by Sangeetha Vallat | Jun 28, 2025 | Fiction Bites, Short Stories
This was an entry written in October 2020 for the event #twelve (the prompt was to include in the story ‘the clock struck twelve) #Five00-10 at ArtoonsInn Writers Room. I rarely research and write, because I tend to get lost in the process; I prefer to write slice-of-life stories. This is one of the rare moments when I researched the ’emergency’ and wove a tale. The atrocities meted out to common people had my heart searing.
THE NAMESAKE
The day dawned like any other in June, gloomy and damp. Sukumaran, gazing fondly at his wife Sarojini, wrapped his hands around her. Stifling a sniffle, she implored him to stay.
“I will be back by noon. It’s a simple job of erecting a pandal for a meeting. They are paying well. We need to save money for our daughter.” Sukumaran grinned.
“It will be a boy!” Sarojini exclaimed and added, “But I feel uneasy. Please don’t go.”
Planting a kiss on his wife’s bulging belly, Sukumaran hastened to join his friends who were waiting outside, but not before informing Kamalamma, the neighbour, to take care of Sarojini until he returned. Sarojini blew her nose and wiped it on her sleeves. Sukumaran walked out with the image of his sobbing wife imprinted in his eyes.
Hours slipped by, and Sarojini went into labour. She moaned and stoically persevered to see their firstborn. The moonlight shone on her face through the holes in the thatched roof, yet there was no sign of Sukumaran.
The clock struck twelve, and it was 26 June 1975. While President Fakhruddin Ali Ahmed was declaring a National Emergency, Sarojini gave birth to a daughter, as Sukumaran had desired.
When Sarojini held the baby close to her bosom and wondered about her destiny, elsewhere, Sukumaran was locked up in a cell and tormented ruthlessly along with hundreds of men. They were naive bystanders watching a protest, shoved by the police into a police van, and imprisoned.
Kamalamma sent her husband to check Sukumaran’s whereabouts among his friends and found out that while the others returned after erecting the pandal, Sukumaran had lingered, shopping for his family.
“The police have taken into custody numerous men based on suspicion of perpetrating unlawful activity, whacking the miserable men until the batons broke. Maybe our Sukumaran was picked up.” Reported Kamalamma, the rumour mill.
Sarojini shuddered, praying for Sukumaran’s safety. Days became months, and Kamalamma enunciated about the innovative methods employed by the policemen. They traumatised and maimed people forever. Chicken claws were stuffed into the ears of the prisoners, then they were rendered a double ear slap, which deafened them irreparably.
Some of the men released from captivity never walked, and a few never breathed.
Over the next 21 months, during the emergency period, thousands were imprisoned to curb lawlessness, and only a handful returned home. With the suspension of civil liberties and the censoring of the media, people were thrust into the dark ages.
On the surface, life went on remarkably well, with trains running on time and government offices functioning efficiently, but monstrosity thrived where lawmakers turned a blind eye to lawbreakers.
Sukumaran never returned home. A devastated Sarojini made futile rounds of several offices. Sukumaran was deemed dead in the Police atrocities.
His body was never found.
The young expecting couple had visualised a whole fantastic life for their child. Sarojini despaired at the bleak future that lay ahead of her.
Sarojini had named her unfortunate daughter Indira as Sukumaran had wished. The irony was lost on Sarojini and the fatherless infant.
***
Photo By: Unsplash, Sahaj Patel
by Sangeetha Vallat | Jun 28, 2025 | Fiction Bites, Short Stories
The prompt ‘Alone’ for a competition in ArtoonsInn Writers Room, the UNIK 8 (1000 words) in January 2021, created this short fiction tale. A mix of horror, adventure, fun, and well, yeah, read on….but yes, had to cut the story short due to word limits.
IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE
Keerthana stumbled as she stepped down the school bus, and the leering conductor clutched her arms to steady her. She threw a nasty look at him and waved at the children cheerily.
“See you tomorrow, Keerthi ma’am.” Shouted the curly-haired girl.
“No dear, see you after the weekend.”
