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Short-story

Camaraderie

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Tanvi Nagar, Delhi Public School, Gurugram, Haryana

“Oh! I have spotted a beautiful garden resplendent with flowers,” I said. “Have you!” exclaimed Monarchy. Monarchy and I are best friends with many other companions in our cluster. She gets her name from the butterfly type we belong to. We have large, orange and black coloured wings with spotted edges of orange and yellow tinge. I often contemplate whether it is our colour or our strength that gives us special status. 

But Monarchy and I sleep, fly and drink nectar together. We flew down to the garden and saw yellow, bright red and orange flowers. They looked very inviting. We glanced at the Lantana bushes. After sucking nectar, Monarchy announced that she was sleepy. I agreed because even I was aching to bask in the sun on a cloudy day. We flew down to a clump of trees. We found the twig, which was our favourite haunt, we called our home. We clung to the twig and slumbered. We woke up to see the clouds fading away. Our friends from the cluster had joined us as unexpected rain always played the spoilsport.

We sent a small signal through our antennas. Today, Monarchy, Monar, and my turn to descend on a journey to visit the park resembled a Valley of Flowers. It was a picturesque sight, with water gushing through the small stream in its vicinity. But most butterflies loathed going there. The park was frequented by errant visitors who chanced upon butterflies and tiny creatures with their nets. Going there always made me nervous. “Is it my chance today?” I asked dolefully. Monarchy, too was petrified. I helped cheer her up and lift her spirits. “We are the Monarchs. We can fly faster than those children in any case”. She nodded in agreement.

Over the years, I have often pondered over why people looked disgusted when they saw me as a caterpillar, but today they were so fascinated and marvelled at my sight. We chatted and smelled our way through our flight with the help of our antennas and our feet. We nonchalantly flew down to the fresh flowers with a sweet aroma. “Hey, look at that,” shouted Monar. Just then, to our dismay, some butterflies fluttered at the sight of children. Monarch and Monar headed for the bushes to hide. I could get the nectar while the rest could dodge the children. If we all flew together, we were sure to be distinguished.

I chose a gleaming orange flower akin to my colour, as it would camouflage me, a trick we use all the while when we fear a predator. Just then, the children came tiptoeing like mystic shadows. I did not notice them except hearing the crunching sound over the grass beneath their boots. I was attracted to the sugary nectar, and greed got the better of me. A tall, burly child put a net over me. At the first instance, I escaped, but I suppose I was a little slow. He jumped up so high, and his butterfly net was just the suitable gadget to take control of me. I could not resist, and the mesh encircled me. I tried to shout for help, but my voice faded into oblivion. The boys shouted, “Hey! Hey! We have caught it.” The other children from behind laughed and celebrated. I felt ridiculed and helpless. I was suspended in the air. I tried to flex my wings, but any attempt was futile. In my numb state, I did not notice that my friends were trying to follow me. “No, I shouted out. Go back, or they will catch you too.” But they would not leave my side. 

The boys took me to a garage near a mansion. They had a few glass jars covered with black cloth. I was released into one of them. It seemed I could fly out, but I couldn’t go; something blocked my flight. I flew all over the bottle, but there was no escape. It was time to take stock of the situation. I was a captive in a dark and dingy room. Some light came in through a small window with its glass door held ajar. I knew this was the only hope to my world full of radiance, liveliness and freedom. I missed my dear friends. I reflected on every moment spent with them. Somehow I needed to keep my spirits up. Lo! What do I see? My friends were around. I saw them at the window. Was it my imagination? I thought.

“No” came Monarchy’s voice from across the window, as if she had read my mind. I was astonished; friendship had meant she had risked her life to help set me free. Monarchy had not come alone. I saw a little girl dressed in a beautiful red dress. She bounced on every step. I wondered what she would do till I saw her trying to jump in through the window. Alas! She was much too short for that. The hopes which had risen were fading, and the world lost its colour. They took no time to find a way. She turned a flower pot and climbed in. I could get the smell of fresh soil coming from underneath her feet. The little girl was prompt and let the black cover off the jar. She smiled sweetly. I was puzzled whether I should wait to watch her, thank her or find my way out of captivity. I knew she was an angel, with deep brown eyes, so calmly set in. She was kind with a dulcet voice. Even today, her melodious voice echoes in my mind. I bid goodbye. Monarchy has never shared the secret of how she came by Angel. Friends are like the Gardeners who toil hard to get the flowers flourishing. Monarchy has stood by me as the most trusted friend who gave me another chance to start my life afresh.

