I had just completed my engineering and had joined a small company in Pune – nearly an hour and a half away from my home. What initially felt exciting slowly dissolved into a droning monotony – the same alarm, no time for breakfast, familiar faces in the metro and a final kilometer-long walk to reach the office. The days blurred into each other. It was as if daily, I was moving through the routine till it was time to return home, sleep and begin again.
There was an old white dog sitting in the office premises every morning – puffed face, dull tired eyes and the quiet habit of always lying on his belly and gazing at the sky. Every day he chose a different spot to rest, while the guards barely acknowledged his presence. For reasons I couldn’t explain, I found myself looking for him every morning. I’d stop to caress him whenever I could. Somehow, he felt strangely familiar—as if we were both silently making peace with the same routine.
Then one afternoon, I was told that I would be relocating to the head office in Bangalore. They congratulated me on the opportunity, spoke about career growth, and reminded me how exciting a new city would be. I smiled along, but beneath that excitement was an emotion I hadn’t expected. Somewhere along the way, I had grown attached to the life I once found painfully repetitive. The familiar commute, the familiar roads, and the quiet presence of a dog I had never even named had become small anchors in my day. Starting over suddenly felt far more daunting than exciting.
Fast forward to two weeks later – I found myself in Bangalore, settling into a PG hostel barely two hundred metres from my new office. One evening, while walking back, I noticed a cheerful dog wandering around the colony. Unlike the old dog back in Pune, he greeted everyone with a wagging tail, bright eyes, and an enthusiasm that seemed impossible to ignore. Before I knew it, I had started looking forward to seeing him every day.
Life rarely gives us the endings we imagine. It simply changes the scenery and waits. One day, without warning, you find yourself smiling at something new with the same quiet affection you once reserved for something you thought you’d never stop missing. That’s when you realise that healing doesn’t announce its arrival—it slips into your routine.
Shruti Keskar has recently completed her engineering degree from COEP Technological University, Pune in Instrumentation and Control. She currently works in a semiconductor-based company in Bangalore. Apart from writing, she loves to cook and sketch.
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Before stepping out of teens, Adarsh, my elder brother, also my father’s favourite son, stepped out of the ancestral house to live in a big city, to pursue higher education and fulfil his dreams camouflaged as the obligations of a responsible child. Hopes were pinned on him, on his powerhouse talent that would make the family gleam with pride one day. Whenever I heard my father praise him to the skies, I felt he was exaggerating like an astrologer.
Adarsh was not the kind of worthy son my father dreamt of. I remembered his last words before leaving for Bangalore to study engineering: Take care of the family. The way Adarsh said those precise words was conclusive. He would never come back to reside in the small town and shoulder his responsibilities.
To quote him verbatim would hurt my father deeply, to keep the truth estranged from him would be another kind of excess. I was expecting divine intervention to raise the curtain of his reality – to expose the opportunist lurking in Adarsh. A disappointment or a disagreement would be the ideal trigger to make my doting father examine the other side of his personality.
Fifteen years passed. His mask remained in place. I did not muster the strength to convey those exact words to my father who would never associate such thoughts with Adarsh. How could he go wrong in the assessment of his own child? Is human nature so misleading?
For two years, Adarsh had avoided coming home, citing professional compulsions. But my father felt our house lacked five-star amenities to suit Adarsh’s lifestyle.
I was considered a privileged son who enjoyed a life of comfort at home while the talented son struggled hard in the big, bad world outside. It was the duty of a parent to set the balance right, distribute love and affection equally between the legal heirs, not just the assets. Adarsh was perceived as the deprived child whereas I was the home-based pleasure-seeker exploiting the old man and his pension to meet my survival needs.
Using his provident fund proceeds, without consulting the family, the remorseful father built another floor and furnished one master bedroom with an attached washroom for his favourite son who came to meet him like an honourable dignitary for a couple of hours, for bear-hugs and to exchange pleasantries. And then returned to spend the night in a luxury hotel suite, around two hundred kms away, where his blonde wife had checked-in. Migratory birds stayed longer than he did and that was precisely what I queried my father about – he never controlled his budget to appease his older son. I questioned him about the urgent need to spend a fortune on the new construction when his health bills were expected to rise.
