TO BE OR NOT TO BE!

by Sangeetha Vallat | Jul 7, 2025 | Fiction Bites, Short Stories

This was written in May 2020 for the writing event Five-009, specifically for the prompt “Vintage” in the ArtoonsInn Writers Room on Facebook- a group for budding writers.  I had fun researching the contemporaries of Dickens/Victorian era, their works (titles), and knitting them all together.

TO BE OR NOT TO BE!

In the days of yore, there lived King Chaucer, who hailed from the House of Fame and ruled over the kingdom of Canterbury. He had a glorious reign and was undisputedly known as “Father of the English World.”  With advancing age and stricken with innumerable maladies, his complaints ranged from Mars to Venus. He spent countless days sipping wine in the Poet’s Corner, contemplating a suitable heir, and consulted with his friend Gower.  The Queen consort had favoured him with heirs aplenty, but the matter of contention remained with the progression. The curious case of the septuplets, born of one conception!

Chaucer summoned all seven gems. Each one, eminent and noble. He proclaimed,

“The forest of wisdom awaits you all, depart now and expend seven days braving the tempest and entitle the befitting heir! On the victorious one, Tales would be spun in Canterbury.”

***

To the forest of wisdom marched the seven exceptional men, each one lost in his thoughts.

Charles sniggered, “What the Dickens! I do not have great expectations, and I glimpsed an advertisement in the Pickwick Papers about a house to let. Farewell, dear six, hard times to you all.” He walked away. An unexpected twist it was indeed.

Edgar, afflicted with woe and caressing a Raven on his shoulder, declared openly, “I read the purloined letter and do not want a descent into the maelstrom. I am on a journey to where my tell-tale heart leads, hopefully, to Anabelle Lee.” Edgar sprinted away, Raven and all.

Mark sauntered and in a nasal twang uttered, “Roughing it up, are you all? I have read the diaries of Adam and Eve, and nothing captivates me here. Sorry to say I am not your huckleberry.  I am embarking on a journey to the Equator. A war prayer for you, my dear ones. Adieu.” The others nodded silently.

Ralph, who believed in transcendentalism, gazed at his diminished circle of siblings. “Society and solitude are the two paths before me, and I do not wish to advocate on the conduct of life. It’s preferred to select our paths according to our nature. I have chosen mine. Goodbye.”

Thomas elucidated promptly, “This is a wasteland, and you are all hollow men. I am on a journey to Little Gidding to sing rhapsodies on a windy night with Simeon. Convey my love to Aunt Helen and Cousin Nancy.” He strolled away with Ralph.

William bent his knees and announced, “I am here to make peace. This is no Vanity Fair, and neither are we snobs. Rebecca and Rowena are awaiting my arrival, and you can take the ‘Rose and the Ring’ and kindly let me stay in the kingdom.”

The Bard curled his lips slightly. “As you like it, dear brother, all this was much ado about nothing. All’s well that ends well.”

He strode victoriously to rule the English Wor(l)d forever.

Title credit: William Shakespeare.

Author’s Note – My respectful tribute to a few of the eminent personalities of the Literary realm.

***

Photo courtesy – Unsplash.  Fiona Murray Degraff.

LAYERS AND LAYERS

by Sangeetha Vallat | Jul 7, 2025 | Fiction Bites, Short Stories

” Layers and Layers” was first published in an online journal, MeanPepperVine – The Mean Journal, Issue #002, July 2022.

This fictional story was inspired by an anecdote my uncle once shared with me. It holds a special place in my heart, as it was the first piece of writing that earned me a modest payment. I was overjoyed to receive my first ever remuneration for something I had written.

LAYERS AND LAYERS

After replanting the tomatoes on the freshly tilled vegetable patch in the backyard, I surveyed my garden. A smug smile cropped up on my lips. My association with gardening and cultivation began when my father, fed up with city life, decided to move back to his village in the foothills of the Western Ghats. Since then, I have dabbled in growing vegetables for the family. The practice continued even after I moved to the city and landed a bank job. Post-retirement, gardening became a passionate hobby, earning me the nickname “Mr. Green Thumb.”

