Four Stories

An odd assignment required me to sketch a tree, a house, a male and a female. To top it off I had to write four stories for each one of the sketches. I will spare the internet of the sketches. Here are the four stories I wrote on them.


Deep in the woods, off the nh8 lies a home a few stories high. Snubbed out as abandoned junk, unattractive to the passing eye, the shades and binds bring in the morning mist and the pleasant sun.

The inhabitants of a place give it its soul, but not this one. This special home added something to the resident’s lives rather than mould itself around their lives. The old couple saw the autumn-spring tango from the attic window, the newlywed got their kicks out of hearing the floors creak every night, personified their lovemaking, they said. Their kids thereafter were crazy over the roof, quiet literally. The long slopes made for an amazing slide… Giving a scar or two but memories, endless.

The house’s story does not have an end, just the way its beginning is not known, it just is.


The tree of unknown origin is a full leafed, vast spread, well grounded tree in the middle of a municipality school. The survival of this tree amongst its now cut peers was only attributed to the swing that fit snugly on one of its strongest branches.

Undated by age it marks the lives of many of the youth completing the cycle from childish exploits to worrisome fears of a parents.


Gampo was a happy go lucky bum without a care in the world. His inane need to have a carefree existence always got him into trouble with his mindful and strict village folks. He tried to shift the prayer hall away from the temple, so that the God, childlike kanha, much like him, could sleep till late without the prying drums and chants of the prayer hall. He was almost thrown out of the village if it wasn’t for his grandmother who understood his predicament and convinced her peers in the panchayat to let him stay.

He once planned to set the sun out for good, the night made his hunter dad return home and share his bounty amidst the tales of his jungle exploits. Not knowing the tales come from toil and the sun was too big to extinguish. Walking towards the sun wisdom stepped in but his enthusiasm never faded. He reached the end of the world. Thanked the sun for the adventure, bid it adieu and turned around towards home.


Rama was a ragged old maid whose fingers were creaked from the years of toil and rigor, in the field and later in the sink of her rich mistress. The friction of her fingers on the soft supple skin of her mistress’s child made him squeal with delight. Her life dedicated to care for him and tending to his every need made her feel like the mother she always wanted to be, but never could. Her tears had washed many a utensils, after a night of heavy beating by her husband, crying in the refuge of the washroom.

Life never gave her the promised good times. Her emotions all spent when the child, now grown up touched her feet before being beheaded in the war.



If you ever look outside the airplane window on a late-night flight, you’ll see how our cities outshine all the stars put together. I wonder if stars motivate themselves, try to catch up with us.

And this cyclic competition makes a toddler giggle, as he runs his hand through a bag full of marbles.