He justified it as a modest upgradation he could offer to the son who made him so proud. “If the entire town respects me today, it is because of your brother, not you,” he hollered, without thinking this could hurt me and strain the muscles of his ageing heart. Sometimes, parents reveal that their love for all children is far from equal. They are the prime architects of partiality in human relationships within the family.
I realised how demeaning it was to live in the house owned by him. I was aware of my own incompetence to build a similar house or pay my monthly bills. The roof provided by my father sheltered me along with my weaknesses and failures. Whenever I tried to move out — place myself under the open sky for a while — I was reminded of my actual status in life. As a result, I never challenged parental authority. Every insult that had come my way, I swallowed like mucus trapped in the throat.
Seeing him suffer emotionally because of Adarsh pained me though nobody expected me to be sensitive in this regard. If I revealed the other side of my brother, I was reminded of my own negligible contribution. I would be accused of trying to drive a wedge between the successful son and his loving father. The reality that he was also my father somehow faded. I was presented more like a dependent step-brother cribbing for his help all the time.
*
One day, I decided to disclose everything, oblivious of the outcome. The endless comparisons and insults lent toxicity to my anger. Surprisingly, my father listened to me quietly, without interrupting, immersed in finding good reasons to suspect and match those with his own observations. After several years of living abroad, the image of Adarsh seemed to develop cracks. It was not a development that made me happy though it was necessary at this stage for my own sanity.
Adarsh was expected like a good son to be around his father when he suffered his first heart attack. But he did not rush back home during the emergency. He said he did not get leave and he could not afford to quit. The recycled excuses did not work this time. I was the one by the bedside, arranging medical care, though the bills were later cleared by liquidating his fixed deposits.
Not finding the ideal son beside him was the reason for his heartbreak. The presence of an under-rated son round the clock was a matter of consolation for the father who had always belittled me. During the period of recovery, he reflected a lot, staring at the false ceiling mirroring his false pride. His sombre voice did not echo love and longing for the son who had deserted him. He came back from the hospital with two stents and a balanced perspective.
The special room built for my brother was always kept locked. Surprisingly, he offered me the keys and asked me to occupy the room. It was not just another accommodation. It was a sacred space in his heart reserved for Adarsh. That space was now being offered to me as he realised the ‘successful’ son would never get the leave to reach in time to light his funeral pyre. Whereas, this unregistered nominee carrying his DNA and residing for free on his premises would perform the last rites. He had reached this conclusion after introspecting and revising his expectations from high to low.
He could have had this realisation earlier but he was not able to see the other side without an emotional jolt. I never heard him criticise Adarsh for his shortcomings, for abandoning him in the hour of need. However, the frequent international phone calls and memory recalls turned rare now. He became almost non-existent for him — out of sight, out of mind.
Whenever I tried to mention Adarsh and his family, he changed the topic very quickly, faster than a chameleon changes colour. He seemed to have lost interest in what was going on in his life and career abroad. Or he did not wish to discuss him.
*
The day he suggested I should focus on my career and start some business was filled with surprise. He even offered financial assistance. Earlier, he vehemently opposed the idea of business since we belonged to a traditional family of service holders. Now he changed his outlook and made it global, without leaving the shore. Somewhere within he realised that promising careers are not always made abroad or by working for conglomerates alone.
I was well beyond the age to secure a decent job so I chose to become the first member in my family to take the entrepreneurial plunge. I was known as the one who always delivered losses. Yet now, he was not worried about losing his financial investment. He was rather keen to balance himself once again, by trying to favour me, to make amends for ignoring my future since I seemed to lack sparkle in my childhood years. In hindsight, he saw his concentration on Adarsh as a kind of injustice to me. Remorse overwhelmed him. I realised the best way for me to reduce his heaviness was to accept his offer. His kindness was a kind of balm for my bereaved heart.
*
On a modest scale, I set up the handicraft export business with his blessings. He broke the auspicious coconut and cut the ribbon at my new office. It took a couple of years for the business to register growth and enable me to repay his loan. My plans to expand and diversify the business – to establish units in the neighbouring states – were on the anvil. The fuel of ambition was clocking good mileage, taking my business in new directions at great speed.
