All in a Train's Day - 55 Fictions

"Four Different Stories - Four Different Times - Four Different Emotions - About One Character - The Train"

0600 Hours:

A moist breeze laden with wet promises of the day rushed past the speeding train. A few early risers and a few empty cabins floated past a city rising to the embers of the sun.

Littered out on the roof tops and on the window sills, a few kids alone stared at the passage mesmerized.

1200 Hours:

Nobody knew who dropped their lunch on the entrance of the carriage; Warm rice and curry, still steaming and thrumming along with the rhythm of the train; its spicy flavor and fragrance flicking the roiling appetites of the passengers.

The passengers jumped across the spilled food, their attire and their hunger neat & intact.

1800 Hours:

The train started to sweat. It’s every orifice enamored with the crowd returning from their jobs to their homes. Humans hung to each and every piece of holding and standing space available; jostling at each other; their parts and pieces hanging out of the vehicle; squirming with life;

The train plodded on.

2400 Hours:

A few beggars moved from compartment to compartment; picking up whatever hooped their fancy. A red kerchief, a bottle with some water left in it, a few news papers, a couple of ear buds. Carrying the echoes of life left behind, the train clanged hollow.

Amidst these empty ensembles, those beggars compared their today’s loots with glee.

Author's Note:

I have been wanting to start blogging again for quite a while. For that, I was looking for an idea both interesting and also challenging. A jump start of sorts. And when i was playing football today evening, I had a eureka moment about what I was going to write.

A group of 55 fictions, that would all stand alone as separate fictions but when put together can evoke a singular narrative. A single character narrative.

And hence, the story! after some deliberation, I decided to take train as the character. (Last Week, I visited Chennai by train and had an awesome weekend. Hence the inspiration.) I hope you guys like it. Also, I got a few amazing photos while searching for nice snaps of trains. Do visit again to read the stories I frame on those images. Cheers. 

If you are interested in reading my similar fictions, kindly visit use this link.

Navratri - 55 fiction:

Note - This post is dedicated to Navratri, with each story depicting one of the nine forms of Goddess Shakthi.

The Snap-

Story 1: Durga – The invincible:

They waited; hyenas relishing the anticipation of the kill. The waiting game will pay. She will get exhausted; will break; will deliver. They have the whole night.

Moments melded into minutes; minutes into hours.

The dawn broke. They ran leaving 2 of their buddies at her feet bleeding, the knife still in her hand, her eyes still burning.

Story 2: Bhadrakali – The auspicious:

The kid raced through the fields laughing at the top of her voice. The wind swiveled through her loose hair as she tumbled into her father’s open arms. He lifted her over his shoulders with a surplus smile on his lips. 

Nothing new; Nothing much; He did not really care when celebrating his daughter’s youth.

Story 3: Amba – The Mother:

Her child slipped and fell down with a tearing shriek. The pain jack sawed through his tender body. She rushed to her child, dried his tears, cajoled him, checked him for serious wounds, cleaned the mud off him and she left him alone.

Left him alone to pick himself up once again.

Story 4: Annapoorna Devi – The Provider:

She could never breast feed her baby. The doctors were kind enough to explain with patience. But all she heard in the damning silence was her own soul wailing.

Hard decisions; harder to live through them; Months passed.

She never breast fed and her kid’s still healthy. She sighed. Love cannot be breast fed.

Story 5: Sarvamangala – The joyous:

She always laughed loudly; especially after arriving there. Her voracious mirth; verbally signed; Deep and sonorous; lucid and warm guffaws; brimming with unsaid humor; listless possibilities and life in abundance; the happy echoes reverberated not just with air, sweeping through corridors of the old age home, touching and cuddling the few listening souls.

Story 6: Bhairavi – The Fierce:

The sickle in her hand moved with a practiced rhythm as they went through all the unwanted weeds. Their dry roots were torn apart from the earth without mercy. After going through the entire field, she sighed with satisfaction.

The land owner paid her in full without any questions. She still had the sickle in her hand.

Story 7: Chandika – The Supreme:

Chaos reigned. Chairs were thrown. Curses exchanged. Parties formed. Favors fished. Violence sought. Bullies brought. Politics played. Nobody was listening to nobody; Bedlam on riot.

She came into the room with a brisk walk. A deep hush was followed by a warm greeting of the kindergarten kids wishing their teacher Good morning.

