Short Story

By Vansh Sahni खेलों का मनुष्य के जीवन पर बहुत महत्वपूर्ण प्रभाव है। ये शरीर को हर्ष और उल्लास से भर देते हैं। दुनिया भर में बहुत से खेल खेले जाते हैं, और आज की कहानी ऐसे ही एक खेल के एक छोटे से उपकरण के बारे में है। राहुल एक जवान लड़का था जिसे टेबल टेनिस खेलना बहुत पसंद था। उसके पास एक पुराना रैकेट था जिसे उसने खुद बनाया था। रैकेट बहुत पतला और हल्का था, परंतु बॉल के संपर्क में आते ही उसमें जान आ जाती थी। उससे लगने के बाद बॉल इतनी तेज़ गति से जाती मानो अर्जुन का तीर हो। राहुल

By Sukhendu Ghosh Village Mouripota of Birbhum District. His ancestral house stands there. Five years after his retirement, he is returning to that. He means Mr. Arunachal Basu, former justice, Calcutta High Court. He is addressed as 'JajSaheb' by the villagers and is profoundly respected. In the present story, to avoid repetition of the term “former justice”, he'll be referred to here as Justice Basu. It’s a cool, sunny morning in mid-December. The black Honda City is moving

By Sukhendu Ghosh - Chandi babu not in office today? - I’m sorry. But he’s on leave. - Oh my God, let me just sit down here for a while. She sat there, in the vacant chair in the small cubicle- without permission.  An old beauty, brimming with bright golden skin, tender silvery hair, in a creamy white sari and shiny black frame glasses, a bit parkinsonian perhaps, she looked completely exhausted- quite fed up though. Can I get some water to drink? Oh sure, why not?  I put for

By Sukhendu Ghosh “ There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” -Does it pain too much? The voice is faint--too faint like an imperceptible midnight song drifting from a faraway distance and was not noticeable at first. Neelimesh is limping now toward the kitchen to watch the state of rice, boiling with some vegetables. For three consecutive days, Kabita the maid-cum-cook, has been absenting herself without intimation -- a very

By Aarushi Chakraborty “Hailey Barrett—partner up with Aston Grant.” Mr. Smith’s voice snapped me out of my daydream. My stomach dropped. Aston Grant—golden-boy troublemaker of Ravenwood High, my rival since freshman year. And now I had to work with him. He smirked—that infuriating, smug smirk. Walking to his table, I dropped my notebook ,shooting a withering glare at him. “Seriously,” he said, grinning. “You need to stop giving me death stares. They hurt.”I rolled my eyes. “

By Aarushi Chakraborty Valentine’s Day is supposed to be all about love and hearts. But for me, it’s about trying to get over with bumping into star-crossed overs making out in public (Gross!).  “Gabriela, snap out of it. You’re the no-nonsense girl of Bracket Wood High.” I muttered to myself. Ever since my father left my mum with 6 year old me and my baby brother, I’ve stopped believing in love. Whoever made this stupid idea of people “finding their other half”, well darn th

By Vidhiya Prashanna Another normal day, it began with a touch of self dominated interests, functioning for families, existing for the society calling oneself, as a responsible citizen for the country. Least did Vasudha think that it would be a day that called for thoughtful pondering over various issues.  She held her father’s hand and walked through the busy street of Chennai  Egmore  pathway. The same clogged street vendors, shirtless men, women decked over and above for a

By Vikas Fofandi I was born silent, but my brother made me fluent.  We spoke in a secret rhythm; his fingerprints traced on fogged glass and my Morse code tapped through walls so softly only longing could decipher it. He turned my muteness into a language, creating a secret world just wide enough for the two of us. We could only communicate indirectly through a secret rhythm.  Somehow everything changed two months ago when the lake in front of my house boiled, not with heat,

By Srotoswini Bar Saha After a tiring week, I finally got a day off. My mind whispered that I should do something productive. Right then, my mom gave me an order: “Clean the attic.” With a careless expression, I dragged myself toward it. As I opened the attic door, a storm of dust hit me, making me cough like my lungs would come out. The place was a complete mess—buried under seven or eight layers of dust. Spiders were spinning webs like old grannies knitting sweaters; lizard

By Srotoswini Bar Saha It was Sunday. I woke up around 6:30 in the morning. After finishing my routine, I sat by the window with a cup of tea in one hand and The Blue Umbrella in the other. Everyone in the house was busy with their own little worlds. Papa was shaving, getting ready to go to market, Mamma was cooking making the whole kitchen smoky, Gran was hunting for his spectacles so he could read the newspaper which was actually stuck on his head, and Didi was snoring away

By Srotoswini Bar Saha It's raining cats and dogs outside. Beliti might not come today. “Belit" I named her, her soft milky skin red tinted cheeks make her look like a foreigner. It was the 12th of April, three years ago, around 3 o’clock in the afternoon, when we moved into this empty single storey 'should get renovated' house - "we" meaning me and my lovely, beautiful wife. We’ve been happily married for 52 years. She was the life to my soul, now she is lifeless settled in

