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Memorable Enough!!!

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Some people remember numbers the way musicians remember lyrics. Effortlessly. Naturally. Almost suspiciously. Mrs. X belonged to that category. Mr. X, unfortunately, belonged to another species altogether. He could never remember numbers. Birthdays, passcodes, anniversaries, PINs, important dates, OTPs... Everything had to be written somewhere. Sticky notes inside drawers. Passwords saved under strange file names. Half-torn diary pages. Screenshots buried inside folders he would never find again. If civilization ever collapsed because people forgot passwords, Mr. X would probably be among the first casualties. Mrs. X, on the other hand, remembered everything. Not just important things. Everything. The exact date he sent her a friend request. The shirt he wore on their first coffee outing. The café bill amount. The movie they watched after arguing for forty minutes about where to go. Even the OTP he shouted incorrectly during wedding shopping while the cashier stared at both...
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The Comfortable Lie

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Every evening, Ramasamy sat beneath the tea shop television like an unpaid prime-time anchor nobody had ever hired. “Every one of them is corrupt,” he would announce, pointing at the screen. “Minister, party, manifesto....everything is a joke,” he told Selvam, the tea shop owner, as if Selvam were the nation’s official witness. Selvam only nodded while pouring tea. “Tea, anna?” Ramasamy waved him off. “Don’t even start. See this? Another scam. Share it to Murugan, da.” Murugan, sitting on the next bench, barely looked up. “Anna, this is from last year.” “Last year, this year...what difference? Same thieves in different shirts. Aiyo…” His WhatsApp forwards arrived faster than election updates. Every political failure was stored in his memory like personal betrayal. Sometimes even forwarded twice, just to be sure the outrage landed properly. When election day came, the street outside carried a strange celebration. Inked fingers, small flags, people returning from booths like ...
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When Boredom becomes a Disease

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The boy was only nine, but he had already begun losing pieces of himself. He forgot why he walked into rooms, stared blankly at homework he had read three times, and grew irritated within minutes of silence. Even meals ended with one hand holding a phone and the other pushing food around a plate gone cold. His parents thought exhaustion was the problem.  Bills, disappointments, old wounds, and endless responsibilities had consumed so much of them that noticing the slow disappearance of their son required a kind of attention they no longer had left to give. Every night, they watched parenting reels about emotional connection, screen balance, and mindful childhoods before forwarding them to relatives with folded hands emojis.  Meanwhile, their child sat in the next room, unable to focus, unable to rest, and increasingly unable to exist without noise flickering into his eyes every few seconds. No one realized that a boy who could not tolerate boredom anymore was quiet...
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Pitter Patter Dosas

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Kamala squinted out of the kitchen window as she wrestled with the dosa tava, trying to lift a stubborn, almost-brown dosa that seemed to be holding on to the hot metal like it was its homeland. 0 In the midst of the grating clinks and clanks, she shrieked at the top of her voice, glancing at the door. “Lataaa! Are you checking?” “Ahh Maa! Nothing yet,” squealed little Lata, pausing her game for once. Kamala continued her efforts, and just when she thought she had it, the dosa ruptured into fragments as she flipped it, scattering across the tava like broken continents across a burning sea. “Aiyoo,” she sighed, trying to press the pieces together, as if silently reminding them they were still in this together. She carefully gathered them onto a plate, coaxing them back into an almost-circle. “Let me smear some ghee and give it to little Chotu. If he fusses, I’ll hand it to his dad instead, remind him about the skyrocketing milk prices,” she muttered, staring at it like it wa...
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Sharing Is Caring

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My dear, It’s a selfish, selfish world out there. It truly is. Where relationships are evaluated Like shares in the stock market. Love is calculated, Responses measured, Reactions contemplated. Nothing is spontaneous anymore. Every move carries an invisible label That reads: 'Proceed with caution'. Gone are the days Of fighting over candies, Sharing what was left of the ice cream cone, Begging for a turn on the bicycle. Back when every war Ended over a favourite snack, A cartoon on television, Or silent laughter under the same blanket. Back when anger lasted only minutes, And love never needed language. Time changes everything, my dear. You realize it has The moment you pause And look back. You see it In the quieter phone calls, The delayed replies, The conversations that now sound careful Instead of effortless. You see it When harmless discussions Turn into calculations. When a few numbers Can wound relationships more deeply Than years of distance ever could. So no...
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The Shape of Unwanted Love

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The Day She Stopped Being Little Sitara was six years old when her brother Dev was born. Until then, her world had been small and certain, revolving around her mother, Rohini. It smelled of coconut oil in her mother’s hair, freshly washed sarees drying in the backyard, and the faint scent of turmeric lingering on her fingers when she fed her with her hands. She followed Rohini everywhere. If her mother sat down to cut vegetables, she sat beside her. If clothes were being folded, she folded the smaller ones carefully and waited for praise like it was sunlight. At six years old, Sitara believed mothers loved their daughters the way the sky held clouds, naturally, endlessly, without effort. Then her brother arrived. The house changed almost overnight. A steel cradle appeared near Rohini’s bed. Tiny vests and cloth nappies hung near windows. Relatives visited carrying silver tumblers, baby soap, and loud excitement. Every room seemed filled with soft laughter meant for him. And...
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Not Home Anymore

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She rang the bell with her own key still sitting inside her handbag. When her mother opened the door, she smiled the way people smile at relatives who visit once a year. Her suitcase was moved to the corner near the guest room, beside folded extra bedsheets that smelled of naphthalene. At dinner, her mother stirred her brother’s favourite curry, serving everyone, then asked her twice if the salt was enough, the same careful politeness she used with neighbours. Nobody told her to open the steel containers in the kitchen anymore. That night, she reached for the bedroom light switch out of habit and paused when she saw her old cupboard filled with winter blankets and temple receipts. Her wedding photo still hung on the wall, but the house had already learned how to live without her. 😊
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