My father was happy I was doing well for myself. The news reached him through his contact channels that I was invited to attend business summits, to deliver lectures, to receive awards and accolades. His retired friends glorified my initiatives of empowering the rural folks and ‘giving back’ to society. Sometimes he walked into the office and checked out the shelf space reserved for trophies and framed certificates of excellence and merit. He stood in front of the mantlepieces and smiled. He had heard stories about successful Adarsh. Here he was witnessing the meteoric success of his younger son.
I told him that Adarsh confirmed his visit to India that Diwali. I repeated it louder as he was watering the balcony plants. He showed no eagerness or excitement unlike in the past. I returned the keys of my brother’s fully furnished room he had offered me for personal use. I had not shifted in that space yet so I thought Adarsh could utilise it during his stay.
I was glad he was finally home-bound after a gap of two years – the first trip after the heart attack episode. For a change, he came alone, leaving his family behind. He looked unhappy though he did not share anything with me during the drive from the airport to the outskirts of the city. Only after he saw pictures and the website of my profitable business venture on the phone, he overcame the hesitation to open up his heart and share his current situation.
“I am ruined, bro, never saw this was coming,” Adarsh said, and wiped off the tears about to trickle down his cheeks. Surely there was some serious problem he was facing as I had never seen him emotionally fragile. I did not appear eager to dig up the details as he would gradually reveal the bruises. It appeared that a lot of stress and distress had piled up in his life during the last two years, about which we knew nothing. “I am preparing for divorce. My in-laws cheated me, siphoned off investments and she helped them in the loot,” Adarsh dropped the bombshell after regaining his composure. “Sometimes I feel she married me for wealth. Nothing else.”
The financial trouble he was coping with should not reach father, I thought, as he would be affected that his talented son was facing the consequences of betrayal in love and marriage. All I wanted to know from him was how he could be helped out. He disclosed he was planning for an out-of-court settlement first, then to return to India and build his future here.
“Father will be delighted to hear that. Great decision, bhai[1],” I cheered him for revising the plans and shuffling his priorities though it was late to rebuild from a scratch. “Just make sure the divorce thing is kept under wraps for some more time, for the sake of his health. No tension or anxiety.”
*
By the time we reached our housing colony, he opened up further. He did not want our father to know anything as the news of his suffering would take a toll on his health. Therefore, he wanted me to lend him financial support. Besides, he did not think he deserved to ask for anything from father as he had let him down with his choices and decisions. He pronounced himself guilty for he had not been a good son. Earlier, I was the one who went through such poor self-assessment. Finally, there was something that made us equal as brothers.
I parked the car in the outskirts near the primary school we attended together to revive good memories of childhood. We sat near the small pond and reflected on our childhood filled with days of joy and carefree lives. Dropping a pebble and watching the ripples in the water, thinking of a permanent solution to his problem. I gave it a serious thought and offered him equal partnership in my new business though it was not his domain of expertise. With the emerging integration of AI for business profitability, I thought his technological insights would help the business grow here and overseas. Seeing him snowed under genuine regret, I chose to forget the bitter past and assured him of all possible help as a blood brother, just like my father had surprised me with his assistance to rebuild my aimless, broken life. I felt then my decision was right.
*
Encouraged by my unconditional support, Adarsh snapped all ties with his in-laws and expedited the process of buying freedom by separating from his wife. The greatest joy for any father would be to see both the sons engaged in the same business. The unification and collaboration of the brothers through an act of destiny was the best gift in his old age.
The glowing expression of joy on hearing from Adarsh that he was going to settle down here was the best he could expect, the cherry on the cake. When he was asked why came alone after so long, he quoted a philosophical line to convey the universal truth, without revealing the truth of his personal life.
Whenever he was asked about his family again, he told the same story: she cannot come here with him because of her job obligations. Though the divorce thing was not specified, our father was not a fool to miss reading the faultlines on his glum face. He expected Adarsh to reveal it all on his own at the right time, whenever that was.
The special room meant for my brother was finally allotted to him. He was not told anything about the expenses incurred to make it luxurious. When Adarsh saw my ordinary room and compared the two, he realised there was still something special for him in his father’s heart. Finding me helpful, he offered space in the room. But I refused to sleep there. I thought I did not deserve the special room yet. My father came around later and asked me why I had not utilised that room when he had given me the keys. I said I was not used to such luxurious living.
