Celebrating Diwali – A short Story

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 33; the thirty-third edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is 'Celebrations'

This fiction won Silver in Blog-a-Ton 33. A warm thanks for all the readers who voted for this post.


The Tale-


“WOW”

The twelve year olds gasped as the bottle rocket leapt up into the sky, drawing an arc of glittering sprinkles and burst into a million lights. The inky night’s sky carried around the echoes of the bloom, still reverberating on the lucid eyes of the playful lot, as they stared up into the void waiting for the next dazzler. Anticipation welling in their chubby faces.

He looked at his street peers and sighed to himself as he walked to light the next cracker. He couldn't help his chest swelling a bit in pride, with each and every fancy cracker that he set ablaze, with the swirling showers that bound forward into the celestial heights, the litany of colors that shot out of his hand held sparklers, swirls, twirls and the light pearls, the middle of activity and celebrating frenzy. He let loose another bevy of fireworks and turned to look at the fascinated faces of the street kids. Pink, Violet, Amber and Magenta – a bunch of curious eyes followed the myriad lines cruising from the spilling sparks seething unbridled into the darkness of the night.

“Burst some more!! Burst some more” the street kids shouted. 

He sighed melodramatically pleased with himself, at the magnificence of the firecrackers that he was bursting and at the bevy of requests that piled up at him for his consideration. He smiled and responded. Once again, the street exploded into a plethora of colors brimming with incandescence and life. The poor kids jumped with their hands up, floating up along with them; their faded clothes raised and riveted, its torn rims scuffling in the passing wind, their dirty hair puzzled but still pandering to their delighted leaps, their lucid voices tethering in jubilation. Somewhere beneath their bare bucking legs laid forgotten the dirt sack- filled and tied tight with all the thrown away pieces of clothing and the bits of recyclable plastics, still rank with lurid fungus, an assemble of things that they thought was worth something from the streets and the occasional dustbin, their bag of scavenge, the bag that was to pay for their latter supper, if they were to get one.

But then, when in bliss now, why bother about later.

And just when the volley of crackers went down, he took out the real big ones, the 1000 walas* and held it out to them like a showman magician putting forth some object of great mystical value and a brief proud smile glinted down his lips just for a moment. And just as he sprang to the middle of the road to light the crackers, the kids scampered with frantic cries and hushes to a safe distance, just safe enough to be at the foot of the excitement. And the crackers did not disappoint. Even as he scuttled away with heroic sweeps of his legs after he lit the fuse, a jumble of drums rolled pitching and patting ripping out from a litany of lights skewing the borders of fun and festivities.


The Snap- 

And then finally, he brought forth his last show piece for the day; His most favorite of the lot; the last pack of bottle rockets; with special double shot; ones that exploded not once but twice in the sky sending out reels of lighted petals. And with each and every whoosh, boom and boom of every single rocket, he savored with vigor the fireworks, all the attention sweeping around him, the joy he threw open for everybody and most of all, just the bumbling binge of life that pumped around him.

After bursting all his crackers, he turned to his house with a dazzling smile and walked in, his strides smart and confident. His mother was in the kitchen cooking, his father as usual in front of the television with the news channel playing, its volume tuned up.

“Papa….” He whined “I want to see cartoon network…”

“Not now chotu*” his father retorted “Don’t disturb me. You can watch your cartoons later”

“P… L… E…. A….. S…. E….” He pitched up his voice dragging raw the bare legs of those syllables.

And just as his father turned at look at him, with irked lines crossing his face, their home went dark; A power failure. His father cursed to himself, got up and went out to look at the fuses. The house shone a melancholy amber, bathed in all the liquid light that the array of Diwali lamps put up; its hallowed luminescence drawing sweeping arcs of their shadows as he went along with his father to the front porch. And just then, he heard sharp jubilant laughs and yells coming from the street.

He went and peaked outside the courtyard gate.

Amid-st the dust being kicked up and the bunch of legs that warred with each other, a rough version of football was being played by the rag-picking kids. They pushed about each other trying to get their ball into some invisible goal, their ball that rolled around with gusto, their ball that clinked and rattled with each and every bounce, their ball; the bottle, his bottle, his own bottle, the one he used for lighting the fuses of those rockets, the one he got from his father after quite some tantrum, the bottle he simply forgot and left in the middle of nowhere, skittered across the street bumping from one tiny feet to another, chased and paused by the same bundle of feet.