Keerthana unlocked the house and beamed at spotting her husband at home. He was busy stuffing a bag. “I have a flight to catch for an urgent business trip.” Keerthana teetered between tears and anger, “It is our wedding anniversary, and I have taken leave from work. ”
“Uh, oh! I totally forgot. On my return, I promise to take you on vacation.” Shekar pecked her cheeks and hastily departed.
A miffed Keerthana curbed the urge to smash the things on the dresser. On a whim, she packed a few clothes, loaded her car with Maggi, fruits, and a few other things. Away from the city, where no one would reach me on my mobile. Keerthana gifted herself a vacation. She had bragged to her friends about a romantic getaway for her anniversary, and now to be stuck alone at home would invite derisive remarks. She drove for straight three hours and reached the cabin. Fond memories of time spent with her parents cropped up in her clouded mind as she gazed at the quaint wood-house.
Luckily, the caretaker had cleaned up the place a few weeks ago. She dropped the bags on the kitchen counter and ambled to the backyard. The vast expanse of the placid lake reflecting the diamond fragments mesmerized the lonely soul. An eerie stillness engulfed Keerthana. The reeds susurrated, and a foreboding prickly sensation flustered her. She sprinted back and bolted the door.
The drive had sapped her. Munching a cereal bar, she called it a night and had a fitful sleep, disturbed by nightmares of the lecherous bus conductor.
The next morning, she lazed around the lake, building sandcastles, and flitting behind butterflies. After a lunch of fruits and milk, she picked up a book.
A deafening thunder shattered the silence. A startled Keerthana squinted and realized she had snoozed until the stars had erupted in the sky. While she sashayed to drink water, the lightbulbs flickered and died. Shortly, a lightning flash illuminated the cabin, and she lunged for the mobile phone she had carelessly flung on the couch. With a lit candle, Keerthana checked the windows and breathed a sigh of relief. She wished her husband were here. When her stomach wambled, she decided to cook instant noodles, perfect for the rainy chill that clawed her body.
Keerthana played her favourite playlist on her mobile and opened a bottle of Bordeaux. She was predisposed to it now and then. Sipping it slowly, she chuckled, Ah! If my students saw their teacher like this! Before the water had boiled, Keerthana had gulped a quarter of the bottle. The crooning abruptly stopped, and the mobile let out a ding. “Oops! I forgot to charge it. Well, no electricity, no mobile, and no one around. Lalala la la tududoo tadidam.” She swayed towards the stove.
She shrieked as a looming shadow spread on the wall. The wine glass toppled onto the countertop, and a dampness seeped to the floor. The shadow vanished. Keerthana pulled out a knife and screeched, “Who are you? Come out, you coward!” A quick movement behind her, and she swished her knife, wondering if it was the bus guy? Did he follow me?
“Hey!! I will call the police. I will open the door, get out immediately.” She opened the door, and a strong wind eclipsed the room. She counted to three and shut the door.
If it’s dark, he cannot see me from outside. Haha, I scared the lecher. She sat on the couch and reached for the Bordeaux on the table. She guzzled down the wine and peered into the darkness. A gnawing sound alarmed her.
“Don’t wait outside. The police will be here soon.”
She tiptoed in the darkness and peeled the curtain from the window. The gnarled branches of a tree rubbed on the windowpane.
“Aha! It was this sound. There is no one here. You are alone, Keerthana.” She pealed into a schoolgirl giggle and took a swig from the bottle. Her hand froze in mid-air as she sensed a slither on her feet. She jumped on the couch and squatted. Cowering in dread, her eyes darted in all directions. Her ears perked up, trying to distinguish the sounds emitted inside the cabin from the sounds of the rain and wind.
She rubbernecked to see what happened to the noodles. The soporific effect of the wine rendered a cognitive impairment. She failed to relight the candle and stood frozen, the quintessential image of terror. Her resolve to stay awake, wary of the predators, fizzled, and the empty bottle slipped beside while soft snores flared her mouth.
The predators who waited to recapture their territory gave a collective hoot of victory. The leader pulled everyone into a group hug, considered his teammates’ suggestions, and issued orders. They climbed the kitchen counter, gnawed, and nudged the packets of food that would suffice them through the rainy season. In joyful solidarity, the room buzzed with activity, and in 30 minutes, they left the cabin and the occupant alone.