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Short-story

The Abandoned Soul

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Short Stories – Kumbh Series

Garvit Agarwal
Lucknow

Writer attended a Creative Writing Course by Takhte Writers and Publishers

The sun hung low over the Kumbh Mela, casting a warm golden hue across the throngs of devotees gathered along the banks of the sacred Ganges. The air buzzed with chants, laughter, and the rustling of colourful saris flapping in the wind. Pulkit and Ragini moved through the crowd, their hands intertwined but their expressions distant.

 “Look at them, Ragini,” Pulkit said, forcing a smile as he gestured toward a group of children splashing in the water. “So carefree.”

“Carefree,” she echoed, her voice tinged with bitterness. “Must be nice.” Her gaze drifted to their son, Akash, who stood a few paces behind them, his eyes wide as he took in the chaos around him. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, a habit that had grown more pronounced in recent months.

“Let’s just find a spot,” Pulkit replied, his tone clipped. “We can’t stay here all day.”

As they settled near the ghat, the chanting grew louder, drowning out the silence that had settled between them. They exchanged a glance, a shared understanding of the growing weight of their decision.

“Pulkit,” Ragini began, her voice shaking slightly. “Are we really—”

“We have to,” he interrupted, the determination in his eyes hardening. “It’s for the best.”

Hours passed, the sun dipping lower, casting long shadows on the ground. Ragini watched as Pulkit knelt beside Akash, who was now fixated on a butterfly fluttering nearby. “Hey, buddy,” Pulkit said, his voice softer than before. “Want to chase that?”

Akash didn’t respond, lost in his world. Ragini felt a pang in her heart but quickly pushed it away. They were here for a reason, after all.

 “We should go,” Pulkit said, rising to his feet. “It’s time.”

“Pulkit, I—”

“Ragini, we’ve talked about this.” He took a deep breath, his brow furrowed. “We can’t keep pretending everything is fine.”

With a heavy heart, they turned their backs on their son, leaving him by the ghat. “I’ll be right back, Akash,” Pulkit called over his shoulder, though he didn’t look back.

As they walked away, Ragini felt the weight of their decision settle in her chest like a stone. The laughter and chanting faded into a dull thrum, replaced by the sound of her heartbeat.

Later, as they listened to the preachings of a saint, a shift occurred. The saint’s voice boomed through the crowd, reverberating deep within Ragini. “Love is the greatest sacrifice,” he proclaimed. “To abandon those we love is to abandon our very souls.”

Pulkit stiffened beside her. “Did you hear that?”

“Yes!” she whispered, her heart racing. “We need to go back.”

They rushed back to the ghat, but the crowd had thickened, and panic set in as their eyes searched frantically. “Akash!” Ragini called, her voice rising above the chaos. “Where are you?”

 “Stay calm,” Pulkit urged, though his voice trembled. “He can’t have gone far.”

Hours turned into days, and the relentless search for their son felt like a nightmare from which they could not wake. Each day, they returned to the ghat, calling his name until their voices were hoarse.

“Why did we leave him?” Ragini sobbed one evening, her tears mixing with the river’s water as she knelt by the bank. “What have we done?”

Pulkit sank to the ground beside her, his own eyes brimming with regret. “I thought I was doing the right thing,” he murmured, his voice breaking.

“Where is he?” She cried, her heart shattered. “What if—what if he’s alone and scared?”

They were lost in their remorse, the vibrant colours of the Mela fading into a blur of sorrow. The river flowed steadily beside them, indifferent to their pain, as they clung to the hope that somehow, some way, they would find their son again.