And just then, the bottle rolled and landed right in front of him, kicked by one of those kids still soaked in the slime of their celebrations. They turned and looked at him, their brown limpid eyes expectant.

He looked at them and at the bottle and felt himself torn with indecision. Some part of him wanted to get his bottle, his bottle from these kids. Some part of him urged him to kick the bottle again and join in the game. But how can he?? It’s not like he hated them or don’t want to play with them. It’s just that, it felt somewhat awkward, him playing with them, the rag pickers. He stood there caught in a rut vacillating, his heart pounding in his ears, licks of sweat lining his underarms; his fingers pulling tight his shirt tails.

He looked down at his bottle once again, his bottle, his own bottle and then at the kids. It was not like he needed the bottle. But, why should he give it to them? He was not there playing. He was not there in the middle of things. He was not even involved. Of course, he was the one who forgot the bottle. But then it’s still his bottle. Right? And he doesn't really need any permission from anybody to take back the same bottle? Does he? Why shouldn't he? 

He started to edge towards the bottle; measured steps; One eye still on the bottle; one on the street kids. The bottle shimmered alone in the distant light of the diwali lamps. Its once smooth contours, now a parable of scars and lines, its fine features chipped and nipped in countless places, the bottle kept its silence for once, maybe it sensed the drama unfolding around. And just as he got near the bottle, he heard the clear voice of a girl from the bunch shouting.

“KICK”

He paused and looked blank at the bunch of kids staring at them; as blank as a deer caught in the severe lights of a racing truck. He just stared; lost for thoughts. The kids, like the kids they were jumped into the band wagon and chorused “KICK…… KICK…… KICK”. Their eyes alone shining in the darkness, along with those few diwali lamps still left with oil to continue burning.

Their throbbing voices flooded him in waves, their joy, their openness, their friendliness and the easy invitation to their game. He suddenly felt beaten, ashamed. He had wanted deprive them of their ball. He had wanted to stop all this fun, all this delight and rejoice, all this warmth and games; Just because he wanted back his broken bottle, his old wasted, broken bottle; His bottle that was going to end in the dustbin anyway; His bottle that was a another piece of litter for him; his bottle that he did not really have any lasting interest in, His bottle, his own junk bottle but their coveted ball.

His throat clenched with emotion and his young eyes welled up. He looked at their them warmly. Their eyes alone shone in the darkness, sparkling with rapture and exalted delectation. A fete embellished and garnished with innocence and life. The kids were wanted their balls. It was their ball. He took a deep breath and moved forward to kick the bottle to them and to join them in the game.

And just then, the power came back on. The front porch lights blinked suddenly illuminating the expanse of the street, replacing the kind and warm lights of diwali lamps with the harsh and static shine of electricity. The new brilliance spilled the realities that the diwali lamps had kissed and missed; The torn dirty ragging clothes flapping free in the wind, their dry dejected hair, their dingy bare feet with nails rimmed with grime, their noses dripping with phlegm and their bundle of dirty rags left to stink in the corner of the street. And as he hesitated, in that split second, he heard the sharp voice of his father calling for him.

“Chotu*, where are you?”

He turned and walked slowly to his father, leaving the bottle right where it stopped in the first place. His strides thoughtfully slow.

“Hey… Why the long face? What happened?” his father quizzed.

“Nothing” he said.

“hmhm .... Really!!”

“hmhm hmhm” he nodded.

“Okay, come on” said his father as he led him by hand into the house. “I am hungry. Let’s see what your mother has made for dinner.”

And as they went inside hand in hand, he could help but hear the rampant jubilation of the street kids and their game of football, still celebrating Diwali.

Fin


*1000 walas - a firecracker that is made from 1000 smaller pieces and it very famous in India during the celebrations of Diwali

*Chotu - Colloquial call name for kids. (translates as small one in Hindi - an Indian Language)

Author’s note-

When I first contemplated this tale, I was thinking of giving it a happy ending with the kid joining in for the football game. With Diwali celebrations ahead, I wanted to write something that will uplift the moods of everyone reading this post. My sister, my first critic – did not like that ending. She simply told me that you cannot sacrifice a good story, in order to provide a happy ending and a cliched one at that. So, I revised the story – to work in a more practical manner and that gave me this bitter sweet ending. Hence, I share creative credits of this story with my sister.

