The Top Author

September 16, 2024

Short Story – The Gift That Wasn’t

Vishwa thought Secret Santa would be fun—a chance to unwrap a thoughtful gift from a friend. When he received the biggest, brightest red box, his heart soared with excitement. But what seemed like a simple gift turned into something more complicated, revealing hidden boundaries and painful lessons. In this short story, “The Gift That Wasn’t,” discover how one gift can build perspectives.

Vishwa had always seen the world in shades of friendship, laughter, and shared lunches. Growing up in Lucknow, he attended a convent school where the teachers prioritized open conversations with and amongst the students. Complex topics like religion, casteism, social sects, and many alike were dealt with maturity that helped Vishwa hold a broader view on society. Festivals were a shared joy, and religious differences, nothing more than different colors in the same crayon box.

It was the holiday season, and the ninth graders were abuzz with excitement for the annual Secret Santa. Vishwa loved the thrill of it – the guessing, the surprise, and the joy of giving. It was a small tradition in their class but one that brought everyone together. This year, Vishwa drew his close friend Armaan’s name, and with great care, he chose a set of colorful gel pens. They were simple, thoughtful, and something Armaan would love.

The day of the gift exchange arrived, and the classroom was filled with the sound of torn wrapping paper and gleeful gasps. Vishwa’s eyes sparkled as he watched his friends unwrap their presents, but his excitement doubled when he spotted the largest gift box sitting at the back of the room, wrapped in shiny red paper with a big red bow. He wished that the box could come his way.

“Whoa, look at the size of that!” Anu exclaimed, nudging Vishwa.

Sarah ma’am started with the proceedings by calling out names in alphabetic order. Vishwa was the second one to walk tall and graciously gift the gel pen set to Armaan. A strong handshake and the friendship went multi-bound.

“Oh! I’m V. By the time ma’am calls me, the red box will be gone!” Vishwa was worried. Deepak, Jalal, Mayank, Neha, Peter, and Sartaj – the red box was still there ungifted. Vishwa was hopeful. And finally, Veeren was called out out, the red box was still untouched. Chances were 50/50 now.

“Vishwa”, called Sarah. Peter stood up to grace the occasion.

And, Vishwa couldn’t believe it – it was the red box, and it was his. His heart raced as he picked it up, feeling the weight of it in his hands. It was heavy, and his cheeks flushed with joy and anticipation. He felt special, chosen, like a little kid all over again.

With everyone’s eyes on him, Vishwa carefully tore the wrapping, his smile growing wider with every rip. Inside was a beautifully crafted idol of Jesus, serene and gentle, with eyes that seemed to hold the kindness of the world. Vishwa’s face lit up; he loved the gift instantly. It felt like more than a gift – it was a thoughtful gesture from his Secret Santa.

“Wow, this is amazing!” Vishwa beamed, admiring the details of the statue. “Thank you Peter, my Secret Santa!”

Vishwa got to home after school. He proudly showed the idol to his mother and searched her smile as she always did when he was excited about something.

“What is this?” she asked, her voice tinged with a disapproval Vishwa had never heard before.

“It’s a gift, Ma. My Secret Santa Peter gave it to me. Isn’t it beautiful?” Vishwa said, his voice filled with innocence.

But his mother’s expression hardened. “Vishwa, this isn’t our belief.. Why are you bringing home something like this? ”

Vishwa was taken aback. He had never seen his mother react this way to any of his school activities. “Ma, it’s just a gift. It’s not about religion—it’s just… nice.”

But his mother wouldn’t hear it. She ranted about beliefs, boundaries, and how they shouldn’t bring home things that didn’t align with their faith. For the first time, Vishwa saw a harsh line drawn in a world he had always viewed as a united canvas. His mother’s words stung, piercing through his young mind.

“Ma, it’s just a statue. It doesn’t change who I am,” he tried to reason, feeling the swell of emotions choke his voice. He couldn’t resist his tears anymore. His little heart broke into pieces.

Despite Vishwa’s quiet protests and hurt eyes, the idol was eventually wrapped up again and given away, re-gifted to someone else as a Christmas present.

Vishwa watched helplessly as his mother handed over the idol with a smile. It felt as though a piece of his world had been chipped away.

“Why did Ma reacted that way,” his heart ached not just because of the gift but because it was a gesture from a friend. His group of friends will discuss the gift the next day, but what would he have.

Dinner was done and Vishwa was off to bed. Staring at the ceiling, messing up with emotions he had never felt before.

