Ankita Chauhan's Stories


She was exhausted, her frail limbs trying to find a place to station down herself. Her dizzy mind rehearsing those questions, she faced this morning. “Aren’t you aware about terms and conditions, how could you adopt a child, while you’re single” “You mean to say, I have to adopt a man first, to enjoy motherhood” she roared. They didn’t reply, just asked her to sign some more papers. Pain was dangling on her eyelids. In her late thirties she has no more comfort left as tea, she sipped a bit and became ready for another fight. .


I know his game is almost over. All his players have been resting in the transparent box, which was placed under the shadow of his arms—but I have to pretend, I have to make a wrong move mistakenly. I have to make an expression of “Ouch” with biting nails. I have to show him that he is one who knows how to play chess. It is better to lose the game over and over than washing glasses in his dad’s tea shop. This checkmate wins me childhood. .


The wind cannot defeat a tree with strong roots.” He paused running frames and his eyes glued to the screen. He was watching ‘The Revenant’ that day. For entertainment, right? As to genre it was adventure. Then what happened, why did his eyes become gloomy, why did reminiscences of past started playing in his head? How did Inarritu knew the same earthy language? And he thought his grandpa was rustic…a bumpkin fellow. Cold flashes stuck on the core of his eyes in a form of drop. Instantly, he googled for next train, going to his village, to his fields. .


I was silent, when she gave you to me. Struggling with tears, I clubbed your fragile body sophistically into my arms. There was fear in my eyes, as if I was holding my own beating heart. You were just like a bubble with palpitating nerves, your bits of moan would seem like a symphony, your smell made me feel more alive or that was fragrance of your touch. Since, I have been enjoying the collision of emotions, sunsets, autumn, dawn and… motherhood, how come you filled the void of her absence. I would love to be called your Mumma. .


All eyes on her, she examined the ground with her left foot, stretched her shoulder joints and glance at the opposition player who was buried under the instructions of coach. A rail of thoughts started playing in her head, “It’s not some gilli-danda which you play across the lane. Its badminton, complicated game, needs proper footwork, balance of mind...And time. No, I can’t select an outsider...” She watched the whole game behind the wires that day. A petal of dream unfolded in her gleaming eyes. She had not left with any choice but becoming another Eklavya. .


I am running away.. Running from the expressions hurting me most, Running from the noises drilling my nerves, Running from the shadows of secure life Running from the stillness of embellished words On that path I picked…The scattered pieces of myself, I tried to connect the beats—of every past moment And after making a perfect picture, I destructed that image simultaneously. Is it so hard to rekindle the one—I lost once? If you could find me somewhere…somehow Will you return me—the real me? Meanwhile, I am running from myself I am running towards myself. .


It was early morning. Smoking blue sky was running out of gloves of black night. A misty figure, wrapped in human bones and some flesh was sitting on the edge of the road. His eyes were struck to the street art that was painted by leaves with the brush of dewdrops. For a moment, a thought arouse in his hopeless eyes, his body shivered. Echoes of words, flashes of his stoned fate began to hover around his ragged soul. “Stay...Stay away... You leech! ” A pious man pushed him aside and entered into the temple with folded hands. .


No bird without flight—you said, I believed. Your warm touch, entwined fingers assured me that a migratory bird found its solace. In the shadow of your interlaced breathes, I sensed the depth of love, a whole universe of dreams. Two unexplored paths were going to collide and starting a nameless journey. I was not aware of any word, you pronounce but my name in your voice was enough—that echo in your eyes introduced me to golden sunlit meadows that urged for belonging. We were meant to be one—What if we symbolized as two different planets? .


And that morning She leaned towards the gentler winds Opened her clenching fists— maybe her trimmed feathers And put a tiny step into realm of faith. Though tiny hesitation dangling on her breezy hopes, Yet she was craving for pain— Confronting with real ‘She’. As the sun appeared, She engulfed that numbness —with her opening arms With a deep breath— she felt lighter Floating like a feather, Somewhere —gorgeously painted skin of nature Helped her to conquer her world again, With a new beginning —sailing with a new song. .


Amidst of the screeches and smoke, he was taking fast steps. The shiny drops of tough life would smear all over his face —Curly hairs full of dust, dusky eyes full of hope. It was hard to say what was he handling...Was that some sculpture or his dire needs? Suddenly he caught himself in someone’s camera. He trembled and trying to conceal his face. This mad world won’t have an idea that Hunger is the new religion. If they catch an image of Muslim with a Hindu’s Idol, he knew that would lead to more slaughtering of humanity. .


In that 50-storey building, he was sitting comfortably in his luxurious cabin and reading newspaper. Suddenly his eyes got stuck, his hometown has been encapsulated by nature’s exhaustion. He was flooded up with sinking voices and empty films, voices full of cloudburst, breakage of lives, drowning souls, that uncertain rainfall hadn’t left a single mark of continuity; everything had merged into nothing. When everyone was rescheduling their lives by collecting possessions, he spent his left-over money on books. After 20 years. history has been repeating itself. He was here, signing a cheque for flood victims, No kid should be left Bookless. .


A rush of relief unfolded millions of tiny memories on her face. She was sensing, caressing that god’s sculptures carelessly. A lady in her folk dress was trying to repeat her innocence. She leaned her head upon sculpture’s base and revived those days, when she was banished from a temple just because she had some special organs to produce another life, a tear rolled down her smiling lips. “Ma’am! Have you checked whole consignment, should we deliver now?” Pensive sound came from behind and brought her back into present. “Almost done” She replied in teary voice. .