Also, I take immense joy in wishing a very happy and a memorable Diwali to each and every one of my friends, reading this post and their families. I bid you guys’ good health and great spirits in this festive season. And ample luck to all my buddy - blog-a-ton participants. Hope you guys have a great time blogging this holiday season.



PS-

Diwali is an important festival of India that usually comes around in November.  It is celebrated with bursting crackers, exchanging sweets and savories that are home made and decorating nights with rows and rows of Diwali lights (trust me, you should see the resplendence of the them. Its from these lamps that Diwali also gets the name as Festival of lights ).

In my native, Tamil Nadu- the festival marks the victory of Lord Krishna over the Demon Narakasura. It is said that the demon himself when dying at the hands of the Krishna, requested to him, that he did not want to be forgotten and would like for his death to be celebrated with the bursting of  noisy crackers(the tale as told by my grandmother). There are several other origin stories for Diwali and to know more about them and to know more about the festival itself- Kindly visit the given link.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Introduced By: BLOGGER NAME, Participation Count: 05

Rest in Peace - A short story

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 32; the thirty-second edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is 'An Untold Story'

The snap-

The Fiction- 

Even the most daring and the desperate of the prostitutes avoided that alley, its dark shadows and its depraved inhabitants, for no better reason than the simple fact that they wanted to; Not that it did not have its share of leering customers with sleazy money and even sleazier sexual appetites. The alley, if it could be still called that was dead, decadent and decaying. Its crumbling walls, the dank paint with its edges pealing, the spewing drainage, its putrid stench wafting about, the street hewed into loose stones and broken pot holes, murky puddles slurping in the darkness, a broken streetlight flickering dipping in and out of life, A few crows pecking at the rutting garbage and its contents. A more perfect stage could not have been bargained for, for all the blood that was going to be spilled.

There was a cold silence, a calculating silence. The three men stood there simply staring at each other, trying to get a sense of each other, daring the other to make his first move. The knives they held glinted wickedly in the moonless night, its sharp counters cutting the few shards of light from the broken tube light. One of them, the one wearing a dull red shirt stood on one end of the narrow lane facing the other two; the other two who were here to kill him. Bloody mother fuckers. Who did they think they were dealing with? Some street punk! He was not going to be easy. Fucking dammed, if they think this is going to be that easy. His fingers tightened, closing hard on the handle of his knife, turning his knuckles white.

 “MOTHERFUCKERS” He shouted and rushed at them both with his knife in his outstretched hands. He was going to do them, do them both real good, cut through their fucking innards. Nobody gets away with this. Nobody gets away after pulling a fucking knife on him. He sped up, his feet plodding across the rubble, his face slowly widening with a loathsome mirth. And then he tripped. Tripped on some left over debris and was down with a dull thud. He laid there on the bare lifeless gravel, with his own life slowly ebbing out of him along with a warm worm of blood trickling out of his broken forehead.

The other two looked at each other and exchanged a smirk.

 “What a lovely fuck up!! Went down and died even without putting up a decent fight.”  

Remarked one of them, the one who seemed to be the sadistic leader as he slowly came forward, measuring each of his steps, eyeing the red shirt for any sudden movements. “Pathetic Bastard !” He thought to himself. A waste, A criminal waste. Now, he was never going to get his arousal.  He never really got them, until and unless he heard his victims cry and beg for mercy. Just for a few minutes as he played with them and the dull end of his knife. And when he was denied that, that simple and basic joy of killing just because this asshole couldn't wait to get iced, made him mad, quite a bit mad.

He kicked with his heavy soles into the abdomen of the victim and heard him cry out in ripping pain with delight.

"Fuck, the ponce is still alive!!"

The tormentor grunted his approval with a malicious grin that lit his face in the dead darkness of the alley. He turned and looked at his young partner, beckoning him to join the fun. He sighed to himself. After all, he was just getting started and the more the company, the more the fun. Right!!

But then fate took a sharp turn.