Incessant knocks on the door awakened Keerthana from her stupor. She yelped, “Police!”
Keerthana collapsed into Shekar’s embrace.
“I came back early and knew you would be here. Happy Anniversary!”
The couple kissed with feverish urgency. Keerthana erased the memory of the misadventure. She provocatively stripped naked and dived into the lake, closely followed by the dutiful husband.
Photo- Unsplash
by Sangeetha Vallat | Jun 28, 2025 | Fiction Bites, Short Stories
This was written in February 2021 for a writing prompt on the ArtoonsInn page. I had no plans of writing for this prompt. The dystopian scenario was definitely not something that I could imagine attempting. Still, on a lazy afternoon, after Valentine’s Day, I had this urge to write something crazy. This was typed effortlessly in a single sitting. I tweaked and edited a teeny-weeny bit after a few hours.
However, to enhance the pleasure of savouring this crazy story, please read my earlier work, written for ArttrA, ‘The Pride of India.’ There is a lot of inside humour, as I use the nicknames of my friends who are part of the ‘INN’.
This is a work of fiction and not intended to hurt the feelings of any person, dead or alive, or anyone vaguely related to them.
A HEAP OF ABSURDITIES
Prithviraj Chauhan and his men, dressed in their battle-worn armour, stepped out of the pod. The sun, concealed behind the tall structures, struggled to move into the limelight. Some clapped in glee, fascinated by the sights around them. A few others registered contortions of alarm on their face. The human figures hovering overhead reminded them of the winged creatures of witchcraft.
An armoured figure turned its head in 360 degrees and spoke with a shrill timbre, “Welcome. I am Chitti version 101. Today is September 6, 3021. How may I assist you?”
Prithvi squinted and shielded his eyes from the metallic sheen. Hundreds of armoured people marched around, emitting a strange buzzing sound. He sensed the beginning of a headache from the glinting surfaces. The gravel crunched beneath as Prithvi stood erect, attempting to find Chitti’s eyes.
“It looks like we are back in a warzone,” Chand said in a grave tone.
“Yeah, these guys are wearing armour but are not carrying any weapons.”
“Shhh. Don’t disrupt my concentration. I cannot find his eyes to decipher if he has good intentions.” Prithvi waved his hands in front of Chitti.
“I am Chitti. How may I help you?”
“I am Prithviraj. I want to meet your king?”
“Chitti does not know any king.”
“Oh God, why do you keep sending more troubles?” Prithvi looked above, hoping for a miracle. Instead, a lady flying overhead gave a nasty stare and whizzed away.
“Chand you speak with this…. What is this? A man? But his voice sounds like Samyuktha’s mother. It grates on my nerves.”
Chand covered his mouth with his palm lest a chuckle should escape, “Chitti, take us to someone older. You look like a small boy.”
“I am 99 years old. Come with me. I will take you to my master.”
While the few good men followed Chitti, aping at the shimmering surroundings, we can digress to fill you in on the backstory of our Prithvi.
Prithviraj Chauhan, the greatest Rajput king in the twelfth century, fled with a few of his trusted men to the caves in the mountain from the battle of Tarain. His men had built a tunnel. When they opened the tunnel’s entrance, amidst thunderous explosions and blinding light the cylindrical Hyperloop, one of the greatest inventions of the twenty-first century carrying the minister of transport Ranjan Godbole and his men in black, because of a bizarre screw up by a gang called the Chekov’s Guns landed precisely inside the cave in Tarain. It is such a far-fetched plot, but blame it on the guns. Anyways, following a pattern of the comedy of errors, Godbole gets stuck in the 12th century, and Prithvi and his few good men get transported to the 21st century, only to be shot off again into 3021.
Presently, Chitti announced the arrival of the weirdly dressed men to his master, one of the greatest men in the 31st century. The master’s face darkened at being disturbed from the reading nook, where he compared the merits of Artales versus ArttrA. The master Z, with the appearance of a teenager, stepped down from his high pedestal and peered at the gangs of Rajasthan. Chand cleared his throat to explain their predicament. Z gestured to him to move back and proffered his hand to Prithviraj.