Adarsh was living with us now though Dad tried to be cold and impersonal all the time. Whenever Adarsh asked about his daily medicines, he said I was put in charge of administering the doses. All the reports and prescriptions were in my custody, including the blood pressure monitoring gadget. Adarsh got the subtle message that health issues should not bother him now – the critical stage was thankfully over.
As Adarsh became busy with the business and helped me expand to the nearby states and overseas, my father was happy I was helping my brother with the equal partnership offer. He was discovering the goodness of the neglected son who built his life and business on human values and relationships. I had a slow start, but once it took off there was no looking back.
As the business grew well, and Adarsh became the visible face of the company. I chose to be eclipsed as a founder while he was all over the media for making it a global company. Just as my father was neglected as the investor who helped start a company that had now become a sensation. It was fine to be neglected here and there. Because the self is less important than the outcome. When Adarsh wanted to open an overseas branch in California, where he lived, I was supportive as he had a strong client network there. He thought it would help us grow more.
He approached our father to convince me to make it the head office.
“Settle it between the two of you, no mediation required from my end,” was how he responded to end his request.
I was beginning to sense Adarsh was planning to move out of the country again, empowering me to handle domestic operations while he wanted absolute control of the overseas business in the US and Europe. Frankly speaking, it was good that an Indian company was going global and making waves abroad. I saw no reason to reject his plan. Since I had already made him my equal partner, he had an equal say in the running of the business. Being more qualified and experienced than me, he could take the business to global heights.
Our father had dreams of our success and this was the best way to make that happen during his lifetime. Given his health condition, we should dissolve our minor differences and become a source of joy for him.
I agreed to let Adarsh execute his global vision. My father felt I was more than a brother to him. I took no credit as the business truly belonged to our father who invested at a crucial time when there was no other source of funding. He helped me set up a small business and Adarsh was my dear brother who expanded it. He deserved full credit for that, from local to going global.
*
As the divorce formalities were about to begin, Adarsh started preparing for his return. Within a year of staying in the house, in the special room constructed for his comfort, he decided it was time to move out. I did not want him to reveal anything about his marital discord and he honoured that promise. Our dinner-time discussions were all about business and our father never spoke a word about his marriage.
Our father was upset to hear about his departure, though he did not express his displeasure. He was perhaps thinking both his sons would stay with him forever, forgetting that Adarsh had a family abroad and they were also waiting for his return. Although Adarsh was leaving home, he consoled himself with the thought, that his sons were united. The sibling bond that had been missing all these years was firm now.
Adarsh vacated his room. He handed over the keys to me in the presence of our father, asking me to occupy the space forever, informing me that the cool breeze through the open windows on the southern side helped sleep well without the need for the air-conditioner.
At the time of leaving for the US again, he was grateful to the family for their timely support. When he reached there, he was a completely changed person. His first phone call was not about safe landing or the business development there. He chose to discuss the split of our family property and he wanted his share of the house since he needed to buy a new apartment there. He spoke about his meeting with real estate brokers and local promoters who were ready to buy our ancestral house during his stay at our residence. This was another deceptive face of Adarsh. I had given him the best offer to rebuild his life and he was discussing how I could persuade our father to sell the house and buy a small flat for ourselves.
“You are not going to marry and start a family now. But I wish to marry again and begin my second innings. My son will be the ultimate nominee.”
The man with tears in his eyes just a year ago could not be so selfish. I refused to believe he was the same Adarsh. He did not update me about the divorce and his remarriage. Just forwarded a few pictures of his new bride and sought my blessings. The speed of his execution was incredible. How could I tell our father that his son went back to divorce and remarry? How could I tell him that he wanted his share of the ancestral property as well? It was a dilemma for me. Sometimes I worried about the outcome of offering him partnership. He could gain control and split the business in his favour.
I reminded him he was doing well now so he could buy a house there with his earnings instead of forcing an aged parent to sell the house. He said he was not going to come back again and, after our father’s death, he would not like to get into litigation issues with me. I refused to compel our father to sell the property for Adarsh.
I was ready to transfer him the share of proceeds he needed from the sale of the house property after mutual discussion. “Consider the house sold and take the money and give me the signed, notarised legal papers specifying that you have got everything from our family.”
