood with her brothers. They may have died but their paining-sweet memories remained. She raised her children in the same depression when their wings were but small and fragile, and they could not fly. How could she forget those moments when in the evening she fed them looking at their twinkling eyes though she herself sometimes remained hungry? Alas - those dreams she nourished had flowered... Though they left her and now maybe lying in the wings of their sweethearts with no memory or thought of her but still she cherished those moments - she is a mother!

But nature, its code unlikely to be deciphered or understood, with one violent sweep of the storm broke that bough, and now that mother - she lay in a puddle beneath the tree. For a brief moment she fluttered her wings but her counted seconds now were few, and a thunder that roared and shook the seven firmaments closed her tragical book for ever!