He didn’t resent his mother; he knew she was guided by her beliefs, just as he was by his own sense of right. But a quiet resolve began to grow in Vishwa. He wouldn’t let this experience shape his view of the world. He would hold on to the lessons of openness and acceptance that his school, his friends, and his heart had taught him.

The next day at school, Vishwa thanked Peter again, with a smile that hid his grief. The idol was gone, but the friendship remained—stronger than the boundaries that had tried to tarnish it.

Vishwa learned a lesson. The world, no matter how beautiful it is, has lines drawn in sand. But these lines were not unbreakable. And one day, he hoped, they would all be erased by the simple, honest belief that we are all just people, sharing the same sky.

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August 10, 2024August 25, 2024

Short Story – Kashish’s Journey Through Ramayana

It was 8pm and three-year-old Kashish nestled into her mom Parineeti’s lap, her wide eyes sparkling with curiosity as they kicked off their journey through Ramayana, a timeless piece of Indian mythology. Parineeti had just finished sharing another captivating story from this ancient epic.

Today’s story was about the abduction of Sita by Ravana, the demon king of Lanka. Kashish listened intently, her tiny hands clutching her mother’s cardigan, her imagination vividly bringing the tale to life.

“Tell me again, Mama,” Kashish pleaded softly, her small fingers tracing the edge of her favourite comforter.

Parineeti smiled, touched by her daughter’s fascination with the mythology. She gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind Kashish’s ear. “Alright, but only if you promise to go to bed afterward,” she said, playfully tapping the tip of Kashish’s nose.

Kashish giggled and nodded eagerly, her little head bobbing up and down. “I promise!” she exclaimed, her voice filled with excitement and the boundless creativity of childhood.

Parineeti began again, her voice soothing and melodic. “Once upon a time, in the beautiful forest of Panchavati, lived Sita, Rama, and Lakshmana. One day, the demon king Ravana, disguised as a sage, tricked Sita and took her away in his flying chariot, the Pushpak Viman, to his kingdom of Lanka.”

Kashish’s eyes grew even wider, if that was possible. “Pushpak Viman?” she repeated in awe, her small mouth forming a perfect “O.”

“Yes, my baby,” Parineeti continued, giving her daughter a gentle squeeze. “A magical flying chariot that could travel anywhere in the world, just like in a fantasy.”

As the story unfolded, Kashish’s mind buzzed with ideas. When Parineeti finished, Kashish bounced off her lap and hurriedly gathered her toys, her pigtails bouncing with excitement. “Mama, let’s play pretend!” she exclaimed, holding out a stuffed elephant as if it were an essential part of the plan. “You be Ravana, and I’ll be Sita.”

Parineeti chuckled, her heart swelling with affection for her imaginative daughter. “Alright,” she said, feigning a deep, dramatic voice. “And what should I do as Ravana?”

Kashish put a tiny finger to her lips, her brow furrowing as she thought. Then, her eyes lit up. “Instead of taking me to Lanka, take me around the world in your Pushpak Viman!” she asked, clapping her hands together in delight.

Parineeti couldn’t help but laugh at her daughter’s creativity. “Very well, Princess Sita,” she said in a mock serious tone, adopting her role as Ravana. “Come, let us embark on a grand adventure!”

They began their journey in the living room, which Kashish had transformed into the magical Pushpak Viman with her scattered toys. Parineeti made playful airplane noises as she “flew” Kashish around the room, her daughter’s giggles filling the air. They “soared” over the snowy peaks of the Himalayas, “glided” through the bustling streets of Paris, and “hovered” above the pyramids of Egypt.

Kashish’s laughter was pure music to Parineeti’s ears as she pointed out the sights with the dramatic flair only a child could muster. “Look, Mama! There’s the Great Wall of China! And there, the jungles of the Amazon!” she exclaimed, her tiny hands waving energetically.

As they continued their imaginary journey, Parineeti marvelled at her daughter’s vivid imagination and unique interpretation of the Ramayana. She realized that Kashish was not just hearing the tales but living them, blending elements of mythology with the boundless creativity of childhood fantasy.

Finally, they landed back in their cosy living room. Kashish, now tired from her grand adventure, yawned and crawled back into her mother’s lap, curling up like a kitten. “That was the best story ever, Mama,” she whispered sleepily, her eyes drooping.

Parineeti kissed the top of her head, her heart full. “I’m glad you enjoyed it, my little Sita. Now, it’s time for you to rest.” As Kashish drifted off to sleep, Parineeti sat quietly, stroking her daughter’s hair and reflecting on the magical evening. She knew that these moments of storytelling, journey of innocence and creativity through the richness of Ramayana, would shape her daughter in ways she couldn’t yet comprehend, and she was grateful for every single one of them.