The weeds needed plucking, but it could wait – my daughters will be here soon. The banker in me chose the last Friday of every quarter for their visit. Like the good old days before the girls left the nest, just the four of us would enjoy a cosy dinner at home.  I wanted to finish my gardening, have a quick shower and catch a short nap before they reached. Their mother, my wife of 40 years, was toiling in the kitchen since morning. She had planned an elaborate menu, cooking all the girls’ favourite dishes.

“It’s too hot today. You shouldn’t have replanted them; they will wilt in the sun.” Visalakshy honoured me with her expert opinion, standing under the shade of the kitchen awning, her hands on her ample hip.

“I am the gardener here, madam. I know my job. Now be kind enough and fetch me a chilled beer!”

As expected, Visalakshy feigned nonchalance. Enraptured by the sizzling sounds from the stove, she did not bother getting me the much-needed beer. I washed the gardening tools and the mud clinging to my feet under the tap near the well. Then I wiped my hands in the apron and let my slippers dry for a while. Deciding to down a beer during the wait, I unfolded the teakwood easy chair with the colourful cotton canvas, under the shade of the mango tree. The chair belonged to my father, and whenever I sat on it, a feeling of calmness washed over me.

The next-door house had been unoccupied for a while. Now the raucous laughter from the new neighbours dented the peace and calm. The lady of that house hollered for her son or her husband often, “Kannaaaa, Kannan come here.”

I quail every time the name crossed my ears. The cruellest thing to happen to people of my age was the onset of forgetfulness. I would gladly welcome it.

In the late 1960s, when my father moved the family to the ancestral house in Kerala, the state was swept up in the communist political wave. EMS Namboodripad, at the helm of the government, had passed the Land Reform Bill, creating a furore.

My father inherited a couple of acres of agricultural land.  But, caught in the communist upheaval, we were among the ‘Landlords’ affected. Steadily, the lands changed hands, and the reshuffling of the moneyed class occurred.

It took a while for the disparity to obscure. But it was shocking for a city-bred like me as older men and women bowed in obeisance, and gave way when I, a lad of 13, walked across the pathways between the paddy fields. They addressed me Thamburan, an epithet of respect, and my ego swelled like Goliath.

Andiappan, dark as a coffee bean, with a towel layering his waist and another on his head, strode the fields from dawn to dusk. He was my father’s trusted man on the campus. At the sight of me, Andiappan removed the headgear, stuffed it under his sweaty armpits, and bent his lanky frame.

Kunji, Andiappan’s wife, helped my mother at home. Attired in a tanned dhoti and a threadbare towel that failed to conceal her ample bosom, Kunji always sported a grin displaying brown betel-stained teeth. My teenage hormones somersaulted, and I crimsoned whenever I sneaked a peek at her sagging breasts. Kunji had to remove the towel when she encountered men from the upper echelon, as covering the torso was considered disrespectful.

Their son Kannan, a year younger than I, herded the cows and goats of our family. We could have been playmates if not for the yawning class division.

“Papa, I thought you would be waiting for me at the gate! Instead, here you are in the backyard… what is this? That too, two beers down!” Gayatri, my youngest, squatted next to my chair and touched my hand.

“Ah, my dear little girl. Your mother wouldn’t have bothered even if I slept here forever, but you care so much. When did you arrive? Where is your sister?”

Gayatri picked up the beer cans and hoisted me up, not that I needed help, but it was a pleasure if the children were around to fuss over.

“Sis is running late—some last-minute office call, as usual. I cooked food for my husband and children, and still managed to arrive on time. She has no one to take care of but acts pricey. As if her time is more valuable than everyone else!”

“Gayatri, stop comparing yourself with your elder sister. You don’t work in the corporate sector anymore. She holds a high position at work and has many responsibilities on a much higher level. Don’t you see how she tries to mask her sorrows with work?” Visalakshy ambled over with a tray of coffee and biscuits for her daughter.

“Grr… As if I don’t work at home. It’s because of the children that I had to quit my job. If I remained unmarried like Bhadra, I too would be at the top of some firm.” The drama queen Gayatri sniffled and wiped her nose on her dress sleeve.

“Ladies, enough. All my girls are responsible workaholics! I am the only one who whiles away the time drinking beer. Okay?” I gathered my little one, Gayatri, in a bear hug and winked at Visalakshy.

