Posted in Fiction, ShortStory


There was still something off about it. He scowled at his effort and brushed a matted lock off his forehead. The proportions were painfully skewed. Maybe not to the eyes of a layman, but his keen artist’s gaze was relentless. His batch mates had marvelled at the life-size sculpture; the fine chiseling of the soapstone, the painful detailing of the figure’s garms, the all-too-human curves in just the right places. But he was not happy. The flaw was minuscule, but it ailed him like a maddening itch at the anus. There was too much stress on the lower pelvic quadrant, he noted, with grim decision. It was throwing the figure’s relaxed leg off balance.

He twisted the carving chisel between strained fingers. Just the slightest touch will do it… The blade glided through the soapstone and took a thin layer out of the left hip.

He squinted.

Not quite. He gritted his teeth.

The blade in his hand taunted like winking eyes withholding a diabolical scheme. A little more… Just. A little. More.

The blade rose to the left hip and smoothened it out the slightest bit further. He stood back. No! It still looked… wrong.

The imperfection was now an agonizing ache on the inside of his skull. He raised the chisel.

Twist. Examine. Hiss.

Slice. Examine. Repeat.

His lips were gnawed bloody in a fever of his concentration, but he did not taste the piquancy of rust. He could have bitten his lips off entirely, and it would not have made a difference. He did not rest his wrist.

The quest became a metastasis in him – all-demanding, all-consuming. When weakness crept upon his damp brow, he heaved against it with the wild desperation of one fighting sleep to the freezing. It could have been minutes or hours; time unfolded its soft arms from about him and stood back in horror. He did not relent. The chisel was his only tether to sanity.

A door exploded open behind him. He twitched but did not cease.

“Oh Lord! What are you doing! Stop- Oh my god STOP IT-”

He was vaguely aware of frantic footsteps approaching him from across the studio hall. It irked him, but the noise was a mere peripheral distractor. He was not done. The hip was simply not right. He had to make it right.

Heavy arms grabbed his engaged hand and tried to prise the chisel out of it. Someone was screaming into his ear. What do they want! I’m so close! He could not let them interfere. The metastasis in him reared its rotten head and roared. The chisel flew out of his hands. His attempt to fight was futile; there were too many against him. He dissolved into a barrage of thrashing arms, disembodied shrieking and a vague dampness he could not place.

They do not understand! It is almost there! It is almost PERFECT –

There were spots in front of his eyes. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Oh dear Jesus!”

He felt the floor dive toward his face. A hard coldness pressed up against his body like an abandoned feline. A black jaw yawned before him, slow and sinister, beckoning. And then there was nothing.


The crowd of campus-residents had to be held back at the studio doors. Paramedics swarmed the area, as did an assortment of crisp, uniformed men. The carving chisel, blade already black, was sealed off in an airtight bag and carried away by gloved hands, like a cursed talisman.

His body had been taken out on a stretcher. The trail of blood that had gushed out of the multiple lacerations on his left hip still marred the expanse of the studio. It snaked from the full-size mirror he had been standing in front of, to the hallway doors. Scarlet. Irregular. Sinuous.




Featured image source:
Posted in Fiction, ShortStory


There was cake in the fridge. I knew there was one piece left over from dinner. I slid around the assortment of containers and stainless steel ware, guided by the jaundiced luminescence of the fridge, in graveyard stillness of the sleeping kitchen. I couldn’t see it. A few minutes later, my fingers ached from having prised open every container in the fridge, but the closest I’d come to scratching that itch under my sweet tooth was finding a mouldy, half-eaten doughnut at the back of the bottom-most shelf. Shubham’s stash. Obviously hidden away for later consumption, before promptly being forgotten about.

There was only one explanation for the absent cake. Shubham. I stormed to his room, in as silent a fury as a sneaking teen could manage. Don’t wanna wake up the house. His bedroom light was still on. Gotcha, boy. There were only two things my brother could be doing up at 3 AM. One- eating stolen dessert. Two- this was a rather indelicate affair that involved the incognito tab of his laptop and lots of tissue paper. I half-hoped it was number one.