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July 4, 2024August 25, 2024

Short Story – Azaan’s Fields of Resilience

In the serene village of Taleepur, nestled among rolling hills and fertile valleys, my journey began. From a tender age, the rhythms of planting and harvest resonated deeply with me, learned alongside my abba, Rahim, who imparted a profound respect for the land and the wisdom of generations past.

“Son, these fields have sustained us for generations,” Rahim would say, his weathered hands guiding mine in the rich soil. “We must care for them as they have cared for us.”

Education was a beacon in our family, championed by my mother, Fatima, who always envisioned lush, vibrant fields. “Azaan, pursue agronomy and bring green back to these lands,” she’d say, urging me towards a path that would honor our heritage. While friends sought bustling city careers, my heart remained tethered to our village. Upon graduating, I returned determined to enrich Taleepur through sustainable farming.

Yet, challenges loomed. Industrialization encroached, promising progress while threatening our traditional livelihoods. Political turmoil and economic uncertainties cast shadows, stirring apprehension among us all.

“We must adapt, Azaan,” Imran, now a successful Delhi industrialist and my childhood friend, remarked during a visit. “The city offers stability and opportunities far beyond what we have here.”

But Zara, my fiancée, voiced her concerns, urging practicality amidst these trials. “Azaan, I worry for us. The uncertainties are mounting. Are we ready for what lies ahead?”

The call of home and heritage held me firm. With stalwart farmhands and the counsel of village elders, we embarked on a journey of revitalization. Embracing modern techniques while honoring time-honored practices, we experimented with crop rotations, introduced organic methods, and embraced sustainability to combat escalating costs and ecological challenges.

Two years tested our resolve. Setbacks abounded—crops faltered, finances strained, and community support wavered. Through it all, Rahim stood by me, his wisdom and unwavering support a steady anchor in turbulent times.

Finally, after relentless toil and sleepless nights, our efforts bore fruit. The fields, once barren and uncertain, flourished anew. Taleepur took notice—the verdant fields, abundant harvests, and renewed pride in our agricultural legacy.

Standing amidst the verdant expanse, I reflect on the arduous journey that brought us here. It was more than cultivating crops; it was a testament to our ancestors’ legacy, a validation of sustainable farming’s promise, and a testament to a future where progress harmonizes with tradition.

“Abba, we did it,” I say, turning to Rahim with a smile. “Our fields are green again.”

He clasps my shoulder, pride shining in his eyes. “You’ve honored our family, Azaan. The land thanks you.”

I see a path illuminated by our community’s resilience and determination, envisioning a future where young farmers continue to nurture our lands, ensuring that our rural traditions endure for generations to come.

April 13, 2024September 1, 2024

Short Story – Skating Dreams on the Ice: Maya’s Story of Determination

As a child, Maya had always been drawn to the smooth, gliding motion of ice skating. From the moment her tiny feet touched the ice, she knew she had found her passion. “Mom, Dad, watch me!” she’d exclaim, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she zoomed across the rink. This is Maya’s story of determination, grit, and resilience.

Her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Patel, always encouraged her, cheering her on from the sidelines. “You’re a natural, Maya!” her father would say proudly, while her mother nodded in agreement. “Keep practicing, and one day, you’ll make us all proud.”

Under the guidance of her coach, Mr. Jagtap, Maya’s skills flourished. “You have talent, Maya,” he’d tell her, adjusting her stance on the ice. “But talent alone won’t take you to the top. You need determination and hard work.” Maya took his words to heart, practicing tirelessly day in and day out. She pushed herself to the limit, determined to excel not just for herself, but for her family and her nation.

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As the championship approached, the pressure mounted. Maya felt the weight of expectations on her shoulders, but she refused to buckle under the strain. “You can do this, Maya,” her coach assured her, his voice steady and encouraging. “Believe in yourself, and trust in your training.”

The day of the championship arrived, and Maya stepped onto the ice with confidence. The crowd roared with excitement as she glided gracefully across the rink, her movements fluid and precise.

But then disaster struck. Midway through her routine, Maya stumbled, her heart sinking as she felt herself losing control. For a moment, panic threatened to consume her, but then she remembered her training. With a steely determination, she fought to regain her balance, her muscles straining with effort.

In the end, Maya emerged victorious, her face shining with triumph as she stood on the podium, the gold medal hanging proudly around her neck. She had faced adversity head-on and emerged stronger than ever, a testament to her grit and resilience.