Story 8: Lalita – The Beautiful:

She sat on her bed, staring at the mirror. A frail old woman stared at her back with drooping breasts, generous age lines, white wisps of hair, pale pallor, wrinkled skin, over her bent body. She sighed to herself.

“The years had been kind”. Her husband whispered to her “you still have the brightest smile”

Story 9: Bhavani – The merciful:

Her chubby ten year old eyes looked at him with a sad glint.

“I am not able to break the chocolate into two.”

“Oh” his squeaky voice responded, his eyes caught between her and the small spherical candy.

“Shall we wait” she asked thinking for a while. “For another same chocolate,... then share.... eat??”

Author’s Note-

I wanted to bring out the different faces of Goddess Shakthi - with simple everyday women. I took the help of Wikipedia to get to know all the forms of Shakthi and then, wrote stories that best suited the various shades of their nature. I wish all of my friends, reading this post- a Subh Navratri. 

For people, interested to know more about Navratri - a prominent Indian festival, kindly follow the link here. I have avoided putting many pictures, so as not to disturb the flow of the fiction and also, no to disrupt the respect for the Goddess that the festival and the idea of the fiction is based on. 

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

Good bye my love - A poem

Snap-

The poem-

Oh! I will forget, just like them fingers in my hand, babe-

As they strum thy guitar strings

Rapid strokes of mambo jambo-

To the rhythm my heart rings.

A single solo I sing,

Of a man gone hollow-

Breathing sorrow- with each and every ping!

Oh … Yeah!  We danced around with words, babe;

Of the few that were said;

One or two- here and there; Nothing more than that;

Too much a-bare; too much to bear;

Like the distant stars in a lonely sky;

We scattered them too much-

And in darkness, they were.

Waiting for you, girl- Just waiting for you.

To reach out with your hand- babe, them five member band;

Thy strumming; ramming at my heart;

For with each and every move, your warm eyes tend to move;

I root alone for me- for you to look at me

And say something- girl.

My jumping parts are praying thy lord;

Say something girl; Just anything, my girl.

Oh yeah! I am just a fool;

Laying in my pool of a few bitter tears- dried long ago,

My last words to you- a simple song for you;

Hewed broken sods- just if you may;

Just before I leave, somewhere away,

Ahoy in a sway!

But my girl- Don’t you worry,

I am never sad- Nothing’s ever bad.

My love for you will always be there; so bitter and so sweet;

Not that I notice- my own parts; of those young and jumping sorts,

Just like I forgot the fingers of my hand,

Strumming along with me,

Humming alone with me,

Good bye, my love –

One last good bye, my love.

Author's note-

Last night as I was listening to Bob Dylan, It stuck me how simple and lucid his lines were, yet so sharp and honest that they carried his pain, anguish, thought across. And hence I was inspired to write the above poem and I dedicate the same poem to his legend. I tried to model the theme of the song around one of my own favorites "Don't think twice, Its alright" by Bob Dylan. I kept the lyrics quite simple. Hope you guys like it.

And for people, who haven't listened to Bob Dylan, Guys, you just don't know what you are missing. Bob Dylan is the guy who gave the lyrics not just meaning but soul. His songs "Blowing in the wind" and "Times they are a-changing" are anti-war revolutions. The man is a cultural icon, his music an ode to the times that there were, the times that will be. Do listen to him.

PS-

Well, I have tagged - New technique, since I wrote the poetry more as a song to be sung rather than a poem to be read and yeah, I tagged the same with social problems. I mean what's more than a social problem than a heart break nowadays. What say?? :P

The Elegy of the coitus- A short story

The snap:




The story:

Note: This story has two plausible endings like taking two different routes to come to the same finale. One is the shorter route “The Slap” and the other one is the longer one “The Kiss”. The slap has a very abrupt ending and leaves a lot for the reader’s own deduction and understanding. The kiss has a long and fully explained ending giving the reader all the facts of one possible assumed ending that the story can take. As the name suggests, the slap may be offensive, but do read the kiss and then comment.




The Conversation-


You know something….

What??

I….. I have always wondered….

Wondered??

Well if you hear this, you may think I am bit of a freak. I know this kind of thought is rarely expressed but I think that all the married girls will at least think about it, one time or another.

Hm hm…

The thing is I really don’t know how to start it. I am afraid I am going to be blunt with you. Is that ok with you?

Ok..

Ok, here it goes… I have always wondered what it would be like to actually have sex in a physical sense and then get pregnant as a result. Not getting impregnated with sperm from your husband’s removed balls. In my case your ……………removed balls.

Huh???