“Done.”
I gave Adarsh the full control over the overseas handicrafts business since he was leading it well. I slowed down my pace of work and spent more time with our father who was not keeping well. He noticed my growing aloofness from the business and I had to specify that Adarsh was handling it better than me.
“You supported your brother in so many ways. You gave everything he needed to rebuild his life and his personal setbacks were kept secret.”
He praised me to the skies for the first time with affectionate words, “You are a gem of a person. A wonderful human being. I am proud of you. Parents can also go wrong in understanding their own children. I am the best example to quote.”
The words I never got to hear were echoing in my ears for the first time. He gave me a warm, tight bear hug, the one I always saw between Adarsh and him.
I was wondering how my father learnt our secrets. When I pressed for the source, he chose to withdraw into a shell. Like a good journalist, he never revealed how he got to the core. He was glad he realised the worthlessness of Adarsh as a son, as a husband. He defended Adarsh’s first wife, saying he could not solely blame her for the breakup when there are so many flaws in his own son. “I do not want him to attend my funeral. And I will not give him a single penny of my savings. A hopeless son, a thankless brother who did not stay grateful to the person who helped him rebuild his life after divorce and financial loss. Tell him, this house will never be sold. It will become a public library.”
I told him to forget about Adarsh and his intentions. I suspected the local land sharks had contacted my father in my absence. I had already given up the controlling rights in the company and got his signature on the property papers. I showed my father the legal documents. Adarsh’s claims of ownership on this house had ceased to exist.
My father was glad that I had done exactly what he would have done. It was the first time I heard him speak glowingly about me: “I have only one son.”
The room meant for Adarsh was still kept locked – I never used it even though the keys were with me. It was a museum piece of sorts. My father insisted I should use it. But I did not want to be the substitute, a usurper of sorts. Sometimes I entered to clean the room and think of my lost brother for nowhere else in the house were his memories stored.
*
One day before my father died, he had asked me to open the special room. He looked at the pictures and smiled wistfully, trying to remember when these were clicked. I helped him fill up the gaps in his memory. He sat on the bed and looked outside the window, feeling the gentle breeze unsettle the tuft of grey hair on his forehead. Adarsh had a habit of putting it back in place. No such hand came forward to take of that.
*
I did not invite Adarsh to attend the funeral as per my father’s last wish. After the rites were over, ashes immersed in Haridwar, I informed him without mentioning the date of death and received a prompt message citing his problem to attend the cremation. He said he would organise a prayer meet in California and asked me to send a nice, smiling photograph of our dear father.
The burden of not informing him on time was off my chest as his response time indicated he would not have flown back to attend the cremation.
My father had realised his mistake during his lifetime and made amends. I chose to maintain my brother’s room as a closed space. I was sure if another mishap happened in his life, Adarsh would come back to seek support from the family, to take the keys of this special room to hide himself.
I handed over almost the entire business to him, retaining only a minor share for my basic needs. I never interfered in his decisions except when he delayed payments to the local craftsmen, artisans, and weavers or applied cost-cutting and retrenchment techniques as a corporate predator outsourcing traditional pieces of art and craft from the rural belt.
I continued to call it my brother’s room though I preserved it as a loving memory of my father. Adarsh had sold me his share of the property but I knew he would stake claim to it after my death. To prevent that from happening, I was left with the option of giving it a trust that would set up a library, like my father had wished to do. I went ahead with the formalities and started stocking books as my contribution. The upper floor was converted into a reading zone – except my brother’s room. I wanted to see a functional library during my lifetime so I let the trust take it over and begin the good work immediately. A marble bust of my father was installed and garlanded at the entrance, with a clear mention of his full name. The entire property became a public library.
My brother’s room was kept locked with a clear instruction to the trustee that in case a gentleman called Adarsh ever came here and sought refuge, he should be allowed to stay there as long as he wished to. Without any questions or objections.
I came out of the main gate and stood still for a while, gazing at the house of memories, at the nameplate announcing the late owner’s name. I stood under the open sky without fear or worries. I cast one final look at my brother’s room with closed windows on the upper floor. The rush of memories made me walk through life alone, looking at the blue sky and the fallen leaves on the pavement.