The blow to his shin with the knife was so hard, it ruptured a few veins that blood didn't just ooze out but gushed out to paint the alley road a dense dark crimson. Instinct took over all his senses and he simply bent over reaching for his leg. A mistake and even before he realized that, the red shirt thrust-ed his knife all the way through his left eye, tearing apart the softer tissues of the brain. He fell down dead.

Exhausted with his vengeance, the dull red shirt laid there panting and fighting for air in the stagnating cesspool of blood. The third guy, quite shaken but still holding on the side of tough edged towards the dead and the nearly dead. The Sweat was pouring from his face and every fiber in his body was pulling taunt with fear, as he slowly bent over his partner and tried to rouse him.

Then it happened.

The red shirt in his final attempt to breathe opened his mouth wide and all the gathering blood rushed in and he choked, his last breath escaped with a ghoulish guttural splurged in his own fluids.

That low haunting sound broke whatever remaining guts, the third guy had. He stood up and started to run; away from there; Away from the alley; Away from everything. He simply ran until every single muscle in his soul was totally exhausted, his lung palpitated and his mind numbed. Right in front of a speeding truck. He became one of those hit and run casualties, dead even before hitting the ground.

The sky slowly darkened as if in mourning and the sound of the rain mixed with the sirens of the ambulance in distant echoes.

Three were dead.

A few untold stories, some dreams and some distant tears rotted away along with those carcasses and but what told aloud in a solemn voice by the priest as he presided over their joint burial ceremony was that all the three were but the children of god who were pure in soul and though good in character, had been corrupted in life and forgiveness was sought, for the almighty is all forgiving and benevolent.

And the dead would finally rest in peace. For after all, the dead rarely lament.

Amen.



Author's note-

If you guys liked the dark theme of the above fiction and do have stomach for much grittier and wicked stuff, stuff that could really get to you- do try this one. ( Darkness in its most wicked form guaranteed.)

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Introduced By: BLOGGER NAME, Participation Count: 04

The silent melody- A short story

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 31; the thirty-first edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is 'Strangers in the Night'

The fiction-

A slow Jazz music filled the dead silence of the hospital, its melodious notes dragging their feet across the almost empty hospital corridors resonating with the dry lonely lights spaced uniformly across the length of the walkway. A few nurses who were going about their jobs stopped and listened not believing their own ears. A few patients who were still awake blinked stupidly wondering what the loud music was doing near the ward for terminal patients. It was then that Frank Sinatra’s lucid baritone started to croon the lyrics of his once famous song-

Strangers in the night

Exchanging glances

Wondering in the night

What were the chances?

We'd be sharing love

Before the night was through

The duty doctor who was finishing up his last rounds stopped in mid-step hearing the song. His own heart suddenly picked up speed and literally started to pound against his ribs, as he reversed his direction and started running towards the source of the sound. A few nurses and orderlies of the night shift were also rushing along breathless in the same direction.  The motley bunch of curious patients who had already gathered outside the room from which the music was coming moved away jerkily making may for the rushing mob all in their medical whites. Their panic stricken faces heaving up oxygen trying keep up with their plodding legs. A locked door shut from the inside of the room greeted them.

The doctor took control of the situation seamlessly, ordering an orderly to break open the door using the fire extinguisher hanging on the wall nearby. He then rushed to the window and peeked inside its crevices trying to grasp what’s happening on the inside. Someone from the crowd behind whispered “but the door opens to the outside….. How did he manage to lock it?  And from where did he get his stereo” Nobody had any answers. Just more questions that echoed in the hollows of their mind, the more important questions that they did not dare to ask aloud. What is he doing inside? More importantly what is he doing to her? Is he suffering a mental breakdown? It’s not something new to happen in the terminal patient ward but happening to him was quite a surprise. 

Dealing with cancer always gets to you, breaks you, makes you do crazy things. Seeing life ebb out of the one you love a single bit at a time with each and every passing day, with no way to stop it, counter it but to simply slow it, as they wallow in their own suffering, the empty words of faith falling meaningless in their darkening world. With too much hurt drenching them down, nibbling away at their edges, as they try to plod though life smiling, pain takes new meanings literally.  