Well it’s not like I don’t like doing it with you. I love you. I love making love to you. But its just that I kind a don’t feel it right getting pregnant artificially. You know what I mean, don’t you??

Kind a!!

The thing is ….. Can’t you keep a check over the population by using other contraceptive stuff ---condoms and ? Do you really need to go this extreme as to making all men seedless on their marriage and storing away their balls in a cryogenic freeze??

But..

Yeah, I know we humans don’t have enough living space and the population has been in control after implementing this system but I really think that its odd, to have a technician say to you that you have been artificially impregnated and you are pregnant. It simply lacks the surprise and the pleasant anxiety of waiting for the doctor’s verdict of your pregnancy.

Hmhm…… yup..



Ending 1 - The Slap:


More than that, you know what I think ………. I think that when we alter nature, it has its own side effects on which we can have no control over. Of course, we always know the probability of things that are to happen, perhaps like the toss of a coin but what if on the toss, the ceiling falls down and no ones left to see the result of the toss.

Huh???

Yeah, that’s highly improbable with the advanced neural networks looking after the sequence of our daily activity. But I do have my qualms after going through chaos theory in detail. Taking in hand a theory that says anything can affect anything and using it to predict everything is quite contradictory. Don’t you think so?

May be….

Yeah, it is….. It is a clear case of conflicting interests.

Baby, just a second….

What??

Can you just turn over please…… I want to do it in your anus now.



Ending 2- The Kiss

More than that, you know what I think ………. I think that when we alter nature, it has its own side effects on which we can have no control over. Of course, we always know the probability of things happening, perhaps like the toss of a coin but what if on the toss, the ceiling falls down and no ones left to see the result of the toss.

Huh???

That’s highly improbable with the advanced neural networks looking after the sequence of our daily activity. But I do have my qualms after going through chaos theory in detail. Taking in hand a theory that says anything can affect anything and using it to predict everything is contradictory. Don’t you think so?

May be….

Yeah, it is….. It is a clear case of conflicting interests.

Baby, one sec….

What??

I think I am done.

Oh, ok then. Let’s get dressed up. By the way do you really think that these experiments and reports will do any good? May be, will help us to get back what we have lost or in the least understand what we have lost.

Frankly, I don’t know.




--The report:

Experiment no- 4561; Experiment code- d beta; Date- 12-10-3045;

There is still no available practical proof of why our ancestors practiced the act of sex or coitus other than to create their own progeny. The material evidence suggests that the coitus must have been quite a pleasurable experience to undergo for both the male and the female. But the experimental evidence suggest otherwise. Further research into the dead end theory that suggests “hormonal changes that must have resulted from the complete birth control technique implemented a century ago must have done irreversible damages to several primal hormones destroying the sexual drive and the coital pleasure of humans” is advised.



The End-




Author's note-

I have used the idea of chaos theory in this science fiction. Chaos theory in simple words can be said as a theory that suggests that every random happening in turn causes another random happening that may in essence never be related. For example, the flutter of the butterfly wings in California may cause a cyclone in Sri Lanka (hence the theory is also called the butterfly effect.
A lot of movies & novels have been based on this Idea. Eg- The movie Jurassic park & the novel- The lost world on which it's based. The movie- Butterfly effect. For more information on the theory- try this- [link]


This is one of the first science fictions that I wrote long time back. I have tried to give a fiction that forwards itself just by the conversation between two individuals. The idea of an alternative ending was inspired by Jeffrey Archer's short story - One man's meat, that had 3 different endings. Though I am not a serious fan of Jeffrey Archer's short stories, I found the idea worth a try. I myself love short stories(science fictions) of Sever Gansovsky, who is my soul inspiration as a short story author. His stories have not just awed me but have always left me inspired and thinking. I just want to achieve the same with my stories.


PS-

I am a bit sick with fever, running cold and infected throat guys so I was not able to blog for a few days. And thats why i am posting this story that I did a while back. I think I will get back to my usual cheery self in a couple of days. Will sure post a few stories that I am mentally working on.


Until then-

Cheers..

Muthu

The spirit of sports - An experimental story.

The snap -




The dignity game – (7 sentences)


The match was dense, intense and heated up with hormones, sweat and energy scorching like sex for the first time in all its magnificence. Both the players were equally skilled, well matched and played with their own heart and soul on the line. Even the table tennis table must have sweat ed a bit along with the four walls – the lone spectators, losing themselves in the tension of the game. The ball was served for the game point, the last point and ball bounced on the table along with the heart of the two lone men fighting with each other and with themselves for to lose was unacceptable to them.