“I know everything about you. Not a single thing that happens in Room 8 gets past my attention. I run a tight inn. I warmly welcome you and your team members to check in at our Room 8. It is a lovely place…”
“Thank you for your hospitality. I sincerely hope the glitch is resolved and we can return to our kingdom. My citizens would be missing their king, and I miss my queens. This palace looks excellent. Please accept these green hearts, which are our dynasty’s symbol.”
When Z and PC were canoodling with each other, the greatest beauty on earth sashayed into the room.
“This is my daughter, Meme. She’s my youngest. She makes me proud. She will one day inherit my inn.” Z droned on, pushing the unruly mop of hair.
Prithvi’s jaw dropped, and he clutched his heart, gazing at Meme. Chand muttered under his breath, “Looks like I have to plan another elopement.”
Chitti whispered in his master’s ears that the Geek’s room needed him. Some troublemakers were creating mayhem with their quizzes and one-liners. Prithvi gestured his men to vanish, and he approached Meme.
“Can you tell me a joke?” Said Meme.
Prithvi wiped his sweaty palms on his armour and tried in vain to recall a joke. He tried to work his charm, “You are a beauty, Samyuktha pales in comparison with you. I am in love with you!”
“What is ‘love’? I have never heard it before.”
“Oh, Love is the emotion, the bond, the attraction, the all-encompassing feeling….”
“Boring. Make me laugh. I like a good joke!”
“Meet me tomorrow in the garden. I will come prepared to make you laugh.”
“Garden? What is that?”
“Yes, where there are plants and flowers. We can sit surrounded by the fragrant blossoms and whisper sweet nothings to each other.”
“You know, you are weird. I don’t understand what you say. There is nothing called plants, flowers, or love for that matter in our universe.”
Prithvi trod closer to pull her into an embrace. Meme pinched her nose and said, “Eww! When did you last have a bath?”
Prithvi stared at the fleeting figure. His eyes fell on Chand and Chitti with their arms on each other’s shoulders, walking in tandem. Prithvi pulled Chand aside and sought a remedy for his love-struck heart. Chand assured the king that he would come up with a solution.
While the master and the king rested in their respective rooms, Chand gleaned all the information from his new buddy, Chitti. Chand stood spellbound in the massive library, which had rows of glass cabinets filled with huge bound manuscripts.
“Why are all the cabinets locked?” Asked Chand.
“These are endangered specimens. They are called ‘Books’. Once upon a time, information was stored in these.”
“Ohh. Now, what is used to store knowledge?”
“We have tiny chips that project the cryptic coded information into thin air. With a password, we can decipher the coded details. It can be either read with the help of eyes, or if you carry a reader chip embedded in your brain, the information can be directly assimilated by the brain cells when you unlock the chip.”
Chand let out a low whistle, “Whoa! Half of what you said went above my head!”
Chitti showed great patience in handling the king’s men. He explained every single detail with demonstrations.
“Hope you people are not from Pluto? My master Z has issues with the people from Pluto. He does not allow them to enter his room or take part in the monthly revelries the watchers organise.”
“No. We are from the Chahamana dynasty. We have nothing to do with Pluto.”
Chand spent hours cloistered in the library reading books on various topics suggested by the librarian KB, a learned scholar.
1. How to woo a woman in the 31st century? Thesis by Dr Rajkamal, ‘The Match-maker’
2. List of best pick-up lines by ‘Love Guru’ Priyan.
3. The subtle art of administering the Love potion by ‘Love Guru’ Priyan.
4. The Love Capsule by Dr Rajkamal, ‘The Match-maker’
The next day, weighed down by the knowledge gained from the exalted men of love sutra of all Centuries, Chand bowed his head to the statues of Priyan and Rajkamal and loped to meet Prithvi.
The Rajput king sulked in the corner of a concrete garden. Blood trickled from the torn cuticles of his fingers.
“Everything is under control, my dear friend. We can recreate history again by eloping with your latest heartthrob, Meme. When I am there, why do you worry?”
