Unexpected News

Unexpected News

Venkatesh was terribly upset when he found out that he had been transferred to Hubli. He didn't know what he was going to do about it .
Absent-mindedly, he started driving towards his house in Jayanagar.
He had known that his transfer was due to the bank, and he would not have minded going to a place nearby like kanakapura, kolar or mysore.
but Hubli? It seemed so unfamiliar and distant. The end of summer was pleasantly warm in Banglore. Who knew how it was in Hubli?
'Maybe I should listen to my colleagues,' He thought. Venkatesh knew that he did not really need a job. His family was healthy and financially
sound. His co-workers offen remarked that had they been in his shoes, they would have opted for voluntary retirement, but Venkatesh did not like to
be idle. His wife, Shanta, ran the house very efficently and handled the family finances better than an investment banker. So there was nothing for him
to do at home either. He was just 'Madam's husband' to the household help who knew that he had no say in any matter.
When he reached home, Shanta was on her way out. He guessed from the fancy clothes that she had a programme at the Ladies' Club. She was proud to be president
there. Besides that, She was a member of the college committee and vice peresident of the school committee while being
an active investor in the stock market. She was scarcely at home, and when she was, She was permanently on the phone or the laptop.
Their daughter, Gauri, would often chide her mother, 'Amma(mother), please take your business outside. Your unending telephone calls disturb my study time.'
It always made Shanta angry.
When Venkatesh saw his wife today, he noticed that she had coloured her hair, got a facial and applied make-up. Yet, the lines of age showed distinctly on her
face and hands. She was an unabashed show-off and was particularly conscious of her appearance; she was wearing a new white sari with diamond earrings, along with
diamond bangles and a diamond necklace. It must be a special occasion to call forth the services of so many diamonds at once, he thought.
Shanta's sharp voice cut through his thoughts, ' I have to see Appa(father) on my way back from the event. Amma isn't
feeling very well either. So I'm going to be late. Don't wait for me at dinner.'
She left without waiting for a reply.
Shanta's parents lived nearby in Jayanagar. Through She had asked them to come and live with her, they had not agreed
and were adamant about staying at their own place Her mother had said, ' It is not proper to stay with the son-in-law.
If we continue staying in our house, we can keep a distance and be close to you at the same time.'
Shanta had relented but visited them at least once every day despite her busy schedule.
Venkatesh lay down on the sofa. When Gauri came downstairs a few minutes later, she found him deep in thought. She was
immediately concerned, 'What's wrong,anna? are you feeling unwell?
He looked at his daughter. Gauri was tall, thin, dusky and attractive She was a quiet and intelligent girl and venkatesh loved her with all his heart.' Gauri, I have been
transfered to Hubli,' he said, his voice full of despair.'So what? Why are you upset? Hubli is not far. If you leave at night, you'll be there by morning.
Cheer up, anna, cheer up.' Gauri was an eternal optimist; She could make anyone feel better. ' You don't understand. I many have to set up house
there. The place is new to me and I don't know when I'll be tansferred back here...'
' Anna, there are two solution to your problem, ' Gauri


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YOU’RE HIS EX GIRLFRIEND AND YOU SEE HIS NEW GIRLFRIEND WEARING YOUR T-SHIRT

If there’s one thing i can’t stand, it’s pity. Which is unfortunate for her, considering that’s all she’s been receiving ever since Harry had broken up with her.

Between her family, her friends, and long-known acquaintances, the pity was never ending. The looks people gave her whenever she occupied a room made her sick to her stomach. Nobody looked at her the way they used to as if their perception of her has been altered from a beautiful, humble woman to a broken heart on legs.

Talking to people didn’t help much, either, considering their irrational fear that one harsh tone could wreck what’s left of her. To those, her identity and name have seemed to be forgotten, only to be replaced by “the girl left with a broken heart, who’s heart has failed to mend.”

It’s all a myth, really—a myth that hasn’t been confirmed or denied within the past four months. I provided no reassurance for anybody, nor did she show any improvement since their break up. But she did try her best. Her attempts to answer the question,

“how have you been, you know, since the breakup and all?” with an “I’ve been okay”filled with lies didn’t go unnoticed, however, proved to be unsuccessful.

And the pity only got worse when Harry got a new girlfriend.