And as she looked out at her family in the crowd, tears of joy streaming down their faces, Maya knew that she had achieved not just for herself, but for all those who had supported her on her journey.

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Thanks to Raj Vedak

Raj Vedak is a passionate short story writer with a knack for crafting captivating narratives that illustrate motivation, courage, and resilience. When he’s not penning stories, Raj can be found wandering through bookstores in search of inspiration or enjoying a quiet afternoon with a good cup of coffee and a classic novel.

April 1, 2024September 1, 2024

Short Story – Jatayu rides on words

As the first light of dawn gently kissed the sleepy village of Sundarpur, I, Jatayu, a boy with dreams as vast as the open skies, would be wide awake by then, eagerly looking up to the day’s adventures. Growing up in a modest home nestled amidst lush green fields, life wasn’t always easy for our family. This is my story – how I rode high on words.

My father Hariya, my Baapu, is a farmer and toils day and night under the scorching sun to provide for us. My mother, Jayanti, a beacon of love and resilience, manages the household with grace, despite the constant struggle to make ends meet. In the midst of our humble existence, I find solace in the pages of books, losing myself in the enchanting world of literature and storytelling.

From a young age, I discovered my skill – the ability to weave words into captivating tales that takes my readers to far-off lands and sparked their imaginations. With each story I penned, I get kicked up with a sense of liberation. My words have the power to take me beyond the limitations of Sundarpur and reach the hearts of people across the world. But amidst the daily grind of rural life, pursuing my passion for literature seemed like an impossible dream. My parents, while supportive of my endeavors, worried about my future, urging me to focus on practical pursuits that would secure a stable livelihood. Yet, my heart yearned for something more, something beyond the boundaries of our village.

It was my Hindi teacher, Govind Gupta, aka GG sir as the world called him, who recognized the spark within me and encouraged me to nurture my gift for storytelling. Being a columnist himself in his yesteryears, he always had the words of appreciation for my work – supportive and quite a few times critical as well. The cheerleader in GG sir created a version of me. With his guidance and unwavering support, I honed my skills, pouring my heart and soul into each word I penned. Despite the challenges we faced as a middle-class family, GG sir’s belief in me gave me the courage to pursue my dreams relentlessly.

One fateful day, as I sat beneath the shade of a banyan tree, lost in the depths of my imagination, a letter arrived – a letter that would change the course of my life forever. It was from a renowned publication house in the city, expressing interest in publishing a collection of my short stories. My heart raced with excitement and trepidation as I read the words, scarcely daring to believe that my dreams were finally within reach.

With trembling hands, I sent off a copy of my work, unsure of what the future held. Weeks passed in agonizing anticipation until one day, a parcel arrived at our doorstep – my book, freshly printed and bound, a testament to years of dedication and perseverance. Holding it in my hands, I felt a surge of pride and disbelief – I, Jatayu, a boy from Sundarpur, with a penchant for storytelling, was now a published author. But the true moment of triumph came when the local distributors got wind of my book and clamored to stock it in their stores. To see my stories displayed alongside those of renowned authors was a surreal experience, one that filled my heart with an overwhelming sense of gratitude and joy.

And then, as if by magic, my story caught the attention of Navbharat Times, one of the leading newspapers in the country. In a feature article that spanned the pages of their prestigious monthly edition, my journey – from the dusty lanes of Sundarpur to the bustling streets of the city – was chronicled for all to see. It was a moment of validation, a testament to the power of perseverance and the boundless potential that lay within each of us.

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As the news of my success spread throughout the village, I watched with pride as my parents’ eyes brimmed with tears of joy. For them, my achievements were a source of immeasurable happiness, a testament to their unwavering belief in me even in the face of adversity. And as I stood before them, a beacon of hope for our family and our community, I knew that no dream was too big, no obstacle too daunting to overcome.

Today, as I continue to pen my tales and share them with the world, I am reminded of the journey that brought me here – a journey fueled by passion, perseverance, and the unwavering support of those who believed in me. And as I look towards the future, I do so with a heart full of gratitude and a determination to inspire others to chase their dreams, no matter how impossible they may seem. For in the end, it is not our circumstances that define us, but the strength of our spirit and the courage to believe in the power of our dreams.

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Jatayu

Author Credits

Sana Sanket is an upcoming short story author. With a keen eye for detail and a talent for weaving intricate plots reflecting Indian countryside, she has captivated readers with her compelling tales. Sana’s refreshing and unique narrative style have earned her recognition among both readers and critics alike.