A Concealed Lie - U18 entry


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New day, new week, new year, new me. That was what I told myself thinking I would change for the better but it only ever stayed the same. The longing hopes to be different laid at the back of my head searching for an escape route but it was lost. Hidden. Trapped. 

I only ever realised the day had ended once I’d woken up the next morning, tired, weary, the usual.

Attending these events thinking the company of these lifeless souls were going to change me for good this time only to realise the negatives outweigh the benefits. Woke up the same with an extra side of headaches. I forced these emotions down the toilet as I emptied my stomach because I was emotionless - well at least that’s what everyone thought. Or to rephrase it, at least that’s what I wanted them to think. Threw on a few sprays of this so-called ‘joyful wonder’ perfume and ambled downstairs to a perfect start to my day.  

A rough sniff of that strong black coffee was enough to know that my mother had awakened. Glaring straight through her eyes I mutter, ‘morning’, quickly followed with suspicion,  ‘are you headed to work this early?’ Tugging on her tight pencil skirt she spins round and surprisingly replies, ‘morning sweetheart, sleep well?’ Scanning her hesitantly, I force a nod and swiftly examine the floor tiles. The clear, cold, lonely tiles. Wishing to just lay there, right where the cold tile meets my warm radiant body. Wishing to be devoured as a whole, to disappear and become unknown like the specks of dust that meet the edge of a vacuum - forever trapped. 

I steal a sip of her coffee with the sudden urge to chug it, questioning why I always end up consuming substances despite knowing it tastes the same. It looks the same, makes me feel the same. every. single. time. Yet the thoughts of a different life always swirl at the back of my head, a priority to me - always was. I say was because I am emotionless remember? The so-called, mysterious, passionless figure.  

I shake off these imperfections and pace my stomps as I drag my refusing nerves over to my car and head to school. School, the thought of it disgusts me, fills me up with anger but not just normal emotional anger. The sort of anger that’s considered unhealthy and must be controlled. hidden. trapped. The thought of a system designed for humans to all end up being the same, whether it’s being a doctor or engineer or lawyer or taking another route which makes you seen as an outskirt - dropping out. Either way, we go in as unique but end up all being exactly the same.

They go on about how being different is good but is it? No matter how hard we have to change or ‘study’, we as a society have accepted that and it won’t ever be different. 

I consider myself curious or have some sort of distinct mind in a way that my head isn’t full of what people call usual.  It's more of the weird kind, the kind that would put you into a lower rank at school. The kind I hide because I wouldn’t be accepted or even looked at anymore. Even though I’d prefer not to be, I need some sort of human interaction, whether it's accidentally making eye contact with these everlasting glares of disgust or just inhaling the same air. 

But study they say, you’ll succeed. Yet I still seem to not know what studying is?

The process of memorising a few concepts just to be forgotten the second you hand in that exam paper. Or the process that deteriorates your brain, fills it up with useless data so that no person is ever capable of thinking outside of the normal. It’s a way of keeping us less curious, less questionable, less suspicious. But okay professor, so what if I study or pass an exam, where will I end up? The successful path that was designed for not just me but every other human despite encouraging us to be ‘different'? The path that we are meant to believe is what defines ‘success’. 

Reading all these novels about dystopian worlds, forcing us to believe that our world could never be seen in this way but it's no different. In fact, in a way, it's worse. So much worse. Simply because we’re ignorant, we know so little yet are filled with so much. We don't choose to be clueless but are compressed into the mould that ticks off the criteria of being human. The criteria, that we as a society have made, simply to demolish ourselves and then complain about it? ‘Sounds like a you problem’, is what my mother would have declared as she detached herself from the equation, the equation that builds up my vacant life that she no longer seems to be a part of, hmph. 

31st December. New day, new week, new year, new me. That was what I told myself yearly hoping for change. No, begging for a different life. Or for none at all...

