It was the shade of the ashwath that vanquished all one’s weariness from the fiery heat of Choitro. Or else it was not possible for fatigue to be eliminated so quickly.

The night after the story got published, Jamal stormed to my home at around 11 PM, drenched in the rain. That was the first and only time Jamal raised his voice against me

"That’s why I have jars of jealousy, anger, sadness, monotony, but this – it’s important."

I will not even begin with the skies

One sits silently. Her eyes blink sometimes. Sometimes her lips tremble a little, or they don’t tremble at all.

Behind the bangles that jingle ominously in the dark, there is a voice—a voice that has long been silenced

“Residents usually get 30 days of observation period,” said the man at the reception, “but since it’s a leap year, you get an extra day.

Bolstered, the six little mice lead their army up–up–up the trunk of the poor, ravaged oak they were so desperate to save. 

After many years, Ira has returned to my town. She hops four towns to get here. We are supposed to meet today. I’ve been ready since morning. We will meet by the lakeside.

This is the third and final part of “Storm Child”, serialised here on Star Literature

Markan didn't have an answer. The word "Arakan" felt distant, like something from a dream he couldn't quite remember

Every time I enter it, this building carves out a tiny piece of my heart, leaving behind the sharp tang of hospital bleach and lemon-scented air freshener in its place.

His final sentiments were etched into the table before he succumbed to his final rest: "I found solace in the mountains. They demanded nothing and remained steadfast by my side."

As I turn back, my eyes catch sight of what appears to be hands, but of a tan, furry kind, feeling its way inside the sliding doors

I plead but I know there is nothing I can do. Akbar, in a rare fit of courage, tries to intervene. But the old man does not budge. Maybe he knows about Mina and me.

“The roads are too clean. The sun is too bright,” she thought.

Sumedha replied with annoyance, "I will make him say the words. It's so simple, 'Apni kemon achhen, bhalo?' Why can't he say it?"

While reading it, one might feel that they are reading a mother’s confessions while she takes care of her son.

In a world spun from the threads of chaos, we are born into a tapestry of shadows. We are shimmering maidens in the night, nurturing within us a fire both subtle and strong. Yet, the air around us is heavy with whispers–danger and desire intertwined.

Chaos. More chaos.