Little Big Sheela - By Suparna Ghansham

Written By: Suparna Ghansham

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Suparna Ghansham, writing under the name Little Big Sheela, presents a poignant and thought-provoking short story titled "Little Big Sheela." This narrative, part of the esteemed Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar, delves into the complex themes of identity and loss against the backdrop of a divided world. Suparna's vivid storytelling captures the innocence of childhood amidst the harsh realities of religious and political upheaval.

About the Work

"Little Big Sheela" explores the emotional turmoil of a young girl navigating a world torn apart by religious division. With a keen eye for detail, Suparna Ghansham crafts a narrative that juxtaposes the innocence of childhood against the grimness of political conflict. Through evocative imagery and poignant dialogue, the story paints a vivid picture of loss, resilience, and the quest for identity in a rapidly changing world.

Little Big Sheela

Original Submission by Suparna Ghansham

“Why are we being stripped away from our roots because we are of the wrong religion?” “How is there such a thing as a wrong religion?” “If our religion tells us to be kind to other human beings, what does this right religion teach?” “Why has this border been created?” “How is it going to bring peace to those of the wrong and right religions?” “Does religion have to be tied to a certain land?” Their parents were asking each other these questions without answering them as though looking for answers around the house when they were actually doing a mental inventory of what was in their home.

Sheela, the oldest daughter, had overheard them, and was wondering what was going on, but she knew the day that lay ahead was a big one. She went to bed that night, her parents’ voices and those questions still resounding in her head.

The sun was glistening over their possessions laid out in front of their home. The ones that they thought they could carry strewn all over the place among those they thought they would need. They had no idea what was waiting for them on the other side. They knew they had to start again. Rebuild, renew, and recreate. A blank slate awaited them. Or did they have to carry that across too?

They had no idea what was happening. They were just following their parents’ instructions. Suddenly, they were told to pick up just one or two of their favourite toys and make sure they stuffed them into their bags, which already looked like they were going to spew stuff out as they had been overfilled. They looked around their home thinking, “Isn’t this home? Why are we not coming back?” Their parents silenced them with loud and agitated responses when they questioned them.

Meanwhile there were cries of ‘Independence’ coming from the streets. The British colonialists were leaving after intense discussions with the leaders of the two religions. Cries of celebration were everywhere amongst those of pain.

She went to her next-door neighbour’s home to bid her friend a quick farewell. The door was locked and there was an Arabic inscription of sorts on a black background on the front wall. This had never been there before. The door was never locked during the day before. She stood there confused wondering where Aisha was. She knocked on the door. She shouted, “Aisha, it’s me Sheela. We’re leaving. I don’t know why.” There was no response.

She went home confused, wondering if she had lost a friend. At nine years of age, she was unable to comprehend loss. At 9, life was still quite new. Easy. Fun. Friends were had. Friends were needed to play with.

Her parents were motioning for her to get into the vehicle with her four siblings. All looking equally if not more confused. Her three younger brothers, and her little sister. Her mum had told her that there was another sibling on the way, and this had excited her. She liked being the oldest. She liked taking care of her siblings and had been looking forward to taking care of this new brother or sister. She looked at her mother’s pregnant belly wondering where they would be when this little one would come out.

This vehicle carried her along with her mother and her little siblings. They had a chauffeur, so the five of them were squeezed in the back with her mother in the front seat. “Don’t look out the window,” she said. Sheela wondered why. She told her little siblings to keep their eyes closed. They silently obeyed their big sister while still wondering what all the fuss was about. Wondering why there was an Arabic inscription of sorts on a black background on the windshield.

Curiosity got the better of little big Sheela. She looked out the window to see corpses lying on the road. She knew what dead animals looked like, and these bodies lying on the road looked dead or somewhere near it. She saw people with machetes attacking others while shouting out something she couldn’t hear. There was a dark red fluid on the ground. Splotches of it everywhere. There were puddles of it too with people running towards and from each other creating these red footprints. Sheela wondered if they would clean their footwear that day. She had seen a similar dark red fluid come out of her little arm the day she had fallen over a few weeks ago. Her mother had had to disinfect and cover it up, telling her it would heal in time. She then wondered if their footwear had to be disinfected.

She then asked her mother, “Where is Papa?”

Her mother’s teary response was, “He is in another car with the other chauffeur and two of your uncles. We couldn’t have fit everyone in this car.”

Sheela wondered why her mum was crying, then decided it would have to be something to do with the dark red fluid. The bodies. The machetes.

On they went for a few hours. Her siblings had fallen asleep. She decided she was exhausted and closed her eyes too.

She was awakened when the car stopped, and the chauffeur ripped out the image of the Arabic inscription off the windshield, stuffed it under the accelerator, and drove again.

He said to her mother, “We’re in Hindu territory now. We’re safe.”

In the couple of minutes that he had done this, Sheela heard cries from the street. Cries of ‘Victory to Hindustan.’ There were bodies here too, along with that dark red fluid. She then wondered what they had been saying earlier when she had not been able to hear them. Was it also some sort of ‘victory’ with dead bodies on the road?

They got to the property Sheela’s father owned. He was a wealthy man, owning several properties on their land. Little had Sheela and her siblings on that ill-fated day known that this very land had been divided up. People were being thrown out of their homes and forced to cross a newly created border depending on their religion.

Sheela’s father’s chauffeur came running towards the house a couple of hours later. He went up to his boss’s wife. He was in tears.

“Madam, boss has been shot dead. They stopped the car to inspect who was in it despite the image of the Qur’an on the windshield. They saw his pendant. His Hindu pendant. His brothers are trying to recover his body, but they told me to come to you. I must go back to where I left them soon. Hopefully they would have found his body.”

This pendant carried a symbol. A symbol proudly worn by her father because it was and is believed in Hinduism that at the dawn of creation, this three-letter syllable, pronounce ‘Aum’ was uttered by emptiness.

Sheela’s mother wailed. Little big Sheela, after having looked after her sibling’s many needs rushed out upon hearing her mum. She saw her father’s chauffeur crying.

She asked him, “Where is Papa?”

The chauffeur held her in his arms, caring for her like his own daughter as he had been in employment with this family since before her birth. He said nothing.

Sheela asked again, “Where is Papa?”

Still weeping, he said he had to go and promised he would be back soon.

Sheela looked at her mum on the floor, weeping. She recalled the images of the day. Aisha not coming to the door. Her mother telling her to not look out the window. Her looking out the window anyway. The bodies. The dark red fluid. The cries she could not hear. The cries she could hear.

She teared up and said to her mother, “He’s a body on the road now, right? He’s somewhere with that dark red fluid around. That thing called blood. He’s not coming back.”

Her mother said to her, “Yes, that is right, my child. This is independence.”

END (1333 words)

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating the power of words. It invites writers from around the globe to showcase their talents across various genres, providing a unique opportunity for creative expression and cultural exchange. This competition is a testament to the enduring impact of literature and the arts in shaping our world.

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Suparna Ghansham for sharing "Little Big Sheela" with us as part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Her narrative offers a deeply moving exploration of identity and resilience. We look forward to seeing more of Suparna's insightful storytelling in the future.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.