“I see them” shouted the orderly breaking the door. “I see them. The door just gave a crack. I….” He paused with a pained voice and turned his head from the door looking up at the doctor “I think he is crushing her, suffocating her”. The doctor leaped to the door plunging his eye into the broken rift in the door. A few seconds stood sweating without the heart to pass on; together with the bunch of people standing around waiting for the young doctor to give his speak.

“Bloody bastard……. He is making her dance with him.” He turned around enraged and snatched the fire extinguisher from the orderly and started going at the door, all the while cursing mad.  “Bastard…. I told him. Fucking bastard….. I told him. She is too weak. She cannot take the strain.” Sinatra sang along ignoring him.

Something in your eyes

Was so inviting

Something in your smile

Was so exciting

Something in my heart

Told me I must have you
Strangers in the night

Two lonely people

We were

Strangers in the night

Pieces of wood, dust and broken strips of plaster flew in the air with each ram the door took. Plaster….. The fucker had used plaster, fucking plaster on the entire door to shut them out. And thatsealed the door leaving no weak or easy fracturing points. Soon the other orderlies joined in going at the door with everything they had. The door slowly started to cave in giving into the inhuman beating that it was receiving. Cracks slowly broke into rifts that started to fissure though the entire structure of the door. Someone shouted “we are almost there”. And then suddenly the door tore open.

And they rushed in, the doctor, the orderlies and the nurses spilling into the room each one spinning out of control rushing with the flow of the crowd, they saw one of the weirdest sights ever. An elderly couple slowly moving around locked in their embraces; her lanky figure with the flowing white hospital gown, himself suited up in his best threads; her bony hands clinging to his bosom; his arms around her, holding her with care as he dipped and moved her around to the warm and wafting melody. Her shriveled face looked satisfied, her eyes closed rejoicing the swing of the movement, the ease with which he held her, the love with which he moved her around, ever so gently and his burning eyes that betrayed his own pain, seeing her wince in distress with each and every turn, her frail figure going rigid in his hands, the few wisps of hair on her bald head, the occasional gasp when the stress and the pain are too much for her. Sinatra’s regal voice dived into the simple lyrics once again.

Up to the moment

When we said

Our first hello

Little did we know,

Love was just a glance away,

A warm embracing dance away.

“Ma….” Cried the doctor as he separated his mother from his father and set her on the bed. She looked exhausted, her lungs trying to breathe in gulps and failing, her pulse stammering erratically, her tiny body wrestling with the few drops of life left in her, she looked forlorn, expect for her eyes, her eyes that twinkled with a mischievous grin. She beckoned him to her and started to slowly mouth something. “Ma, don’t strain… please.” He whispered, his voice begging as he bent down to catch her words. Her flailing voice fluttered. “Don’t be hard ………. on your father. He could ……..” She paused thoughtfully and whispered with a mellow fondness “Never refuse me”

“Nurse, some help here…” He shouted as he started to treat his exhausted and ailing mother. He never noticed the single tear that raced across his quivering cheek.

The music still played, left unattended to in all the happening commotion and was painting bold strokes of intense love in the vibrating embers of air. Seconds slipped around, danced swirling into a few minutes.

Ever since that night

We’ve been together

Lovers at first sight,

In love forever

It turned out so right

For strangers in the night

He slowly walked to the door after treating his mother. His father was sitting on the bench outside the room staring into the dead of the night, alone with his own thoughts.

“How’s she?” he asked as soon as he saw him.

“Exhausted... completely” he paused sitting near him. “But okay..... She's okay”

His father let a deep breath out and closed his eyes. They sat there silent, lost in each other’s thoughts. Neither of them spoke. Neither felt the need to. They simply sat there sharing not just the space and the silence. The biting cold did not seem to bother them in the least. The song had finally ended.

Author's note - 

Thanks a lot to Sadiya Merchant, for introducing me to to Frank Sinatra's - Strangers in the night. I don't really know whether she was inspired by the song itself but I myself was. The song is going into my favorites. As for the story, I wanted to create one that would start and end with a single song, the song itself being an integral character of the story. hope you guys enjoy it.

I would severely recommend listening to the song and reading the story. The song itself is a statement of love, poignant, lucid and heart felt. Just close your eyes and listen to Sinatra creating the atmosphere of pure love and it's joy.  For more information about the song, kindly visit here. 