“Ahh, my dear Chand. You are my moonshine! I get high looking at you. Come, tell me how to win Meme. Telling jokes or clowning myself is not my cup of tea, added with honey drops or sugar, whatever. I can get love poems from the parlour and recite them in a singsong manner. I can dance. Tell me what needs to be done.”
“Erm, your majesty need not stoop to such levels. Gone are the days when men wrote love letters and couriered them through swans or messengers. Neither do we need to sing paeans of the beauty of the maiden or memorise pathetic pick-up lines. Nor do we need to dance and prance around. Things are much simpler nowadays!”
“Ohhhh. Please do not make me wait longer. I want Meme. I want her. I am going through pangs of separation since she thwarted my attempt to embrace her.”
“All you need to do is drop in a pink pill surreptitiously in her drink and engage in a conversation with you for precisely ‘7 minutes.’ The pill or the love potion will enter her bloodstream, and she will fall passionately in love with you.”
“Is that all? Where do I get the potion? Tell me, Chand, that you have it with you now. Give me the magic pill.”
“No. I am sorry, my dear friend. The pill is strictly issued under the discretion of the Ministry of Love. There were cases of misuse reported a few years ago; since then, they have followed a protocol. I heard that Z has contacts in high places, and he would be able to secure it. But…”
“What is the issue now?”
“I am not sure if he will agree to help you if he knows it is to woo his daughter.”
“Ahh. That is a thorn in my …”
“We can say that we need it to woo Chitti.”
“What? Chitti, a man! How can you suggest such a thing?”
Chand persuaded Prithvi, citing facts of the world in the 31st century. Prithvi reluctantly agreed to go with the charade. After all, ‘All is fair in love and war.’
Z was in awe of Prithvi’s profession of eternal love to his slave Chitti. Prithvi’s undying ember of love dissolved Z into tears. He gave his consent to the match and promised to procure the ‘Love pill’ using all his goodwill with the Minister of Love.
“I have promised my daughter Meme to the minister. He will agree to whatever I ask!”
Chand and Prithvi gulped down their words and nodded their head.
Prithvi had a long, drawn-out bath in his glass tub. Strewn with rose petals and filled with milk, the tub emanated fumes. Chand added a dash of turmeric and musk oil to it. Prithvi immersed himself and soaked up. Dressed in golden clothes, he waited for Meme. To capture her attention, he memorised a joke.
“You are looking clean and scrubbed! Are you prepared to make me roll on the floor laughing?” Meme walked around appreciating Prithvi’s studied elegance.
“I am ready to roll along with you, dear lady.”
Chand kept two glasses of wine and winked at Prithvi.
“Do drink this wine first. Then I will tell you the joke.”
“So many conditions!” Meme downed the glass in one go and gazed at Prithvi.
“An Irishman, an Englishman, and a Scotsman walk into a bar. All three order beer…” Prithvi stuttered; he had forgotten the joke and called Chand to tell him the rest of the joke.
And the rest… as they say, was history.
Prithviraj disowned his friend Chand. With Chitti’s help, Prithvi resolved the glitches in the hyperloop. On the day of his journey back to the past or the future, Prithvi stood on the Hyperloop pod’s threshold and spread his hand toward Chitti. Chitti looked at his master for permission. Chitti had grown fond of Prithvi during their work on the Hyperloop over the past few days. It was a ‘mechanical miracle.’
“Go away, Chitti. Go, live your life!” Z wiped his tears before anyone could notice.
Prithvi and Chitti were last seen orbiting the moon.
Chand and Meme settled into a cosy life at the inn. They had Unik, Artales, ArttrA, and the like to keep them entertained. Chand recalled the lines of Z when he first welcomed them to his humble abode, “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave!”
Glossary
The lyrics of Hotel California by the Eagles have been used in this story.
Photo By – Unsplash Craig Sybert
by Sangeetha Vallat | Jun 28, 2025 | Fiction Bites, Short Stories
This was an entry to UNIK 9 (1000 WORDS) in the ArtoonsInn Writers Room in May 2021. I had watched a video on the rising number of a ‘particular’ kind of people. A bulb lit up in my brain, and I typed this tale.