I excused myself to take a quick shower, hoping that Gayatri would not boast about her happy married life when her sister arrived.

It was a hot sunny day like today when Bhadra, my eldest daughter, had brought her friend home to meet us. He worked in her office, and they had started as friends but eventually fell for each other, just like in any other love story. He was a decent boy, ambitious with a middle-class upbringing. Visalakshy was hysterical at the apparent differences amongst the families. She cried and screamed for days, even managed to give us the silent treatment. I remember how peaceful the house seemed without her constant caustic comments. However, Bhadra stayed resolute in her decision, and I managed to convince Visalakshy to meet his family.

“Papa! Are you still in the shower?”

I heard Bhadra rap softly on the bedroom door.

“Just getting ready to meet you, my sweet child.” I pulled the door open and gazed at my firstborn, who had finally arrived. “You look tired. I heard you had an unexpected official call. Come, let me make you a ginger tea.”

“Yes, papa, that would be wonderful. Yeah, work tensions are never-ending. Wait! I will peel the ginger and grate it. You get the milk and water boiling.”

Bhadra was like that, always helpful and thoughtful. My darling daughter. It pained me to see her clam up inside a shell, a shell of my making. Oh, how I wish things were different.

The day I met the boy’s family, I knew I couldn’t allow this union to happen. A gamut of bottled feelings arose like bile, and I struggled to swallow than spit them out.

When my father left me in charge of the house and farmland for a few days, I had sprouted horns on my head. Until his return from the city, I monitored the wages paid to the fieldhands and watched them with hawk eyes. Then, one fateful day, as dusk bled into night, done with my studies, I reclined in the front veranda. The swaying fields and the cool breeze lulled me to sleep. My sister smacked my head and ran before I could catch her pigtails. Then my eyes fell on the shadowy figure rustling amidst the ripe paddy. Rubbing the sleepiness from my eyes, I sidled across the courtyard and merged into the darkness. A puny figure plucked the rice kernels from the bent paddy stalks. I pounced into the field and caught his hand. It was Kannan, the cowherd, stuffing his shirt pocket with our rice grain.

“Hey, you thieving bastard!” I yelled, twisting his arm.

“Thamburan, it hurts. Would you please release my hand? You shouldn’t be touching me.” Kannan howled like a hyena caught in a snare.

“Scoundrel, we treat your family so well, and this is how you repay our kindness!” I scuffled with him, tugging at his coir-like hair. My fingers caught his frayed shirt pocket, which submitted itself meekly. The precious grains tumbled into the earth. I pushed him away as he wailed and scrambled in the mud, gathering the grains.

I trampled the rice kernels into the earth and glared at him. His tears glistened, and he wiped his mud-streaked face with his shirtsleeve. His clothes, pre-owned and discarded by me, hung loosely on him.

“Thamburan, forgive me. Let me go home.”

“I should report you to my father. Maybe he will call the police.” Spit sprayed out of my mouth.

Kannan convulsed like he had touched a live wire.

“Better still, I will punish you. Remove your clothes, everything at once!”

Kannan goggled at me, realising that I meant business; he slowly undressed. His bones were sticking out. I crumpled the clothes in a bundle and darted home to hide them in the corner of the attic. I was wary of being seen carrying the clothes worn by a servant. Kannan waited till the darkness enveloped him before he sprinted home. The new moon showed him the kindness that I had failed to show.

“It was scorching in the morning, and now it’s chilly. Papa, you will catch a cold standing out bare-chested. Come inside. Amma and Gayatri are laying the dinner table.”

Snuffing the cigarette, I locked the door behind me. By then, the mosquitoes had begun their orchestra. Visalakshy had outdone herself. She served us a lavish spread. Gayatri had baked an apple and cinnamon cake, and Visalakshy opened her precious diary to write the recipe.

“Amma, everything is on Google. Even Gayatri got the recipe from it. So why don’t you check it on your mobile whenever you want to bake?” Bhadra patted her mother’s shoulder.

“I am old-fashioned. I love to have the recipes written in my own handwriting.”

Bhadra rolled her eyes and stretched her legs on the sofa. I sat near her feet and massaged them.

“Papa, it’s okay. I should be massaging your feet instead.” Bhadra chuckled.