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A Concealed Lie - U18 entry

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“EXCEPT THERE WAS NO MAN…” Moving out wasn’t easy. Leaving your divorcee father alone in Chandigarh and moving away for a job in Montreal wasn’t simple. It felt like you grew up too fast to be moving away. I swear I was 16 yesterday but now I’m 30 working in a stressful IIT company. I was working fine in Chandigarh, earning a minimum wage every citizen of India gets. However, my promotion had happened. I was planning on declining it, but my father insisted I go. When I read the letter carefully, I would work in Canada and not anywhere in India. I was scared, scared because my father would be all alone with no one to take care of him. Maa had left him when I graduated high school and no relatives were ready to take him. The patriarchal mindset of divorce was against Indian communities and families. But my father said, “Phikara na karo Hera beti, maim thika ho javangi,” meaning “Don’t worry Hera, I will be alright.” But what if he’s not? When I reached Montreal, I booked a rental 2BHK villa. Most of the furniture had arrived by the time I reached the flat. The villa was satisfactory with all the emergency help required. A metal board on the door with emergency helpline numbers like the local police, ambulance, civil defence and even a women's helpline number. I felt safe here. Back in India, there isn’t even a board with such numbers like these. No wonder so many cases happen every minute. I arranged the furniture and cleaned the whole house. I had organised a small puja for my new home. Praying all the negativity and any evil nazar (eye) should never step into my new home. I had already made stuffed aloo paratha before coming to Montreal. I removed them from my handbag, heated them in the microwave and sat on the couch to have my dinner. My internet box was already set up on the TV table. The bedrooms compared to the hall were small. The hall was a modern set-up with the essence of a vintage era. Next to my TV, I had put a photo frame of me and Dad being together. Canada's weather wasn’t hot or steamy, rather it was cold and chill. I kept the window open for the wind to pass through my home, making it cosy. I grabbed my large blanket to cover my body and ate my food, binge-watching my all-time favourite series F.R.I.E.N.D.S. It was my comfort show growing up and all the fun moments in the show were highly sarcastic. I was done eating my food by 10.27 pm and decided I should arrange my closet so that tomorrow I wouldn’t be late for my job interview. It was in the policies, that if you move to another country due to a promotion, you always need to give a second interview to see if you fit in the same position or they might switch you to a new position. I had my outfit planned for tomorrow: black blazer, white tank top and black jeans. It was 11 pm by the time I arranged my closet. I tend to sleep by midnight or even later, hence I read at night. I grabbed my novel and sat on the couch reading with my tea. The wind blew through the house with a powerful passion, scattering my old documents kept on the table. I got up from my couch to keep it inside my drawer. When I kept the files in the drawer, I saw a human figure standing outside. Approximately 10 km away, but I could see its figure under the flickering street lights. I was confused, why would a man come out at such an odd time? The clock had already struck midnight and this man was out roaming? Strange. I scoffed and was about to turn away when I saw from the corner of my right eye, he came closer. Too close. My villa was on the ground, and anyone could snuck in without any difficulties. I was frozen in my spot, unable to move an inch. The atmosphere becoming more and more tight. An intense change of time. In moments, I feel a hand over my mouth smothering me, making me unable to breathe. My scream not being heard by anyone, but the person’s hand pressing on my mouth made it hard for me to speak. My eyes felt an intense burn, and my throat was dry. He finally let go of me, and I was on the ground crawling to get a knife from the kitchen. My legs had gotten weak and I could barely breathe. Tears scattered all over my face. I crawled to the kitchen and grabbed a knife. I kept it ready in my hand and hid behind the huge kitchen island. I couldn’t crawl or walk anymore and rested my head on the microwave under the gas stove. Thud. My eyes wide open when I heard this sound. Thud. It sounded like a man’s footsteps getting closer and closer. Thud. I slowly peeked over the kitchen island, as the man’s footsteps got closer to the kitchen. Except there was no man… A mannequin. Without a head. I screamed until my throat was hoarse, the sound piercing the silence of the night. I ran to my bedroom and my hands trembling to lock the door. “Please please God, lock the door!” I muttered to myself. When the door was finally locked, the lump in my throat was gone. I slid down facing the door and sat on the floor. I couldn’t take this anymore. I took a few clothes out of my closet, put them in a bag and locked the suitcase. I decided to get out of the house by the windows. I opened the windows and threw the bag down on the ground. I then got down and took my bag. The Headless Mannequin standing in front of me. I was unable to move, talk or even tilt my pupils to the right or left. I was paralyzed. The night was cold but now it became intense. For a second, I felt he was going to me stab so I flinched back, but he brought out something which was even more disturbing than a knife or a gun. My Dad’s cut-off head. He dropped it on the floor like it was a piece of cardboard. I picked up my Dad’s head and sat on the ground. He’s dead eyes shooting right back at me. I looked back at the mannequin and stared at him with my tired eyes. It’s not like he could stare back at me, but his back bent down and he was standing straight again. For now, my destiny circled back to the two headless people, first, my father’s, and second, my father’s tailor shop’s mannequin. THE END