Devraj Singh Kalsiworks as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.
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Yesterday… Life seemed well-orchestrated; I got my gas cylinder refilled in three flat days, I visited the doctor without making an appointment, I walked in and walked out feeling confident. The doctor hardly needed an MRI or an ultrasound scan to diagnose my ailment. I earned dividend income without paying tax on it. Public Provident Fund earned a high rate of interest. And at no time were there shortages of rice, lentils and onions, Nor the price of tomatoes exorbitant.
Today… In an astonishing volte-face, Markets are down. People are finding it hard to make both ends meet. The job market is as volatile, like shifting desert dunes, unpredictable. Yesterday’s positives erased, leaving visible shavings of unrest.
Tomorrow… Perhaps we’ll download hope in an update, buffering between policy tweaks and breaking news alerts of meaningless wars being waged. And, we’ll stand in queues again, this time for optimism, subsidised, if eligible, While experts will debate on prime-time panels The new currency for international trade.
And I’ll look back at “yesterday”, officially rebranded as a golden era, wondering if it was ever real or just a well-edited memory, because in this grand economy of irony, even nostalgia seems to yield the desired returns.
Snigdha Agrawal (née Banerjee) is the author of five books and a lifelong lover of words, writing across genres. Based in Bangalore, writing and travelling continue to remain her lifelong passions.
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Sorrow is a blanket That sits in my closet in the dark On some nights I pull it out And wrap myself in its folds Outside, the stars twinkle in my eyes Blinking pain and hope I blink back the tears And snuggle tighter But with time The blanket has begun to fray And as I lay The weight became just a bit lighter.
Ananya Sarkar is a creative writer from Kolkata currently living in Bangalore. Her work has been published in various ezines. She loves to go on long walks, cloud gaze and ponder upon miracles. She can be found on Instagram @just_1ananya and reached at ananya7891@gmail.com
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War erupted… Oh, not the kind waged between nations This one, far more ferocious, far more, algorithmically blessed A verbal duel, a digital fuel, a full-blown culinary followers’ fight
From Bengal came Ranu. Calm, yet cunning, Queen of aloo posto, marching strong, with four thousand firmly on her side. Bhanu, from down South, popularised her sambar with vegetables sliced and at thirty-nine hundred, felt deeply troubled. “This simply will not do,” she muttered, “I must outscore her score.”
So up went Bhanu’s spicy rasam on her YouTube channel with drama, spice, and just enough sass. But tucked between the tamarind tang, she made a rather pointed pass: “Ranu’s dish? AI-made, I’d say! I followed it step by step… and yawned my taste away.”
The comment section crackled. Pickle jars nearly popped. Was this a recipe review? Or a subtle character swap?
Ranu read. Her face turned red. No time for grace or pause she posted posto chingri, bold and unapologetic, a dish that would invite no reply from Bhanu, a hard-core herbivorous.
Then, fingers flying, she struck back: “Hmm… that ‘original’ rasam? A sure lift from a Hawkins cookbook, with a pinch of extra seasoning.”
And just like that, every foodie knew Culinary lines had split into two. Between mustard zing and poppy seeds, flavours blurred and egos bruised
YouTubers paused. Then shrugged, half-bored: Is this about food, or nitpicking of some kind One laughed, adding a comment, new “Why trust your tongue? Let AI review.” And there it simmered, seasoned with despair flavour eclipsed by follower flair.
Glossary:
posto – poppy seeds aloo posto – Bengali dish made with potatoes and poppy seed paste posto chingri – Bengali dish made with prawns and poppy seed paste sambar – South Indian lentil-based vegetable curry rasam – South Indian spiced, tangy soup
Snigdha Agrawal (née Banerjee) is the author of five books and a lifelong lover of words, writing across genres. Based in Bangalore, writing and travelling continue to remain her lifelong passions.
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Stand still in a forest long enough And you will hear it… The quiet arithmetic Of change: Leaf to loam, Bud to bloom, Green to gold.
What falls away Feeds what is becoming. Nothing truly leaves. It just changes shape Like an old banyan tree, Hunched over Making new connections
And so, it is with us. We are not fading, We are editing ourselves. Occasionally creaking Like dignified wooden doors, Hinges rusted, Announcing ourselves to empty rooms With whimpers and groans. Sometimes slowly. Sometimes with a bang But making our presence, Felt nonetheless.