I was a happy man surrounded by the women I loved. Gayatri had her family to get back to, but my Bhadra had no one waiting for her. She never once questioned me on my refusal to allow her marriage to that boy she had chosen. But she shocked all of us with her decision to stay single. Visalakshy tried her best until a year ago to change Bhadra’s mind. Stubborn daughter to a stubborn father. My eyes welled up, as if rubbing grit off them; I regained my composure and smiled.

“Let’s watch our family videos. It’s been so long since the four of us watched it together.” Visalakshy padded to switch on the system. Then, we all relaxed to dive into the days of yore.

When I met Kannan again a few years later after the harrowing episode, old customs had yielded to the new. The preconceived prejudices of snobbish traditions were diminishing. I was no longer the Thamburan, downgraded to Ettan, the elder brother.

I bumped into Kannan, a porter in a railway station. I witnessed his hair-raising speech delivered at a Railway Union meeting outside the station. When our eyes met, he swiftly moved his to the horizon. I walked up to him.

“What, Kannan, don’t you remember me? Perhaps I can rekindle your memory.”

“Ah, Parameswaran, how are you? Good to see you again.”

I recoiled as he straightened his spine and marched forward to be swarmed by people bestowing congratulations. My ploy to see him squirm with shame, remembering the old episode, misfired. I was pulled into the quicksand. Drenched in sweat, I struggled to veil my discomposure.

Laughter filled my house; the TV played a karaoke video from a time when days weren’t plagued by my guilt. Visalakshy and I completely smashed the song, after which the girls swore us off from singing ever again. Happy, carefree days. Some things never stopped being funny, even as years rolled.

I realised my throat was parched, and I looked for water on the table.

“Papa, do you need anything?” Bhadra touched my arm.

“Water. I was looking for water.”

“Here, take this bottle. Shall I get you a glass?”

“No, dear. Thank you.” We watched another happy memory playing on the screen.

Kannan had been shunted to the dark recesses of my mind. So, when Bhadra brought her special friend home, he immediately impressed me with his politeness and educational achievements. Visalakshy needed time to thaw, but I could see the merit in my daughter’s choice.
“What does your father do? Where do your parents stay?”
“Sir, my father retired from the Railways. They live in a village in ….”
As the lad proceeded, my heart constricted. I bolted from the chair and dashed out. It took three matchsticks to light my cigarette.
Bhadra scuttled behind, wringing her palms.
“This boy is not right for you. For our family.”
“But Papa…”
“I said NO. It’s either him or me in your life.”

My vicious words sluiced through her, and she was never the same again, ever.

The incident at the paddy field had warped my existence. I still remember how abrasive, like a tree bark, his skin had felt on that day. Something I read stayed with me – Heaven’s vengeance is slow but sure.

Oh, how true!

If only I could dare to uncloak my conceit? Dare to accept my flaws? Dare to stare into the mirror? But, instead, my punishment was to be plagued by the guilt of treading on my daughter’s happiness. Would I get another chance to salvage her life? Would a daughter forgive her erring father?

Forever such questions would swirl in my thoughts.

Multitudes of layers shroud me. Layers of ingrained customs. Layers of malignancy.

The layers demanded to be peeled.

One by one. Someday.

&*&

Picture Courtesy – Unsplash Beth MacDonald

MUCH ADO OVER

by Sangeetha Vallat | Jul 7, 2025 | Fiction Bites, Short Stories

Much Ado Over was first published in an Online Journal – INNSAEI – Aug 2021.

I couldn’t attend my niece’s engagement, so I asked my cousin how the event went. In response, she shared an anecdote that sparked a story in my mind as she spoke. That story became the only piece I submitted to INNSAEI, and I was thrilled when it was selected for their annual issue published in December 2021.

MUCH ADO OVER…

Mrs Nair clawed her way out of the elevator before it commenced the sequence of halting and opening its doors. Tall potted plants outside the elevator camouflaged Mrs Nair as she flicked her eyes first left, then right and straight ahead. The meticulously pleated silk sari escaped the confines of a safety pin as she treaded on its temple design border. Then, unmindful of the trailing temples, she plodded, twisting her small frame to tug the straps of the newly purchased heels as it sank into the carpet, biting her with a vengeance. Mrs Nair surprised herself by craning her neck, almost doing a 360 like an owl searching for her prey.