“No! I usually avoid driving in that area...You can ask from other autowallas” he waved hand at her. “But why? It’s emergency.” She said with heavy breathes. “Madam you are looking decent.” “I don’t need your opinions.” “Ok sit. But don’t tell me later...That I didn’t warn you.” She preferred silence. After an hour they both were onto their destination, a rustic place full of greenery, puddles. He couldn’t drive more and asked her to arrange another vehicle. A sudden nostalgia hovered around his head. His drooping eyes made him stop the world for a while and compelled him into siesta-zone! .


‘You won’t dance. That’s it.’ He left the room after putting his stamp of word onto her fate. Something somewhere creaked, a sudden force fall off, as if someone hammered her heart into thousand pieces. Her feet started wavering, eyes palpitating as her existence into middle of nowhere. The energy she had been restricted to herself since ages, connected with an imaginary source. A quick move and she danced. She danced like refusing every direction, every measure, world prompt to her. The wordless expression was enough to reveal that beneath her flesh there was frolic soul of flamingo..


There is a place I often visit. A place surrounded by empty stairs, Filled with drops of reminiscence, Just like that shimmering nose pin on her face. I felt a sharp pain Whenever I sensed her touch, Her glance, her curves. The fragments of her voice Floating on the turquoise surface of water, Making me yearned for her, While she is too far to return. The comfort I found around this oasis, She might have instilled herself. Perhaps she already knew conspiracy of Our fate, the dice game of death. This place that echoed her glimpses, I often visit. .


Lying on the grass She reached at the point where She could measure the horizon of limitless sky With her small fingers She smelt scented roots of earth And heard the curling voices She fetched the blades of grass into her fist And felt the softness of nature She absorbed the murmur of dawn And wrapped the silence of winds closer to her heart When her father ordered her to be devoid of tech world …For a while Something born in those moments that Turned her alive! .


She put down the novel on floor, as chirping of morning interrupted her reading. She stared at the windowpanes and felt warmness of light on her face. It was third night— she was helplessly sustaining it without sleep. Her eyes got swollen, lips got dry. She cupped the black mug into her palms, smelled it deeply, that aroma brought reminiscent of their love for half-cup-of-Joe. She sipped that salted coffee alone, she might have forgot the taste of tears but would it ever be possible to forget those book-ed evenings in the circle of his arms? .


Jingling of my anklets reached to your heart, You run towards me and encircled my soul into your warmth, Words dissolved into wetness, twinkled into our eyes, A heart-storming silence caught us still, You glanced at my heena dyed footsteps, And a smile emerged from your lips to mine, We shared those thrilling breathes, A moment, 'And definition of our relationship would change its dimensions?' There was fear in my eyes, quenching to survive on a belief You whispered 'This knot wouldn’t change my love for you, not a bit.' And you sealed my trembling eyelids with your lips. .


How often, we fascinate, the illusions tiptoed into our life, ruled over harsh reality. We sense comfort for a while, get lost into the pages of fiction, Authors take us into realm where jinn exist, they fly, some of them slither on the turf like snake. After reading Salman Rushdie, we run on the same old ground and his protagonist that amorphous creature flashes, his shadow inhibit into our sentience. Author’s world deliver us a cocoon, entwined into time of strangeness, we inherit his element. In the fast spinning wheel of realty we teeter on glimpses and his phrases. .


His still lips drift apart and an addiction crawled into his brain. His closed eyes nestled up comfortably amidst puffs of fumes. His facial muscles relaxed and her soul freed from the yearning of conversations. He inhaled that blank moment swiftly and discarded the fake affirmations one by one. Each puff veiled bottomless longing, his tears dried and escaped into the world as smoke. He lied to himself once, nobody can wait forever, wound heals, pain departs, and that’s the way we live. I’ll celebrate life.” Life chuckled ‘Play with philosophical versions, but I won’t be an easy call.’ .


Two and a half equation of love were walking on the road, as their father promised to little devils, a visit to Aranmula temple on the auspicious day of Raksha Bandhan. But there was a condition. Though he nodded yet surprised to know that he has to take care of his elder sisters from now. He has to protect them. He was listening sincerely to his father’s every word. His eyes were twinkling and a little space was settled between his tiny fingers. He gripped on to his sisters’ hands. Today he was the center, who captivated everything together. .


Time had left its marks on the corner of his vision. He was an experienced man, trying to sustain his heartbeats while giving some morning strokes on paddles. That day silent road filled with noise of gazes. Her back and butts just swaying as rhythm, her element reiterating forgotten symphony, she was herself. Although nudity was a big taboo, more than belief— veiled beauty is sexier, but that numbness was inexplicable when it couldn’t generate blazes into him. His senses lost essence? And his disturbing face enveloped into unwarned smile— a kid approaching to ice-cream vendor for unique flavor. .


Somewhat frost morning but a rejuvenating one he felt, his numb fingers would pick up a bundle of newspapers and stationed them on his rusty bicycle, his twinkling eyes had already captured a dream, which was usually blooming on the first page, brave pilots with majestic planes, when world was facing the calamities of second world war, an imagination trying to survive in his heart. There was lack of facilities but choice had made. And after a decade our universe blessed with exquisite Missile Man! Here a Salute to his parents who let him flown without any —forced perception. .