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Introduced By: BLOGGER NAME, Participation Count: 03

Saving the Sun – A short story.

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 30; the thirtieth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

The Following fiction won the Silver at Blog-a-ton 30. A warm thanks for everyone who voted for the same.

The Snap-

The fiction-

“Papa papa, the sun is drowning….. The sun is drowning…”

Shouted the small girl as she came in tears, her outstretched hands searching for him. Her pink frock peppered with wet sand tussled around making way for her tiny feet scrambling forward. Her tussled hair swayed around, flirting with the roaming swirls of wind.

He bent down to greet his five year old, his calm fluid gaze meeting capturing her exquisite child eyes. Eyes that right now were filled with concern, a whole hearted concern tinged with passion, an intense burning passion, a kid’s passion held with all the abandonment in the world. Her voice tumbled out of her in parts, not waiting for her to get her breath back.

“Papa….. Papa…….. The sun’s drowning. The sun ………. drowning”

She paused and raised her tiny arms towards the coast.

“We need to do something.” She turned and looked at him. “Don’t we??”

He moved a few loose strands of hair away from her eyes and stuffed them in her easy braids, dried her tears in his neatly pressed shirt sleeves, lifted her of her chubby feet and started to walk following her hand’s direction.

The evening beach was a multitude of activity. A few late joggers plodding across the sand, quite a few bunches of kids playing, some along the coast running with the waves, a few industrious ones building sand castles, some just chasing each other, a few teens playing football with the goal posts marked in sand, people just sitting, relaxing taking in the dusk, it’s simmering colors washing along each rushing wave’s frolic and froth, ample echoes of laughter and joy mixing with the warm wind and it’s moisture laden fingers, the beach was brimming with life spilling at its seams.

And amidst them, he reached to where his daughter was leading him; a few teenagers sitting around in the waves, joking among themselves, laughing at the world, at themselves, at anything and everything, that picked their flight of fancy. Their pretty beach shirts stood out, vibrant and playful, a bold display of their gay and festive mood. They turned around just in time to see the girl say in her voice laden with anxiety.

“Look papa…… The sun’s drowning. It’s sinking, sinking slowly into water”

The youngsters sitting around started to laugh, seeing that their prank on the kid was working just fine. One of them teased.

“A sad day indeed, for the sun to drown.” A few wild guffaws followed.

The kid shouted back. “I have brought my father.”

“Oh Really!! And what’s he going to do.” They challenged back her innocent claim.

“He will save the sun.” his daughter’s chirpy voice sounded firm and decided.

He looked across at the shimmering expanse of water. The sun was indeed in its last phase of the day’s travel. A shower of orange hews silhouetting the world against itself, a lavish splash of shadows running along the line of the coast. The last embers of the sun’s ring were resonating from the other end of the horizon, from its drowning depths perhaps.

He looked at the people teasing his daughter and herself stout & defiant making her stand against them, holding on firmly to him. He couldn’t help but smile to himself and iterate to her in a calm voice.

“Yes, my girl we will save the sun.”

He calmly looked around at everyone laughing and repeated the same slowly, tasting each and every syllable, relishing at the mighty sound of its absurd claim.

“Yes, my girl we will save the sun.”

“But, how shall we do it??” he quizzed her.

His daughter replied determined. “Lasso it papa……”

“Like wonder women”

“Yes papa”

“Hmhm……. For that, we need to bring the sun closer to us, to reach out and lasso it.” He paused thoughtfully for a few seconds. “What we will do is dig a large pit here, so that the water will flow towards us, creating a slant and the sun will roll towards us along with the flowing water and then we will get a chance to lasso it, once we get it near enough. Okay” He asked her.

His daughter hanging on to each and every word of his, his confidence, his easy charisma voiced his full consent. “Okay Papa, we do it.”

He settled her down, loosened his tie, rolled his shirt cuffs and pants and set down digging with his bare hands. His hard fingers furrowing through wet sand, shoveled up large wet lumps of earth with each and every hearty scoop. His daughter joined him at his side moving the earth her father’s digging up away from falling again into the pit.

At first they laughed. The youngsters who pulled the sun’s drowning prank on the kid stood around the toiling father and daughter and laughed heartily. A few even teased. Harsh comments on the silly charade. And then after a few minutes, they simply stood there, witnessing this strange spectacle.