Photo Courtesy – Mr Rajesh Balouria by Pixabay

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Short-story

Triumph of Connection

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Short Stories – Kumbh Series

Rutbik Gupta
Bilaspur, Chattisgarh

Writer attended a Creative Writing Course by Takhte Writers and Publishers

The Kumbh Mela pulsed with life, colours swirling like a painter’s palette. Krish and Shreya squeezed through the throngs of pilgrims, their parents trailing behind, eyes wide with wonder. The air buzzed with chants, the scent of incense thick around them.

               “Look at all those people!” Shreya shouted, her voice barely rising above the chaos. “I feel like we are in a river of heads!”

               “Just stay close,” Krish replied, his grip tightening around her hand. “We can’t lose each other here.”

               Suddenly, a small voice broke through the din. “Mama! Papa!” A boy, no older than six, stood alone, tears streaking his dusty cheeks. Krish’s heart sank.

               “Shreya, we have to help him,” he said, kneeling to the boy’s level. “What’s your name?”

               “Teerth,” he sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “I can’t find my parents!”

               “Don’t worry, Teerth. We’ll help you,” Shreya promised, her voice softening. “Where did you last see them?”

               “By the river… I was looking at the fish,” Teerth whimpered, glancing around, panic rising. “They were right there!”

               “Okay, follow us,” Krish said, standing tall, determination setting in. “We’ll find them.”

               They moved through the crowd, the rhythm of drums and chants echoing around them. Krish scanned each face, searching for a hint of recognition. Shreya whispered encouragement to Teerth, who clung to her hand.

               “Look!” Shreya pointed, spotting a frantic couple searching through the crowd. “Teerth, is that them?”

               Teerth’s eyes lit up. “Yes! Mama! Papa!” He bolted towards them, the sound of his small feet hitting against the ground.

               Krish and Shreya exchanged relieved glances, hearts racing. The couple raised Teerth into their arms, tears streaming down their faces.

               “Thank you! Thank you!” the mother cried, her voice breaking.

“Thank you so much, children. You’ve been our saviour”, said the father, with teary-eyed.

               “No problem,” Krish said, a smile breaking through the tension. “Just doing what’s right.”

               As the family embraced, Krish and Shreya shared a knowing glance. The chaos of Kumbh Mela swirled around them, but at that moment, they felt the triumph of connection.

Photo Courtesy – Mr Rajesh Balouria by Pixabay

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Short-story

Fury of Tomato

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Advika Bhatnagar
Shikshantar School, Gurugram
Grade 3

Alice, a nine-year-old boy, lived in the countryside of Tinseltown with his Granny. He was a stubborn and edgy child. He liked to eat whatever he wanted and didn’t care much about Granny’s words. This made the old lady very sad.

“Granny, Granny, hunger pangs! I want pizza and chocolate ice cream for dinner,” said Alice

“Wait, child, I’m making delicious chicken soup, healthy multigrain bread, and a fresh salad,” answered Granny.

Alice got angry when he saw salad on the dining table. He yelled, “Again, cucumber, bell pepper, carrot, and tomato. Is that what I will eat? “No, no, no, never, not at all. No dinner tonight.” Granny got worried and left the house to get his favourite food.

Alice was all alone. In anger, he picked up the tomato and threw it at the wall. The red pulp of the tomato almost covered the mid-wall. He was shocked to see the pulp turning into a monster.

“Ha, Ha, Ha, you stubborn boy. Every day I see you trouble your Granny for food. When you hit me against the wall today, I felt hurt. I will teach you a lesson. I am the new king of vegetables. I rule the meals,” said the tomato monster. And then the monster followed him everywhere in the room.

Alice was so scared that he was running in different directions. Sitting under the table, he quietly prayed, “Oh God, please save me from this deadly monster.”

Alice rushed to his Granny’s room, wears her hat and robe. He picks up the embroidered, favourite napkin of the Granny and moves slowly towards the wall. He wipes the tomato pulp, and the monster disappears right away.

Alice gets the lesson of his life to value all food. He vows to take care of Granny, as her belongings protect him. When she was back, he hugged her and said, “I love you so much. I will eat whatever you cook for me.”

The writer attended Takhte Writers & Publishers’ Story Writing Writeshop at Kalasthali, Gurugram.


Photo Courtesy – Andre Taissin (xRUJcUTEp6Y) Unsplash

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