A SUGAR COATED LIFE
Randhir loosened the crimson silk necktie, a gift from his wife for their previous anniversary, and brushed a speck of dust that attempted to ruin his tuxedo from Armani. He glanced around, taking in the beauty of the Maharaja suite. A contented sigh escaped his lips, but he abhorred immersing in a memory slide.
Everything looked impeccable. Randhir aimed to impress his guest. He watched her sashay towards him as he caressed the soft velvety bulge ensconced within the satin lining of the tuxedo. She gazed at the fragrant lilies placed on the antique console table. Checking her reflection on the ivory mirror, she smoothened the creases of her chiffon blouse and bent her head to inhale the heady scent of her favourite bloom.
He gestured for her to sit. She sank onto the sheepskin couch, gazing at the ‘Raja Ravi Varma’ painting on the wall. The yellow light of the crystal chandelier dappled a teardrop pattern. She crossed her legs, and her skirt rode up even further, revealing unblemished skin. Randhir swallowed and cleared his throat.
“So, are you OK with the arrangements?”
“Purrfect.” She purred and slid her hands towards him. “Oh, Randy.”
Randhir puckered his face. This was not his first rodeo. The girls were not supposed to jump into the act- a protocol had to be followed.
He dared not explain it to her.
Randy rose, lifted the blinds, and glanced outside. He always preferred the suite that faced the hotel entrance. At least the bevvy of activity would be intriguing if not the partner.
She checked the label on the bottle, poured a little in a pink-hued stem glass, swirled it gently, sniffed, and tasted it. Satisfied, she tipped it into two glasses. Planting a kiss on his shoulders, she extended the crystal glass. He yanked her towards him; a patch spread on her white blouse.
“How clumsy of me. Do wash the fabric before the stain clings.”
She reluctantly opened the washroom. The fragrance of coconut and vanilla cloaked the redolence of lilies. Then, unclipping the buttons of her stained blouse, she rinsed it under the gold-plated faucet. The burgundy stained the marble bowl. Unzipping the leather skirt, she admired the azure lingerie, a lacy mesh. A delicate thrill surged in her heart. She tugged the magenta fleece bathrobe from the peg and snuggled into it. Tying the satin sash, she giggled like a schoolgirl.
Randhir cut a Shah Rukh Khan pose, with arms spread wide. The velvet box clenched in his right fist, and a red rose between his teeth.
A clutter of shoes filled the corridor. He heard muffled voices.
Incessant banging on the door compelled him to abandon his stance and open the door. The men in uniform barged into the room.
“You are under arrest. We have been following you for months, scoundrel. Misleading innocent girls with your Sugar Daddy promises. Where is your prey?”
She chose the exact moment to emerge from the washroom. Humming a melody, she announced, “Ta-da.”
Her jaw refused to clamp. Beads of sweat lined above her lips. Hugging her robe tighter and chewing her lower lip, she hid behind her husband. Randhir flushed like a beet. Thoughts of how his careful assignations might have fallen under police scrutiny congealed in his mind. He wished to show his clout but held back the words that tried to flee his grip. Then, sporting a Cheshire grin, he addressed the officer.
“Inspector, is it a crime to celebrate a wedding anniversary in a hotel room? You have scared my wife.”
“Wife?”
A buzz of voices filled the room. The senior official amongst them took charge. He wondered how he would handle the misstep and what awaited him back at the station. He was in line for a promotion, and a lapse at this stage would jeopardise it.
“Sir, there seems to be some confusion here. Could you please show me your identification cards? Madam, sorry to bother you. Are you carrying your ID with you?”
Ruby, like a rabbit caught in the spotlight, stared unblinkingly. She cowered behind Randhir, hoping he had carried hers as well. How could she carry such things that did not gel with her sexy outfit, which he had insisted on wearing!
Randhir pulled his wallet, and the velvet box tumbled out, revealing the exquisite sapphire ring studded with diamonds. His surprise spoiled, Randhir lost his composure. He resisted flinging his driving license and her Aadhaar card, which he had taken earlier to arrange the hotel booking.