By S.Lokesh All my friends said that they like Saturday night more than Sunday morning. But I never felt that way because they said I never went to school, so I don't understand what Sunday means to them. Every day is Sunday for me. My friends were afraid of Monday morning, but I liked it very much, because if my father went to work on Monday, there would be peace at home without any quarrels. My friends who went to school for six days always wait for Sunday, but I don't unde

By Mamata R ಳುಘಟ್ಟ ಕಗ್ಗತ್ತಲು, ಜೋರು ಮಳೆ. ವತು೯ಲಾಕಾರದ ತಿರುವಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಹಳೆಯ ಜೀಪೊ೦ದು ನಿಧಾನವಾಗಿ ಕೆಳಗಿಳಿಯುತ್ತಿದೆ. ಅದರ ವೀಕಾದ ಹೆಡ್ಲ್ಯಾ೦ಪಗಳ ಮಾಸಿದ ಬೆಳಕು ಮೇಲೆದ್ದಿರುವ ಚಿಕ್ಕಚಿಕ್ಕ ಜಲ್ಲಿಕಲ್ಲುಗಳ ಟಾರು ರೋಡಿನ ಮೇಲೆ ಬೀಳುತ್ತಿದೆ. ಘಟ್ಟದ ದಾರಿ‌, ಕಗ್ಗತ್ತಲು ಜೋರು ಮಳೆ, ಕಡಿದಾದ ತಿರುವುಗಳು ವೀಕಾದ ಹೆಡ್ಲ್ಯಾ೦ಪುಗಳು ಕೇವಲ ಅದಷ್ಟೇ ಕಾರಣಕ್ಕಲ್ಲದೆ ತನ್ನದೊ೦ದು ಆ೦ತರಿಕ ಕಾರಣದಿ೦ದಲೂ ಜೀಪು ನಿಧಾನವಾಗಿ ಚಲಿಸುತಿತ್ತು.  ಆ ಕಾರಣ ತಿಳಿದುಕೊಳ್ಳಲು ಜೀಪಿನ ಒಳಗೆ ಇಣುಕಬೇಕು. ಅಲ್ಲಿ ಎಷ್ಟು ಮುಖಗಳಿವಿಯೊ ಮು೦ದಿನ ಸೀಟಿನಲ್ಲಿ, ಹಿ೦ದಿನ ಎದುರುಬದರ ಸೀಟಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಗುರುತಿರುವ ಗುರುತು

By Harold Kelvin Melchezidek Jensen Today, I think Wendle Collingwood loves me. What makes me think this isn’t by some ‘great revelation’ but by a gradual piecing together, kind of like a puzzle in my head. Now if a stranger were to be asked to identify the piecing of the puzzle, I’m sure they would always get it wrong from Wendle’s treatment and attitude toward me, which always seem like he hates me. He really is a kind individual who cares a lot for other people, like how h

By Jacob James Grigware We would meet every night after a bullshit day's work. We would laugh at the fact that we don’t have to sleep. Don’t have to eat. Don’t have to get ready for tomorrow's bullshit. At the start, we would spend just a few hours apart from the world. Just a few extra hours to spend together, without the toil. It would be the thing pushing us through the day. Tonight, we’ll think, we get to stop and relax. We won’t have to fight. Then a thought would walk a

By Ella Kang Dear Diary, June 11th, 2025 The indigenous moments of my life, the cold winds callously swaying around my waist, and the infuriating clatters of the disgracefully rusted horseshoe of that greyish-brown dark horse racing around the empty hallway of my heart…They’re all gone—now. I, finally, have found one. Somebody hidden behind the vivid screen, perhaps scintillating as the curtain he’s hiding behind it. He was waiting for me on the site, behind the blue banner o

By Matthew Schmidt They say that in their final moments, people relive their lives, revisiting the highs and lows as the  brain searches for forgotten knowledge to help it process the unknown feeling of dying.  The woman’s every breath was conscious, delaying but not preventing the inevitable. She did not  resist her imminent fate, but was keen to revisit every fond memory that flashed through her mind before  letting death take her. As they flooded back, she smiled.  She had

By Matthew Schmidt Staying still had never felt so wrong. The soldier's hands drummed restlessly on the hilt of his  sword, his heart pounding rapidly against his breastplate, yearning for battle. His horse was impatient too,  its hooves beating steadily against the ground, longing to burst from the ranks. The soldier gripped the  sides of his steed with his knees, using his full strength to restrain the beast.  “Not yet,” he promised. “Our time will come.”  Another horse str

By Matthew Schmidt Scratch marks blemish the walls and floor that surround her. Garments carpet the room, and  furniture is toppled. Some would call it insanity, but she calls it desperation.  The woman herself is weak, no longer appearing strong enough to have caused the mess  surrounding her. She has not eaten for days and has not left the confines of the room for even longer. Her  torn dress reveals a prominent collarbone and ribcage, almost begging to burst through the ti

By Matthew Schmidt When I was seven years old, I watched my grandfather kill himself. It was not the first time I had  witnessed a suicide, and it did not startle me, for they occur frequently in my region. My Grandmother  herself had already taken her life before I was born. The wives always seemed to go before the husbands.  I was not the only one present when my grandfather breathed his last. The whole village had  gathered to watch as the weight of his body tightened the