The vice president of an international conglomerate, Mrs Nair, prided on her planning and execution prowess. She firmly believed that everything happened for a reason and never once lost her composure, even when bombarded by challenges at work. And she wasn’t going to get stressed today, one of the significant days in the life of a mother.

She chipped the red painted nails vigorously, punching the buttons on the shiny mobile phone. A piercing yelp effused from the parched throat of Mrs Nair when a table deviously blocked her way, designed with the sole aim of hurting her little toe.  While curses trundled out of her pursed lips, Mrs Nair ran her palm on her forehead, heedless of the pimples in the caked face that threatened to expose themselves. Further, the person she tried to reach on the phone continued to evade her ringing appeals.

She plucked a glass of liquid in a vile green colour, the welcome drink proffered by a dour-faced man in white as she watched children in ethnic clothes capering around, squealing and clapping. The sari-clad women and suited men in the jasmine-decked vast hall attempted to greet and congratulate her. But, oblivious, Mrs Nair elbowed everyone out of her path and bulldozed into a bevvy of men to pull her husband of several years by the scruff of his collar that protruded over his silk waistcoat.

“Didn’t you hear your mobile ring?” Mrs Nair’s voice reverberated above the Carnatic instrumental booming from the speakers.

Mr Nair understood his wife’s mood from the tone of her voice and refrained from making inane excuses. Instead, he waited with puppy eyes to swallow what was to follow next.

“You need to go home NOW. I forgot to get Ananya’s dupatta (scarf). She needs it.”

“Why? There is no need for a dupatta. Did you notice the time? There’s no time for me to go home and fetch it.”

The men, who had earlier engaged in conversation with Mr. Nair, swiftly moved aside at the sound of gnashing teeth emanating from Mrs. Nair.

Mrs Nair rolled her kohl-rimmed eyes and made elaborate gesticulations with her Mehndi-coated palms.

“The lehenga choli (Indian dress) will not be complete without the DUPATTA! Our daughter should be perfect on her engagement day. So instead of wasting time on spouting nonsensical arguments, drive home and fetch it.”

Mr Nair tugged his ear lobe, and his protruding Adam’s apple jounced wildly as he gulped down the words waiting to escape the confines of his constricted being. Just then, his ringing mobile saved him. He croaked a hello into his mobile phone while his spouse hyperventilated like the goddess Kali after killing the demons. He gestured for the car keys while bobbing his head to the person on the telephone line.

Mrs. Nair charged towards the elevator, remembering that the car keys were in the room where Ananya was getting dressed. Waiting a few nanoseconds, wringing her hands and checking her wristwatch for the hundredth time, she slapped the plant and sprinted to the stairs. Mrs Nair bounded them like someone who had a rabid dog on their heels. Gasping for air, she continued taking long strides through the dim corridor flanked by shut doors. Then, pounding on the door, she rested her finger on the buzzer. The beautician opened the door, clasping a bobby pin between her yellowed, uneven teeth encased in candy-pink lips.

For a few precious seconds, Mrs Nair’s eyes swept over her adorable daughter with unconcealed affection. Then, recollecting her urgency, she jostled her way amidst the crew of beauticians, raked through her handbag, ferreted out the car keys, and darted to the door. Unfortunately, the keyring caught the earphones coiled inside the bag. A trail of wires pulling the umpteen things stuffed in the handbag followed Mrs. Nair out of the room like trailing confetti.

“Mummmyyyy! What are you doing? You are yanking my lehenga. Aah!” cried Ananya.

“Oh dear! I’m so sorry. I did not see this.” The mother grabbed all that tailed her and shoved them inside the handbag, zipping it shut. Then she exchanged her new heels for the comfort of her old, loyal flats. Dashing out, she punctured the elevator buttons, hopping from foot to foot as the elevator trickled down.

As she jumped into the hall, again before the elevator had a breather, the video crew flashed light on her face, expecting the young bride to make an entrance. Instantly, the light bulb diffused along with the spirits of the waiting horde.

Mrs Nair tucked the loose end of her sari unceremoniously into her sweaty hips. The 90 minutes spent on her intricate coiffure lay wasted. Resembling Medusa, she scanned the room for her husband when her eyes fell on her other daughter running behind her four-year-old.