The officer checked their identity cards. The picture in the Aadhaar card did not do justice to the beauty standing before him in magenta.
“Sorry for the confusion. Enjoy your anniversary. Please don’t take this matter to the top. Deeply sorry.” The officer marched out with his platoon of buffoons.
With the gate crashers out of the way, Randhir shut the door and clutched his wife of 10 years. A smirk spread on his face. His brain whirred with brilliance. An idea sprouted in his mind – a website that would legalise the stirrings of the Sugar Daddies and Sugar Mommies. As a stalker of passion, he believed he was the right man for the job – No need for clandestine affairs, life could be a never-ending honeymoon!
“What was all that? What are you so smug about?” Ruby, shaken by the misadventure, glugged a glass of wine. Her apprehension shrank.
Randhir sat Ruby on his lap and nuzzled her nape. He stretched his hand to the table, unclasped the box, and slipped the Sapphire ring on her finger. Ruby turned to face him and brushed her lips on the bridge of his nose.
He unravelled his gift, tugging at the satin sash. Gathering her up in his arms, they entwined like creepers.
In her ears, he drawled, “Not all storms come to disrupt your life; some come to clear your paths.”
Photo By – Unsplash
by Sangeetha Vallat | Jun 28, 2025 | Fiction Bites, Short Stories
I wrote this short story in Aug 2021 for the Independence Day prompt/Event UNIK 10 at the ArtoonsInn Writers Room – A group for budding writers. This was an attempt to catch a glimpse of Gandhiji’s life for a few hours after India gained independence. A narrative account of a day in the Mahatma’s life. The Hyderi Manzil is now a museum.
I have shared my perspective on the conversation between Bapu and Rajaji, drawing on historical facts from The Collected Works of Mahatma Gandhi.
As I researched, I was pulled into the annals of history and ended up stuffing my head with too much information. With great restraint, I avoided dumping all the data into this. Still, a lot have crept in!
HEY RAM.
Under the fluttering tricoloured flag at the Lahori Gate of the Red Fort, two sparrows greeted each other. One, wearied and its plumage bespeckled red, gasped and mumbled, “I escaped from the bloodshed in Punjab.” The other sparrow, all aglow, chirped, “I flew from Calcutta, witnessing love, unity, and peace.” She then detailed what she had observed, perched on the roof of the Hyderi Manzil, in a Muslim locality in Beliaghata, just hours after the dominion flag had unfurled.
Seated in the eastern corner of one of the two habitable rooms of the seven in the Hyderi Manzil, Bapu ceaselessly spun the charkha. While his lips chanted the name of Lord Ram, he raised his eyes and beckoned a young student.
“Can you inform Bisen to come in with the writing materials?”
Bisen positioned himself across Bapu with his pen poised. Bapu dictated letters without a pause in his spinning. In the letter, he mentioned that he celebrated important events by thanking and praying to God, as well as by fasting and dedicating the day to spinning.
He looked at the student and said with a chuckle, “If drinking fruit juices may be described as a fast.” Then Bapu continued with the dictation, rueing the condition of Rajaji in the Government House, surrounded by a crowd of revelers. Again, to the youth, he softly said, “It pains me to hear about our brothers swarming into the Government House, behaving in a disorderly manner, pilfering and damaging property. Rajaji is unable to come to meet me; he is like a prisoner there. One must maintain ahimsa at all times, in sadness and joy.”
By the time Bapu completed the letter, echoing cries of ‘Vande Mataram’ rent the air. A commotion ensued outside, and in walked the Governor of Bengal, C. Rajagopalchari, briskly. He took Gandhi’s hands in his and held them, neither saying a word.
Then, sitting beside Bapu, he said, “You have succeeded. And have wrought a miracle, the peace in Calcutta.”
“Ah, my dear brother. We have succeeded. It’s a collective effort. It is no miracle. I cannot be satisfied until Hindus and Muslims feel safe in each other’s company and return to their own homes to live as they did. But I’m happy to see you. I apologise for my riotous brothers.”
“It was indeed sad to be stuck inside the Government House. But our men are jubilant. I hope the bars of division melt away.”
“Yes, without that change of heart, there’s a likelihood of future deterioration, despite the present enthusiasm.”