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Next to my TV, I had put a photo frame of me and Dad being together. Canada's weather wasn’t hot or steamy, rather it was cold and chill. I kept the window open for the wind to pass through my home, making it cosy. I grabbed my large blanket to cover my body and ate my food, binge-watching my all-time favourite series F.R.I.E.N.D.S. It was my comfort show growing up and all the fun moments in the show were highly sarcastic. I was done eating my food by 10.27 pm and decided I should arrange my closet so that tomorrow I wouldn’t be late for my job interview. It was in the policies, that if you move to another country due to a promotion, you always need to give a second interview to see if you fit in the same position or they might switch you to a new position. I had my outfit planned for tomorrow: black blazer, white tank top and black jeans. It was 11 pm by the time I arranged my closet. I tend to sleep by midnight or even later, hence I read at night. 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The Deficiency Of Capability ( Short Story Adult Category) I was just scrolling through Instagram or according to Gen Z and Gen Alpha on ‘gram’ where I saw an advertisement as I was over with my 10-year-old son’s handwriting. I was searching for an online handwriting teacher to improve his handwriting because he will use a pen next academic session. I cannot unveil the mystery of his handwriting with an occasional use of pen, which he is so obsessed with and excited to use but I am pretty sure he needs help. So this advertisement had their page bio as ‘ helping parents raise capable, skillful( in actual bio skillful was spelled as ‘skilful’), and happy children. I need to understand how a class or institution can help parents to raise children. Are our children lab rats? No offense but out of the many lab rats they conduct experiments on, the success is found in only a few after much trial and error. As a parent I tried handwriting classes during the summer holidays, of course, there is a fallback because subconsciously my son has fallen into his old writing pattern so he needs practice and patience to build it subconsciously. As a parent, I can only raise my child by making myself understand how much to interfere with and where I must interfere in my child's development. How can some institutes fool around by offering to help or misguide parents that this is the course they must take and they will make the child extraordinary? Many institutions like schools, classes, or any educational center are the labs where they conduct uniform experiments through various curriculums which they believe to be a formula for high-quality education to create successful adults might not work for every child. There is a need for certain elements in children which differ and which can only be offered by parents. Institutions can only give us signs that this is deficient in your thinking capability. Now to interfere in that development should be your call. It is much debatable theory. We are raising a character that cannot be done in one course or class. We know kids are observing us, but their brains are still too young to understand that we lied over the phone as we can not or do not want to attend the meeting or event. So if our children lie to us just because they don't want to share some part of their day and we catch that stuff to make the child stress about his/her character is not fair. At this moment, we have to tell our children what not to hide, being true to themselves and their parents is a source of faith and trust, how much ever they can understand according to their age. As an adult we lie to ourselves, we fake happiness but expect our kids to be ideal, happy, and capable when we struggle to be capable. In this world where no one not even the richest person can say that they are happy when they are capable of buying any luxury they want. Can our children be capable forever? The capability to handle themselves is an evolving feature. We have to focus on teaching our children evolution and acceptance according to the circumstances of life. Why did we lie not to attend an event? We are answerable to our children. They must know the scenario of why lying was a necessity in certain circumstances. What emotions are telling you to avoid that event, will make them capable of understanding themselves? So next time don't enroll your children at least in the classes where they are offering you capability because only a parent can make a child survive different kinds of situation, not the other way around. Classes or institutions can only teach idealistic, theory-based models. Application and circumstantial learning is in our hands. Children failing as children is far more correctable than a child failing as an adult. Adult life circumstances are too overwhelming and we expect our children to behave like adults whereas they are observing our imperfections every day. They are storing it subconsciously it is okay to lie or manipulate my friends as my parents are doing it. It is confusing for a child's brain how to accept their parent's perfections and imperfections in a month or year. Consistency and discipline if not seen and observed in the habits of a parent then how a child can do, will always be the question in a child’s mind. The capability of a person is based on their knowledge, intense pursuit, locus of control, resilience, and being practical. A parent and the environment at home is the only superpower that can build capability in children to become a capable adult.