“Anju… Anjooo! Come here.”

“Yeah, mummy. Whoa! You look frightful.” Anju managed to grasp her fleeing son and pull him towards her.

Mrs Nair’s cheeks twitched. She said, “Anju, like always, I cannot find your daddy. I forgot Ananya’s dupatta at home. Without that, she cannot come out, and this function will not happen if the auspicious time is missed.”

“Mummy, cool down, relax. Tell me where you have kept it, and I will go and get it. You just hold my son.” Anju grabbed the car keys and thrust her squirming son into her mother’s hands.

“You go home and call me on a video call; I will tell you exactly where it is in my wardrobe.” Mrs Nair grappled with the hyperactive grandson and her silk sari. Both refused to obey her entreaties.

“What a wonderfully decorated hall. Where is the bride? We are waiting to see the young ones on the stage.” The groom’s mother, effulgent in diamonds, sashayed towards a hapless Mrs Nair.

“Ahh! Thank you. Ananya is almost ready. She will be down soon.”

“Your hands are shaking. Are you alright?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I had to run up to the room to pick something. The up and down galloping, you see at this age, can be quite tiring.”

The groom’s mother was unaware that she was the reason for all this tension. A week earlier, she had picked up the bride-to-be’s dupatta to purchase a matching outfit for her son. Hassled by the requirements of the engagement ceremony, it slipped the attention of both mothers to question the whereabouts of the said dupatta. Two days before the D-Day, the groom’s mother had a brainwave and sent the dupatta to the bride’s house through her driver. Ignorant of the conspiracies of the two queen bees, Mr Nair carried the lehenga choli set, minus the dupatta, for the steam iron as per the instructions received.  He then promptly left the lehenga set in the hotel room for his daughter to dress up the next day and marked a tick in the list of things needed for the ceremony.

Mrs Nair trotted behind her grandson, ruing her failing memory while the groom’s mother, her nose up in the clouds, sauntered to hug and greet someone in mismatched gaudy clothes. Within minutes, Mrs Nair’s mobile phone buzzed. She retreated to a corner. Her bedroom at home looked like a tsunami had ravaged it! Anju was plucking odds and ends from the wardrobe.

“Mummy, I have looked everywhere. The dupatta is not here. Maybe it’s there in the hotel room itself. Did you check properly?”

“Anju! I told you to call me as soon as you reach home. Why have you pulled everything out of my wardrobe? It’s on the right-hand side, second shelf in a white cover. The name on the cover begins with a B. Ugh!! I don’t remember the name.”

A man in a rumpled suit, smothering a crying child, perhaps searching for his wife, momentarily distracted Mrs Nair.

“Oh, OK. I couldn’t reach your mobile. It kept saying out of coverage area. Got it! Is this the one?”

Anju pulled out a crumpled piece of delicate cloth and wagged it in front of the camera.

“Yes! That’s the one. Now, hurry up soon.”

“OK. Mummy. Where is my son?”

Mrs Nair’s countenance curdled. She squinted and lied rapidly, “He is here. Now you get back soon.”

Cutting the call, she searched for the naughty boy. He was up, on the stage, sitting on the love seat meant for the young couple. Mrs Nair climbed up the raised platform. The fumes arising from the incense sticks tickled her nostrils, and the overpowering scent of the jasmine décor accelerated the looming headache. Moreover, the howling kid refused to surrender. Mrs Nair locked eyes with Mr Nair, who was steeped in merry laughter with his friends. She scooped the kid and ploughed across the room. Then, plonking the kid in Mr Nair’s helpless hands, Mrs Nair thundered towards the hotel entrance to wait for the frigging dupatta.

Almost paring the skin and cuticle while snatching the bag from Anju, Mrs Nair hastened to the elevator. Then, banging her hand on the button angrily, she bounded up the stairs. Once again.

With minutes to spare until the end of the auspicious time, the bride made a grand entrance. The videographers and photographers flashed and clicked endlessly.

The bride coyly joined the dashing groom on the stage. Mrs Nair goggled at the groom. Then, she felt the ground sway and lurch around her. She grabbed Mr Nair’s hand and steadied herself.