Damn Once again draw, draw for the 7th time in a row.

The tired players decided to take a tea break at the club cafeteria. The tea must have been too good, for they never returned to finish the game.


We are men - (5 sentences)

Nobody knew who started the fight nor did anyone remember who cheated at the game first. But that doesn’t really matter as what has happened has happened and there is no going back.
After all a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. A few broken bones, bruised knuckles, scars, scratches, cuts, a few drops of crimson blood shed, violence and fighting.
Of course they won’t be playing for a while but at least they made sure to show they are not pussies.


The credit - (3 sentences)

The jubilation and the celebration of the victory, a well deserved victory flowed and flooded the room – hugs, slogans, shouts, embraces, teases, friendly punches, shoulder slaps, smell of sweat, glory and victory.
“The winning ball goes to” the coach paused with the ball in his hand raised for all to see.
Expectations soured sky high, wavered with expectations and then bloomed fulfilled when the couch with a sparkle and a smile shouted out “the team”.


The loser – (1 sentence)

He lost the game but people respectfully made their way for him as he left the stadium, for anyone can win like a winner wins but only the real sportsmen, men who laugh, cry and break along with the sport can lose like a winner; for they alone love a sport for what it is and what a sport is is just love unconditional.


Author's note -

Sports is something that not only unites men but it is like a bond among us. I remember the fights, the fun, the wins, the loses when I used to play football for my team in college. This post in way is like a dedication to all those moments and those moments that await to put me in bliss in the future.

Guys, This is one of my experimental stories. I have started with exactly 7 sentences and reduced them from story to story to reach 1. I have not taken into account the word count as long as I can limit the number of full stops I use.

I would really love your take on my attempt. And If you loved the above then you will also love my other attempt of the same experimental kind that I wrote a few weeks back - the topic of my stories being the darker shades of women. You guys should try it out.[link]



PS -

And guys, one of my political tweets got featured in a BBC article. Check it out. My tweet is above the first picture - the one with the congress supporter with coolers[link].


I was so in seventh heaven when I came to know it. Nothing like recognition of your own words to boost you. Hariprasadm tweeted me about this. Thank you so much dude.



Cheers then guys...

until later.

muthu

A few jabs at story writing - a short story

The snap - In the dark - femininity in words.




It has been quite a while since I wrote my last short story and tonight for some unfathomable reason i feel like writing one. Something experimental and exiting st the same time. Like may be having sex for the first time.


A story too short to read for a while but with too strong a message to last for a while. Like being hit by a bullet.



Attempt 1 - The girl in love. (no of sentences - 7 )


She still loved him, loved him deeply and fervently and it was that love that carried her till now. And now that she had finally killed him, she loved him even more like the earth that tries to retain the kisses of the rain in the drought of the summer. But she had to do it. Had to kill him. No other go. After all it wasn't a crime of passion, it was a crime of reason and the reason was as simplistic as it could get. The drought was getting worse and she had to feed her child.



Attempt 2 - The drunken stupor. (no of sentences - 5 )

She was so much in pain, a white, hot and sheer blunt pain that no amount of alcohol seem to numb her suffering. She went to the same pub every single day, got drunk till her hilt every single day, and made a fool of herself every single day blabbering gibberish nonsense that took the fancy of her troubled mind. Not even one soul tried to stop or question her behavior. They were simply too happy to see that there are still people who cry out their losses without regard to what others may think. After all in the modern society, people are defined by what other people think of them.



Attempt 3 - The oppressed. (no of sentences - 3)

Coming from the segregated flock of humans, who were suppressed for so long in the chronology of time that god himself must have shed a few tears, she had no choice but to defend herself and her opinions even if she herself knew that she was wrong and for having that basic survival instinct, she was named a virago. A pity but she will last as did her feminine ancestors till date. After all she is the birth giver - the women.



Attempt 4 - The lost and found. (no of sentences - 1)

May be her virginity was lost when she was raped but the rose plant doesn't cry over fallen flowers nor the moon over its the fading whim but she will cry, cry out dark bitter tears until she succumbs to the same dry tears and dies or until she realizes that she can still bloom and that the flowers that bloom the second time are the most divine of them all.




The End.


Note -

I have tried to write the stories by reducing the number of sentences in each one progressively. I have tried to maintain a streak of connectivity with all the three stories the idea being to explore the different facets of the modern women. Do tell me what do you think???