A crowd started to gather.

All the small kids playing nearby joined in the effort, their laughter splaying over the wet sand, just for the fun’s sake; Someone who was building castles nearby supplied with a few bucket and small plastic shovels; People gathered entranced by the sight; stood around captivated by the strangeness of the tall tale; A father and daughter trying to drain the sea in an effort to roll over the sun towards them, so as to lasso it and save it from drowning; Utter ludicrous; a preposterous attempt to pacify a kid; a grown man behaving like a raving kid;

Many just stood gaping at the effort the father was working up with his daughter, the multitude of wet sand flying in all the direction, the pit growing in leaps and bounds with each and every passing second, the sheets of water rushing into the pit, the unfaltering faith that the kid showed on her father, half her anxious eyes set on the drowning sun, half on her valiant effort, her small hands going about their formidable quest, the sun ever so slowly sinking, gently suffocated and smothered by the expanse of blue water despite all their herculean efforts.

“Papa…. It’s gone.” Her voice wavered. “It’s …….. gone.”

Everybody fell silent.

Her father sat down exhausted, looking at the rapidly darkening horizon, an empty horizon, his breath still coming in spurts with all the hard physical work.

“We have to do something papa” she shouted, her voice broken and shrill.

All around, people stood stupefied. Not knowing what to do, not knowing how to confront the honest chagrin in her voice, not knowing how to explain to her it’s all but a ruse to have fun on her innocence.

He stared ahead thoughtfully and said. “It did not work.”

His daughter nodded; her eyes still staunch, too stubborn to cry, to whimper.

“Are we going to give up” He asked, touching her flushed cheeks with his fingers.

“No” she shouted back with an animal ferocity. “No, we are not going to give up”

“Good” he said calmly nodding. “There is always another chance.”

His daughter looked at him, each and every single of his words etched into the solidness of her heart. Nobody in the crowd dared to breath. A few last passing sea gulls were heard, their cries clear reaching out to their fledglings. Even the kids playing with the sand stopped to listen. Parents, teenagers, joggers, picnickers, people who were just relaxing, A couple of old men in their evening walks, each and every one of the motley group that had gathered leaned forward, not wanting to miss anything, anything at all.

The kid’s father continued. “The earth, in fact is round, we can go in the opposite direction and save the sun from drowning from the other side” He paused waiting for his daughter’s reply.

She stood up from her father’s lap, pulled him up, dusted the sand off him with her tiny hands and said in an urgent voice “papa… Let’s hurry.”

And as the crowd slowly parted, allowing the couple to continue on their adventure, the kid stopped.

“One minute papa….” she told her father and turned back and went straight to the teenager who first put her to saving the sun and said in a clear crisp voice.

“I will save the sun.”

And then the father and daughter left, their walk vigorous, unfaltering, towards the sun.

And yes, for those who are still wondering, on whether they saved the sun or not, rush out and see the rising sun. If you look close enough, rally hard enough you might notice the lasso around the corner of the mighty sun and the sun itself being slowly pulled out of the distant horizon. And of course the father and daughter, if you are lucky enough.

 Author's note-

I loved thinking up and writing this story. I am thankful for the image and Blog-a-ton for putting me up to this.  And this story is for my sister, who is always the first to hear all my flights of fantasy. 
PS-

If you loved this short story- then you might want to try reading another one of my similar story - The spring. Both are strongly dependent on nature to bring out the theme of the fiction. 
Have a great day. :)

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. I’m thankful to BLOGGER NAME, who introduced Blog-a-Ton to me, and I debuted in XX edition.

Credits Image - Shades of Orange by Harsha Chittar Courtesy - Curious Dino Photography via www.blogaton.in

Two Minutes- a 55 fiction

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 29; the 29th Edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The topic for this month is 'TWO MINUTES'.

The snap-

The fiction- 


"Remember our first time....."
She almost smiled. "yeah, until those noodles got cooked"
"Two minutes..."


Silence hung, hard.
"I want to go back.." she whispered, eyes closed.


A lone tear, few seconds dragged by.

"Here we are" he whispered back.
She smelled noodles in the kitchen and started to sob. He bent down & kissed her still healing, scarred face.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.