“What now?! Don’t tell me that you have forgotten the engagement ring!”

Hot coals exploded from Mrs Nair’s eyes as she glared at her husband. Then she lumbered onto the stage and inched closer to her would-be son-in-law and cleared her throat.

“Hello, Mummy. You look gorgeous.” The exuberant son-in-law, without batting an eyelid, lavished compliments on the frazzled mother-in-law.

“Erm… thank you for your kind words. I know I look like someone who travelled by an unreserved train. But, dear son, tell me what happened to the colour code matching outfit? Ananya is in blue, and you are in yellow!”

“Oh, that couldn’t happen. I stained my matching sherwani with coffee earlier. I had to borrow this one from my brother. In fact, I peeled it from him. He is there wearing the stained matching outfit. What’s a matching outfit in the grand scheme of things, eh?” He gazed at Ananya, his eyes dripping love.

Mrs. Nair plastered a goofy grin on her face, attempting to douse her inner turmoil.  Then she exited the stage with as much grace as she could muster, wondering about her belief – everything happens for a reason! What could be the reason for this hullabaloo that happened- the thought swirled in her head. Perhaps the auspicious time wasn’t propitious.

Uncurling her fists, Mrs. Nair exuded warmth as she greeted the guests with a toothpaste-commercial smile.

“Thank you for gracing the occasion….”

&*&

Picture Courtesy – Unsplash Vaibhav Nagare

WHISPERS AND GIGGLES

by Sangeetha Vallat | Jun 28, 2025 | Fiction Bites, Short Stories

It is not who fired the shot, but who paid for the bullet – this was a prompt in ArtoonsInn Writers Room- #Five00 – 14 in January 2022, for which I spun this different take under 500 words.

WHISPERS AND GIGGLES

Eyes riveted on her watch, she frisked the mobile from her purse, clattering the contents onto the floor. Shoving everything inside, she re-checked the time. She gazed at the entrance, biting the insides of her cheek. He cantered in with pursed lips. 

“What happened? Why did you want to meet so early?” 

“Umm, I am not sure how to say this. I think you feel the same, the way you look at me… I like it. I like you.”

He stiffened, “Are you sure? We have been working together for years. You are special to me. I don’t want to wreck our friendship, our family life.” 

“But I cannot drive you out of my mind. You dominate my every thought. My husband… I…”

“Shush, no reasons or justifications.”

He moved closer. Her stomach flipped. 

“God, you make me feel like a teenager.”

He cupped her face, inclined his head, and gently sucked her lips. Eyes closed, she laced her arms around him. Gasping, they pulled apart.

“You are so beautiful! Are you Okay?” He rasped, kissing her palm. 

“Yes. It was…different.”

Hearing footsteps, they flitted to their seats. She ran her fingers on her stinging, swollen lips, letting a giggle escape.  

In the trailing weeks, the imperceptible gestures and glances spawned into canoodling in the storeroom, the stairways, and the narrow corridor outside the washrooms. With the coffee machine near her cabin, his caffeine consumption swelled. She turned scarlet at the casual grazing of fingers and the proprietary pat. The caresses escalated to groping, stroking, and kneading. Then, unmindful of the stares of their colleagues, the couple veered to unguarded recklessness. 

At home, life went on – kids and spouses like props in a play; furniture relegated to the corners. 

Sexting clouded their days until they graduated to booking a hotel room. 

Then his daughter fell sick, and they cancelled it. Next, her husband brought his mother home, so they cancelled again.

“I think this is a sign that we need to stop. Our colleagues are gossiping about us. I don’t want our names tarnished. I feel responsible for you, and that’s why I curbed my desire earlier. I am worried about the repercussions if management hears about us.” He whispered, raking his hair.

“Are you afraid of being blamed? It was I who started it. Should we just raise our hands and surrender?”

“It is not who fired the shot, but who paid for the bullet, that matters. The man always gets the axe while the woman is treated as a victim.” 

“Do you think I would let them hang you?”

“Not at first, but eventually you will succumb to the pressure.”

He applied for a transfer to another branch, the weight of the transgression pecking like a woodpecker.

Visits to the storeroom dwindled, and the coffee machine conked out. The family endured their shadowed existence. 

She was the last to reach the office every day.

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