Lights. Camera. RCNM.

He was sitting alone praying to the Gods. “ Prayers work ” he thought. He could hear the loud screaming of his beloved. She was in immense pain. The loud screaming, the murmurs, the unnecessary muttering suddenly stopped. Hoping to hear his child ’ s first cry, he joined his hands for prayers and asked for a child since his wife ’ s previous endeavour failed. He ’ d lost his first child on the second day of his birth. The only day of his life he would never be able to forget. It still scares him. Suddenly, there was utter tranquillity, absolute calmness. He got up panicky and walked dubiously towards the delivery room. On his way, he finally heard his baby cry, cry for the first time. Everything seemed perfect and joyous until he woke up. Before he could feel the presence of his child, the warmth and love, before he could see its face, before he could take the baby into his arms, he suddenly returned to the truth of the world, the Reality. Facing his wife Arya, he thought “

“The poor bastard never saw it coming.” He spoke these words sitting on the kerb with his head in his hands.  I didn't know what to tell him. I’d been watching all along. I was at the sink rinsing my coffee cup when he left at 7:30, as usual. And as soon as the garage door closed, I saw their curtains disappear. Well, that caught my eye.  She was ripping them down. I knew then something was wrong, this being mid-December and no time for spring cleaning. I stood for awhile, peeking between the blinds.  I like to know what’s going on in my neighbourhood. She stood at the bare window for a minute or two, staring wide-eyed at the neglected lawn, naked trees, and the cement-coloured sky.  I raised my hand up just in case she looked but she didn't–she saw the dog, his dog, big stupid thing licking himself on the front lawn like it was the only thing to do. She took the things he never liked: the pillow she’d embroidered with the words “ Happiness Is …”, the gloomy

There were no more deafening gunshots, no more blood-curdling screams of anguish and no more need to stay in the cave where he had hidden the entire morning. Cautiously, Leo glanced out onto the fields of Kursk. There was no sign of life. The Germans seemed to have overpowered his troop and stormed towards Moskva. He thought of his daughter in Moskva. It would be her fifth birthday in 3 days and he wanted to go home. But now the Germans were advancing. He had joined the army to protect her, but he hadn't found the heart to fight. Even as his comrades were selflessly fighting the Nazi army, he had run into this cave as soon as the first shot had been fired. Leo cursed himself over and over again. His family was in danger, just because he hadn't mustered the courage to kill. It was all his fault, he thought. It was his  fault that supreme Generalissimus, Comrade Stalin would lose the war, his fault that his homeland would fall to it's ruin. He was the Soviet's biggest c

With both aching arms outstretched and loaded with plates, she walks slowly across the dining room to table 19 and places the plates down in front of the bodies that ordered them. “ Escargot Bourguignon. Pasta puttanesca.” She rolls the syllables around in her mouth like bits of velvet. If you saw her, you’d see eyes glistening wetly as if she were intoning a love poem she’d written herself, but no one looks up from their plates. At table 8, she introduces herself ( I am your hole-filler, your anonymous food-bringer, faceless feeder ), takes their order, and scoots back to the kitchen where her boss, Igor, is waiting by the door. His lips are pursed, but he’s not asking for a kiss. “Full hands in, full hands out,” he reminds her, and his eyes inspect her so thoroughly it feels surgical. When she first started working here, her apron could not conceal her effervescent flesh but now she can wrap the apron strings around twice and still has enough left to tie a bow. Night af

“I think this is the last stop, mate.” Someone tapped on my shoulders. I could not feel my legs. I stumbled and fell in the compartment; he tried to pick me up.  “Get your hands off me.” I glared at him.   “You are too drunk. Where are you going?” I did not listen. I just tiptoed around the compartment and got off the train. Something was eating me from inside, slowly poisoning every part of me that ever felt alive. I was dragging my feet on the roads. I could hear vehicles honking, drivers shouting, and the madness that this city is.  Crawling, I made my way to the graveyard while tightly holding a white frock and a broken doll to my chest. It was almost midnight. Leafs were ruffling with breeze and there was no sign of any living being. I opened the gate, tearing through the silence of the night. I slowly started walking towards her. She was beautiful too, just like this frock. She was so precious…my sister, Ilina. She had big eyes and soft voice, and

Today I saw a lady, with hair as black as raven and skin as flair as milk. I walked past her as I moved towards the ticket counter at a train station. As I watched, she lifted her h and and pushed away a strand of hair that whipped against her face as a train whooshed past. While I stood in the line, waiting for my turn I couldn’t help but stare at her as she leaned against the wall, the tinsel in her hair shining and the glass bangles on her hand tinkling. From where I stood, she looked perfect her blue sari swaying in the wind. I remember her touching the bangles on her hand; her nimble fingers running across the smooth surface of the bangles enclosed her slender wrist. As I pushed my way back to the front of the line, I turned again to catch a glimpse of this lady. I don’t know what about her caught my eye. May be it was her beauty, may be it was the peace in her eyes. From where I stood far away, I saw she wasn’t really there in the world I stood in. She had drifted away,

"A tragic situation exists precisely when virtue does not triumph but when it is still felt that man is nobler than the forces which destroy him." - George Orwell The universe we live in is built up of opposing forces which counterbalance each other and exist in a state of volatile equilibrium. Yin and yang, light and dark, virtue and vice - the conflict is eternal.  This is why not every story can have a happy ending. Smiles can become tears, dreams can turn into nightmares and life can translate into death in the blink of an eye. This is known as tragedy.  One wrong step, one false judgment, one fatal mistake can bring an end to the flawed existence of life. This is tragedy. It is well established that misery and death can help man achieve a philosophical zenith. It is part and parcel of life, yet so unnerving and unbelievable. Hence, tragic stories often break right through the cluster of one's thoughts and pierce right into the heart.