The Birth Giver

-Vivek Tomar “We won’t make it,” Vimla told her husband as she clung to his shoulder, trying to walk as fast as was possible for her. It was late into one of the nights of her seventh month of pregnancy when she started going into labour. “It’s just ten minutes away. We have to make…

Arrows of Anarchy

Vivek Tomar Sunlight teased from the west, filtering through the trees of Ningali forest onto a clearing where two warriors stood facing each other. Buzzing insects in the brook beside them built a static-like tension in the air, compelling action, like a radio on full volume hounding for a clear channel. “Another one of your…

Nestlings

A little speck of brown emerged from the distant cotton-white Fog-veiled valleys. It gradually grew in size as the Fog faded in and out with waves of wind. The path covered in pine needles felt the footsteps of a company of two. ”It’s about to rain Ma.” “Aah! We will not make it home on…

The Outsider

Then he said, “Please Babu Ji, where will I go?” – Oh look, the Baanth of the village is here. If only looks could kill, then I would die in peace and wouldn’t have to tell the story from the beginning every time. I will repeat myself for the last time tonight. You better keep…

A Rich Night

Ezra Pound says that your reality is not what you see but an amalgamation of what you see and the image your mind links the sight to. When I look at the “Starry Night”, it transports me to a calm cool late evening in my village. I imagine myself sitting in my balcony after a…

Here and Now

Things will get better I say,to the me of here and now.Past has passed pain onto me,and Future fears failure.False promises fromthere and then question meabout the where and when.So I say to the me ofhere and now, that things,will get better. Because I cannot want to think otherwise.Because it will be harder to keep going…

One More Story

It had been an awfully cold winter that year in Chilaun. The ever-present Fog did not help. The Fog-filtered sunlight had shrunk the crop produce. The bigger half of that season was yet to be crossed and the granaries were already running low.

Paste for paint

Khem Chand, the local milkman, was walking with visibly beaming pride one day, with little Saru by his side. They were on their way to the new school. It was Saru’s first day. With her little school bag, all patched up, she bounced along holding her father’s finger. The bag wasn’t poor-looking kind of patchy but rather a fashionable kind of patchy. Saru’s mother, Shanti, had a way with the needles that fabricated her artful picturisation. The old bag was a token of apology by Sohan, for some recent altercation that the villagers had no idea of.

Ashes

This goes back to the 1980s, somewhere in the hills of Sirmaur, Himachal Pradesh. The advent of rainy season welcomed billowing fog to the hills. On one of these hills, enveloped in fog, there was a little village. The number of houses of this little village were such that it didn’t feel right to call it a hamlet and it would feel weird to proclaim it as a village. So everybody would call it the little village of Chilaun.