Snigdha Agrawal (née Banerjee) is the author of five books and a lifelong lover of words, writing across genres. Based in Bangalore, writing and travelling continue to remain her lifelong passions.
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The December breeze had turned nippy in Bengaluru, carrying with it the aroma of roasted peanuts and freshly fried banana chips from roadside stalls. Fairy lights blinked across MG Road, and plastic Santas dangled from shopfronts. Ravi watched the sparkle through his rear-view mirror as he waited for his regular passenger, Ananya, to emerge from the Barton Centre, where she worked at a real estate firm.
“Sorry, Ravi bhaiya,” she said, sliding into the back seat. “The office party ran late. You know how these Christmas celebrations are: too much food, too little meaning.” She sighed, glancing at her half-open goody bag stuffed with unopened chips and chocolates.
Ravi smiled politely. He liked Ananya. Always punctual, always courteous, never haggling over the fare. But her words lingered. Too much food, too little meaning.
That night, after parking his autorickshaw near his rented room in Ejipura, Ravi noticed a group of slum children huddled under a flickering streetlight. They were watching a television through the open window of a well-to-do home. A Christmas carol drifted out, and the children sang along, slightly off-key.
“Santa will come!” one of the younger ones shouted.
“Arrey, fool,” another replied, “Santa only goes to rich houses.”
Their laughter carried a quiet truth. Ravi walked past them slowly, his chest tightening. What if Santa came here—just once?
The thought stayed with him.
The next morning, Ravi tied a cardboard sign inside his auto:
CHRISTMAS DONATION BOX – HELP BRING A SMILE TO CHILDREN LIVING IN SLUMS
An old plastic box sat beneath it. Some passengers glanced at it and looked away. Others smiled. A few dropped in coins or notes.
“What’s this for?” many asked.
“I want to buy small gifts for the children near my place,” Ravi explained. “Like Santa.”
An elderly woman patted his shoulder before slipping in a hundred-rupee note. “Good man. May God bless you.”
Within days, the box filled faster than Ravi had imagined. One evening, he counted the money: over three thousand rupees. More than a week’s earnings. His hands trembled slightly as he folded the notes.
At the market, he bought candy packets, crayons, and small notebooks. In a second-hand shop near Shivajinagar, he found a faded red Santa coat, a cotton beard, and a cap. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do.
On Christmas Eve, Ravi transformed his green-and-yellow auto. Fairy lights ran along the roof. Paper stars swayed gently. A hand-painted ‘Merry Christmas’ sign was fixed to the back.
His neighbours laughed. “Ravi, have you gone mad? You’re a Hindu. Why Christmas?”
Ravi grinned. “Santa doesn’t ask who you are before giving gifts, right?”
By evening, the narrow lanes were alive with whispers and giggles. When Ravi stepped out dressed as Santa, a cheer erupted.
“Santa has come! Real Santa!”
He handed out candies, crayons, and notebooks. Laughter echoed between the tin roofs, mingling with jingling auto coins and distant church bells.
A barefoot little girl with bright eyes tugged at his sleeve. “Santa uncle, will you come next year also?”
Ravi bent down, his beard slipping sideways. “Only if you promise to study well and share your chocolates.”
She nodded gravely. “Done.”
Ravi laughed, blinking back, gripped by a sudden ache in his throat.
Later that night, he removed the Santa costume and counted the remaining money. Rs 1,800 still lay in the box. Someone had quietly slipped in two Rs 500 notes during the evening crowd. Ravi sat silently for a long moment, overwhelmed.
The next morning, he went to the Hanuman temple, where he prayed every Tuesday. He placed the leftover money before the priest as a thanksgiving.
The priest, an elderly man with cataract-clouded eyes, listened patiently as Ravi explained: the happiness he had brought to the slum children with the donation box, the costume, the Christmas star.
“I know it’s not our festival, Swamiji,” Ravi said apologetically. “But I wanted to do something good.”
The priest smiled. “Tell me, Ravi, did you ask those children their religion before giving them sweets?”
“No, Swamiji.”
“And did they ask yours?”
Ravi shook his head.