“Hmm.” Gazing at the dilapidated condition of the accommodation, Rajaji added, “You seem to be comfortable here. You cannot possibly live in the Government House. I’m struggling to familiarise myself with the Burrows bungalow. Such large rooms!”
H.S. Suhrawardy, the Muslim League Leader, joined the impromptu meeting.
“Gandhiji likes to live with people. He has no fascination for palaces,” Suhrawardy said.
“That’s why he was put in the Aga Khan Palace,” quipped Rajaji.
Bapu laughed, and the men joined in. After Suhrawardy left to attend to the crowd outside, the conversation bled into various topics.
“Sardar’s health is causing me concern. The problem with the princes is so complicated that only he can deal with it.” Bapu said.
“True, he will handle it best. All well? You appear disturbed.”
“Many things plague me. If the rains fail us, the independence will cost us dearly. I’ve written to Balvant Singh about the issue of Gaushala. The Sevagram should have cows, and the dairy must work.”
“Hmm. The issue will get sorted out. Bapu, you were planning to go to Noakhali. Why did you shift here from Sodepur?”
“Suhrawardy and I agreed to stay together in a turbulent area. In fact, at the prayer meeting two days ago, when Suhrawardy didn’t join me, some of the young men shouted for his blood and began pelting stones. It pained me so much. Then Suhrawardy made an unequivocal admission of responsibility for the killings of last year. This profoundly affected the crowd. It was a turning point and had a cleansing effect. I could sense it.”
A lady entered the room carrying fruit juice for Bapu and a glass of buttermilk for Rajaji.
“How are Devdas and Lakshmi?” Bapu asked, sipping the juice.
“They are fine. I met the grandchildren. They are quite naughty.” Answered Rajaji.
“What can you expect? They are our grandchildren!”
“Haha. True. I received a letter from Sardar. He mentioned Subhash Bose.”
“I find it difficult to believe that ‘in exile’ Bose has married and has a 4-year-old child.”
“Yes, I was surprised too. His brother, Sarat Bose, is still furious at me.”
“Hmm. Lord Ram should set things right.” Bapu’s face lit up as he added, “It heartened me to hear that Hindus visited mosques and Muslims visited temples today to show solidarity.”
“I heard about it. Also, there was a football match between two warring clubs where they swapped players. Such instances of brotherhood give me hope.”
“Ram! Ram!”
The two distinguished men pulled their watches out at the same instant.
“So, I bid you farewell, Bapu.”
“I should get going, too. It’s time for my evening prayer.”
Gandhiji walked to Rash Bagan Maidan to address a roaring crowd. A sea of people filled the streets, but there was pin-drop silence as Bapu began his prayers, followed by a speech. First, he congratulated Calcutta on the Hindus and Muslims meeting together in perfect camaraderie. Then, he expressed his grief for the Muslims who experienced horrifying molestation. Further, he hoped that the country would be rid of the communal virus entirely.
Bapu then returned to his humble quarters and lay on the mattress. His lips moved silently, taking the name of Lord Ram.
“I overheard Mountbatten saying that in Punjab, with 55000 soldiers, there was colossal bloodshed. But Gandhiji, as a one-man boundary force, maintained peace in Calcutta.” Said the sparrow from Punjab.
“Yes, he is a Mahatma!” The other sparrow bowed.
****
Glossary
Shiv Balak Bisen – Stenographer to Mahatma Gandhi.
HS Suhrawardy was the Prime Minister of Bengal until August 14, 1947, and later became the 5th Prime Minister of Pakistan. He orchestrated the massive bloody riots on 16th Aug 1946, known as the Great Calcutta Killings. (he was called the Butcher of Bengal).
Aga Khan Palace (Pune) – Where Gandhiji, along with his wife, was imprisoned. Kasturba Gandhi died during this period, and her samadhi is located there.
Devdas Gandhi is married to Rajaji’s daughter Lakshmi.
Sevagram – Gandhiji’s ashram and residence from 1936-1948 (until his death).
Picture Courtesy – Unsplash Greg Scheider
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.
Photo By – Unsplash