I didn’t bother knocking before entering; I wanted to catch the bugger red-handed. There was no one in the room- his bed was messy, and papers lay strewn across the floor. I felt like Alibaba in the secret cave; finding access to Shubham’s room in such a fashion was rather rare. He usually lived with the paranoia of an absconding felon; his room either had him it it, or was locked. I snooped about, looking for nothing in particular, simply reveling in the glory implicit in forbidden behaviour. My gaze fell upon something caught between his sheets. I wrested free a stained handkerchief from a tangle of bed clothes. It was crumpled as old papyrus, and stained brown… a familiar brown… Aha! I’d got him. He’d obviously enjoyed the cake- my cake, a piece I’d called dibs on- in bed and wiped clean his filthy hands of the crime on the tell-tale white cloth. I stuffed the evidence of his treachery into my pocket and trotted back to my room, just as I heard the flush sound in the common toilet, outside. Judging by the amount of time my little brother had spent in the bathroom, I was guessing the commode was clogged with a wad of tissue paper.

The next morning, I awoke to the sound of screaming.

A flurry of blankets and hastily donned specs later, I was tumbling out of my room towards the source of the commotion. Mom stood in the common bathroom doorway, hyperventilating into her hands.

“Mom! Mom, what is-”

My mother, Mrs. Sinha, lady of the household, for the first time in her disciplined life, did not admonish me for the profanity that then burst from my lips. My brother lay sprawled beside the commode, limp and white as sodden wool. The bathroom tiles were smeared with blood, and I noticed, through swimming eyes, that a trail of dried blood led all the way from Shubham’s body into the hallway. Later, on further inspection by professionals I didn’t care to acquaint myself with, little spatters of blood were found to lead out of our ground-floor apartment and into the building compound.

Two hysterical women have a way of attracting the attention of prying neighbours without any conscious effort. Soon- or maybe eventually, for I had lost all sense of time- our spacious apartment was cramped with policemen, paramedics, concerned neighbours and friends. Different pairs of strong hands guided me around the house, settling me into chairs and forcing water to my lips. Unheard consolations were whispered into my ears, and unanswered questions posed at a face that looked like mine, but belonged to an unselved being floating in a limbo. My mother’s ceaseless wailing was probably the only thing that kept me partially rooted to reality.

They took him away on a stretcher with the white sheet pulled over his head. I did not say goodbye. Later, we were told that they had found a single stab wound right above his abdominal aorta. It had taken him hours to bleed out. Hours spent lying on the bathroom floor. Hours after I had heard that flush sound in the dead of the night. Hours I had spent sleeping, dreaming of chocolate cake. Hours

No one knew what had happened. The teenage son of the Sinha household in Delhi had been vagabonding out one April night, and had been stabbed mysteriously, only to have limped home and been found dead near the toilet the next morning. It was labeled one of those freak incidents that shook the urban middle class every few years, and had paranoid parents warning their children not to wander the streets after dark. We had to have our names changed for the press.

I spent the days after that particular morning locked away in my room, weeping between bouts of catatonia, into the stained handkerchief I had found on Shubham’s bed the night of his murder. I don’t quite remember when it was that I figured the brown stains on his handkerchief weren’t chocolate, but coagulated blood. Mother disappeared into her job, staying back late in an office that she hated, but nonetheless hated lesser than the growing lacuna at home.

We never brought chocolate cake home again.




Two summers later, when my brother was fading into memory and photographs, I sat talking to the single mother of the little girl I babysat over the weekends.

“I have never told anyone else this, Sanaya. I hope I can trust you…” I could see unspoken words burrow into her flesh from the inside out. A feeling I was all too familiar with. I encouraged her to speak. Maybe… Maybe I’ll tell her my story, too…

“I almost lost my little girl that day, Sanaya,” she rasped. I hugged her, feeling my own eyes well up with tell-tale water.

“I don’t regret stabbing that bastard, son-of-a-bitch. I did what I had to do when I saw my baby unconscious in his arms,” she continued. I froze.

“Wha- What?”

“Yes. He then jumped over our garden fence, the way he came in, and got away. Never saw his face in the dark, but he was a young chap.” I felt insects crawling up my throat.

“B-But what was he doing to her? What happened?”

“Two years, and we have never told anyone the truth… When we had her checked at the hospital later, they found a saturation of tranquilizer in her bloodstream. The bastard. He fed it to her in a piece of chocolate cake-”