“Then where is the difference?” the priest said gently. “Whether one calls Him Krishna, Allah, or Christ, God smiles when His children care for one another. This is the true spirit of dharma[1].”
He placed his hand on Ravi’s head. “May your auto always carry light, not just passengers.”
That evening, Ravi drove through Bengaluru once more. Some fairy lights on his auto had dimmed, but a few still twinkled. The donation box remained inside. Though Christmas had passed, coins continued to clink into it.
For the first time, Ravi understood that Christmas wasn’t about religion, decorations, or abundance. It was about sharing warmth in a world that often forgets to care.
The road stretched ahead, glowing with city lights that shimmered like stars. And in the soft hum of his modest auto, Ravi felt as though he carried a small piece of swarg[2] through the streets of Bengaluru.
Snigdha Agrawal (née Banerjee) is the author of five books, a lifelong lover of words, and the writer of the memoir Fragments of Time, available on Amazon worldwide. She lives in Bangalore (India).
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The ring is too tight for me, But I'll give you my heart. The ring is too tight for me, But I'll give you my soul. The ring is too tight for me, But I'll give you all That can never be confined with a ring. And all the invisible rivers That meander in the wind Will fail to swerve me From you. And tattooed on my finger, By imagination alone, The ring will gleam Stringing me to you In ways others can only dream, Dissolving the tightness Like salt in a hot water stream.
Ananya Sarkar is a creative writer from Kolkata currently living in Bangalore. Her work has been published in various ezines. She loves to go on long walks, cloud gaze and ponder upon miracles. She can be found on Instagram @just_1ananya and reached at ananya7891@gmail.com
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how will my daughter wash her hair? will she fetch water from the village pump as my grandmother did? or pull it up from the well like my mother?
will she have enough hibiscus and jasmine to put in her braids, tuck behind her ear, or stick in a bun? i would like to leave her a legacy of family recipes with the goodness of fruit and leaves -- coconut and amla to oil it, bhringraj to thicken it, neem to clean it, and shikakai to colour it. i spend nights writing them down - measurements to go in the mortar and pestle to be boiled, pureed and distilled.
will she ever know the thick black rivers of a glistening mane? or as the trees are decimated, will every strand shrivel in a chemical wasteland and her scalp run dry?
without the dirt in her fingers, how will this young child of mine grow roots, how will she learn to blossom and flower, then rest and recover, without the laden boughs and the wise hands of her mother?
Pritika Rao is an economist and freelance writer from Bangalore. Her works of fiction have been published in Adda and The Bangalore Review, while my poetry has appeared in Gulmohur Quarterly, Madras Courier and The Alipore Post, among others.
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At the fourth level, there is an alcove hidden from other human beings. (I didn’t know fourth level existed.) From here a slope moving down in the form of roof, Looks over another slope, again a roof. If I can’t see the people, neither can they me! The pane at this level has a small crack To allow the air I require to breeze in. Thank you, Lord. The space in the alcove allows me to stretch, Allows me the freedom to assume a foetal posture. The alcove keeps me cold, keeps me warm. It gives the creepy feeling I might fall off or roll down. It gives the assurance I am safe. Here shadows spill light, nights shine darkness. The whole thing is about the mind. There is always the whistle, the thoughts about sex, When it’s not about the sex, it’s about Gods, About men travelling in trains, men running for cover to hide nakedness. I am always missing my trains, waiting to find the station’s rest rooms, Waiting in front of restrooms for the restrooms to be free. Here people don’t acknowledge truth, the media doesn’t. The Caxton phenomenon* is dead, all channels whore. And then there is the sky, the big clear sky like a slice of cake. The big sky out there where the birds fly, birds make the clouds wait for another day. How little I feel, how little. I speak to the feathers to share the alcove. I speak to feathers because, reasons can’t speak to anyone else in this high alter of solitude. I impress upon them to share the alcove Because times are not shareable.
*Caxton phenomenon refers to the impact William Caxton had on English literature and language when he introduced the printing press to England in 1476
From Public Domain
Saranyan BV is poet and short-story writer, now based out of Bangalore. He came into the realm of literature by mistake, but he loves being there. His works have been published in many Indian and Asian journals. He loves the works of Raymond Carver.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.