  • Short Stories Anuradha 7 Mar 2024  0    2185

Plagued Love - Adult entry for March ( dedicated to the medical profession) She was torn apart with her handicap to balance her professional and personal life. The Hippocratic oath masked all other thoughts. The surge of patients in the hospital was rising by the hour. She was caged with ailing and infected patients. Her physical being was trapped in the ppt kit but her thoughts lingered between her loved ones and her duty. She was on the verge of breaking down and running away from all this ‘call of duty’ jargon. She overheard a few colleagues in conversation with indistinguishable tones of fear and complaints. Even the system was helpless against this fury of nature and wide spreading virus. The medical staff and team were under immense pressure. Yet we were the only hope against the fury of this monstrous virus. Her heart was heavy with guilt of leaving her spouse and her baby at home . She had not been home since a fortnight! Today she felt remorse for all those times she threw a tantrum at home, argued with him, hurt his feelings by vocalizing her regret of marrying him. How could she be so ruthless ? He stood by her in this crisis, her emotional war of choosing her duty over family. What were his thoughts at this moment? Is he regretting his decision too ? Is he going to be her forever knight in shining armor? She had been sitting in the canteen over a tepid cup of tea lost in her din of emotions. Her cell phone buzzed . It was her “only moral support”, her spouse. They conversed for a while and she felt a wave of calmness engulf her . His assurance to look after their child well,his faith in her capabilities, his love for her made her feel better. His words rang in her ears , his caressing voice made her nostalgic. She wanted to cuddle in those strong arms. She wanted his warm breath on her crowning glory. She wondered if she would ever have those moments again. Will she leave the hospital alive ? Her only solace remained that he loved her and her precious off spring was in safe hands. At this juncture she had to carry on till more help arrived and she would be able to go home for some rest and breather. There were many others like her who had chosen duty over safe confines of their hearth. She could feel their pangs of separation and stressing circumstances. She resolved to face the challenge with a renewed hope of going back soon with the precautions of isolation and regular tests. With masked face, warmth in the cockles of her heart and courage in her eyes she walked back to the ward to tend to her charges!

  • Short Stories Nivedita 7 Mar 2024  0    1791

"It's locked"

  • Short Stories Anaya 29 Feb 2024  0  2  2574

Cravings of Solitude and Nostalgia Allegory by Sir. Armaan Bin Awaz

  • Short Stories Armaan Bin Awaz 29 Feb 2024  0    2487

‘Mis’-matched ( Adult entry for February 2024) Two mis- matched socks on a domestic help' s blistered feet were talking to each other. Spotted Green: “I miss my twin.. this feet is too rough for me.” Pink and Beige :” So do I .. but I am still thinking bout this feet I cover .. it’s blistered, it needs to rest “ Spotted Green:”I can’t wait I to be washed, the previous feet were soft and smooth, I loved the shoe .. I hate this broken slipper,yikes!” Pink and Beige :”this feet trudges and tires, you need to be kind to it, have a heart… green one.” Spotted Green:” my heart … I lost it to the shoe… I miss him” Pink and Beige :”forget him as beyond this you shall be a toy for the dog in the narrow lane here .. till you survive ! Spotted Green:” really ! No no … I need clean feet and a warm wash .” Pink and Beige : My new partner, let me be honest, this is the fact about sock life … it sucks.If you need to adjust and accommodate. We were born to cover, give warmth yet the choice of foot is not ours. I don’t know how much we shall last or be together, but as long as we are let’s smile through our holes ! These feet need us more than our previous owners. Are you game?” Spotted Green: “Yeah .. ohhk … I will try my best but tell me one thing , will this feet hurt each day ?” Pink and Beige: “ yes each day… each minute .. till some one gives’ her’ a half used tube or oil to care for the blisters.”

  • Short Stories Nivedita 27 Feb 2024  0    2293

Passionata Volume II. Seset 3.

  • Short Stories Armaan Bin Awaz 24 Feb 2024  0    2207

Passionata Volume II. Sestet 2.

  • Short Stories Armaan Bin Awaz 24 Feb 2024  0    2152

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