Story 1: Dr Gunamalai and Shalini

We were put up at the American College, which back then was considered a cradle of innovative education among academecians of merit. There were abut a score of us and we had gathereded for evaluation of the semester papers. To be specific we were on the proverbial busman`s holiday.

During the lunch break as you may suppose, many buried stories surfaced. Every person worth his salt came up with a story and at last it was Dr Gunamalai`s turn. “This is an incident of which, he said, ‘I would not be a part again even if I am proffered a place in heaven by lord himself.” Continue Reading

Story 2: A helping hand

Their thoughts were racing faster than the moving sceneray outside the the train window. It was cold, but Catharine had coerced Shankar into keeping the window open. She wanted to take in as much of India as possible, afterall she would be going back to Canada in a weeks time.

Even as she sat glued to the moving trees and telephone poles, he was caressing her hair, playing with her fingers or staring right into her hazel-blue eyes, which she said changed colors – between blue, green and grey – according to her emotions and of course the Canadian climate. Continue Reading

Story 3: A beggar`s paradise

My pocket had been picked and for the last seven hours I had been at the mercy of the elements. Chennai had many to offer, especially if you were somebody like me – good looking, innocent and with a heart that beat for the others.

With darkness engulffing the city, if you could call it one, I needed a place to settle. I had my plans laid out. With whatever little money I was left with, I called up my mother and she had promised to send money to the nearby post office and I was to collect it from the Post master. Continue Reading

Story 4: I am nobody`s Rakhi brother

It happened to me once and I have decided not to let it happen again. Not after the agony I endured for a mistake as small as the one I committed that day.

It was a normal day. As usual, I had fetched milk from a Mother Dairy booth, taken a shower, and lugging my school bag, was off to school. Not that I loved it, but the fact that my father was in the army made it a little risky to object. As icing on the cake (for him) he was a small arms specialist, which meant he had revolvers and pistols at his disposal – quite a dangerous proposition. Continue Reading

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