The crisp golden sand cools my feet as I walk along the beach. The water is gushing gently under my feet, sparkling in the sun’s golden light. It’s a little after 6pm; I stand there, the wind blowing through my hair, thinking about what article I should write for the newspaper next week.I have a little column that I write every Sunday. I don’t write about the ordinary stuff. I don’t write about corruption or about fashion or food. I write on “the miracles of life.”

You see, according to me there are no coincidences, only miracles.

The MAG had organised the 1st Short Story Writing Competition for its readers. The contest got a good response, and the stories received were judged by an independent panel of Jury. The book, as stated above, is a collection of nineteen (19) short stories dealing with different aspects of life.

The winning entry, Nude, is the story of a victim of domestic abuse, who is trying to find ways to come to terms with her life and her fate, so that she can move on with her life. A Song of vengeance, the next story, is the story of a husband who pays the ultimate price in a bid to even things up with his ungrateful wife.

It had nearly been a week after they had married with the exchange of the traditional nuptial vows. She was as tired and pale as she had been on the first day they spent together as husband and wife. He thought the lengthy marriage processions and rituals had taken their toll on her. For a minute he even wondered if he had done something atypical to her. But it was something else which was going on in Naya’s mind. The newly married bride was still thinking of Ayan, with whom she had broken up after 15 months of relationship, or 15 months and 8 days to precise, the only guy who had touched her heart in a special way.

“Soon, other things became a lot more important to me; I too had found our happiness appealing. Then, eight months back, few rumors began circulating before the news came in and it led to more rumors. Much of it, gradually, turned out to be true. And it gave me the answer of a question long forgotten. Why were we happy earlier? Mother had said we were growing–cars; house; furniture; holidays; money. And now our sources of happiness were being taken away from us. We needed these, not each other, to grow and to be happy.”

“Marriages are decided in heaven and are only celebrated here on earth”.

This was Abhishek’s trademark answer when his friends asked him about his marriage plans. Abhishek, an engineer, who after completing his MBA had just joined a big firm, was getting a salary that was more than what he had expected.As was the case with most people of his generation in India, half of his life was spent in the licence raj period where a good job was rare, and a good job with a good salary was even rarer.

Kallu Koylewala limped into the living room of his house. “Imarti Rani,” he called out to his wife in a shrill voice wiping the sweat from his bald head. Imarti came into the living room from the kitchen smelling of turmeric and garlic. She looked at her husband’s dark face, his dhoti and kurta, which were white when she had given them to him in the morning and were now almost blackened with coal dust.

Exactly a dozen years ago, a girl met a boy on all fool’s day and they fell in love. The rest as they say is a dozen years of history.

It was the 16th day after the Ides of March. She had come to work about an hour early today. Yesterday Hunterwali’s memo had reminded her that she would have to “temporarily” vacate her cubicle to the editor’s blue-eyed boy, who was arriving from the UK, to work on a ”research”, around mid day. And needless to say, she had to get on top of the deadline by late morning.

It was towards the back of the building that they crept silently – three figures, almost invisible, camouflaged in their black dresses against the dark night. There was a drain pipe at the back that ran up all the way up to the fourth storey, and that is what the three were going to climb.
All of a sudden they were aware of a sound in the dark. A muffled sound, as if someone was struggling to speak. Their eyes, accustomed to the dark, looked around for the source of the noise. Soon, they located the source – it was a bundle, or two, lying in a corner.

Rajesh was a satisfied man. Today was his forty-fifth birthday. At forty-five he was a high official in a government department with a bright future ahead of him. He had done all his duties — as a human being, a son, a husband and a father. He had always helped people in distress, especially from his hometown. His father had taken premature retirement from work on his insistence. His father had wanted to work but Rajesh wanted him to rest and be completely at ease. As a father, Rajesh was a firm believer of the axiom ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child’, and he had used the rod liberally. Now Vishal, his only son, 22, an engineer from a reputed institute had all the makings of a future officer. So Rajesh had every reason to be satisfied.

Yet, even in today’s world, there are people who cherish the desire to fly. Loktak was definitely not one of them. He lived his simple life, and loved it. True, he enjoyed the odd superhero movie, every now and then, but he had his head placed firmly on his shoulders, and he knew that what was shown in the movies was best left to the movies.