It was plastered everywhere, the rumors that Harry’s new girlfriend stayed at his hotel in Los Angeles and traveled with him back to London. They disclosed that her name was Jessica, who works as a travel blogger.

She was beautiful, too. More beautiful than she wanted her to be, as selfish as it was. She was the perfect image for him, especially at the height of his career.

my heart hit rock bottom that day. Every unblemished part of it became a ruin, a shattered piece of what was once so full and whole.

I hadn’t expected it, not this fast, at least. When Harry initiated the breakup, he told her that it wasn’t the end of their relationship. He had promised her that with the right amount of distance, all the problems they’ve had in their relationship would be fixed entirely.

She believed him, too. That with maybe some time apart, their bitterness towards each other would decease, and all that would remain would be the overwhelming needs for one another.

She should have never been so gullible. After they broke up, they never spoke to each other again. All their ties had been cut, leaving them both hanging in completely separate lives. I never got over him. How could she? They were soulmates, they were each other’s everything. No matter what came at them, they always found a way back to one another.

But Harry’s fame started skyrocketing, leaving I on the ground with no way to reach him anymore. She should have known he’d find someone else—someone more worthy of his time. She just didn’t want to believe it and didn’t want to believe that it had happened so soon.

“How are you feeling?” Gabby asks, reaching over the wooden table so that her fingers can rest on top of my hand; a small gesture that Gabby has been giving me nearly every day for the past four months.

I wishes she found it as comfortable as it intended to be, however she can’t help feeling worse whenever Gabby did so. The gesture undoubtedly derives from the pity Gabby has had toward her ever since the breakup. Everything was because of pity.

She looks down at her cold, untouched hot chocolate as she swirls the straw along the brim, resisting to roll her eyes as it’s the only question everybody has seemed to ask her recently.

“The usual,” she shrugs, “nothing’s really changed.”

Gabby gives her a half smile before returning to her tea. The cafe is only occupied by the both of them, considering it’s 7 in the morning on a Sunday. But after everything that’s happened, My sleep schedule has been slacking and Gabby wanted nothing more than to be there for me whenever she had the chance.

“Are you sure you don’t want any food?” Gabby asks. “It’s on me if you want anything.”

I shrugs again, a faint yawn falling from her mouth as she shakes her head.

“No, I’m okay. I think I’ll make some waffles when I get home. But I’ll need to stop at the grocery store before I leave. Ran out of milk and flour the other day.”

“We could stop by now if you’d like. I’m getting quite full, anyways.”

“Yeah, sure” my nods, “sounds fine.”

The entrance doors chime when I and Gabby enter the grocery store, barely any people filling the aisles at such hours. Neither of them speak much before they go their separate ways, grabbing all the necessary ingredients i needs for when she gets home.

When she finds flour on one of the bottom shelves, I bends down to grab the cheapest one she could find. In all honesty, she didn’t have a lot of money to spend since she took some time off of work for “mental health reasons,” and she wanted nothing more than to go back home and spend the rest of her day in bed.

When she stands back up from her squatting position, her body rams into somebody else’s, making everything they both were carrying fall onto the floor.

“Oh shit! I’m so sorry!”  gasps, scrambling to pick up the ingredients that have fallen from the girl’s arms.

When i stands back up to return her fallen items, it was as if every nightmare i has ever had was standing right in front of her.

She’d recognize her face anywhere. It haunted her everywhere she went; mocking her and destroying every last bit of her well being. Her face is unforgettable, having been ingrained into her head for so long now. She’s exactly how she is in her pictures, except she’s so much more beautiful in person.

It’s when my eyes drift down to the shirt she’s wearing that takes the breath right from her lungs.

The word Lover printed inside of a red heart, the end of it hidden by the pocket right on her chest. It looked so unfamiliar on her—so unfamiliar that tears started piling in her eyes and her lips began to quiver.

That shirt was theirs. That shirt belonged to me and Harry.

Lover.

It was a nickname I always gave Harry. She would have normally settled for “babe” or “baby” like she did with her previous boyfriends, but “lover” came so naturally to her. It exemplified just how unique and rare their relationship was, too.

Harry had never been called that before, but there was something about it that felt so right. The first time she called him that, he blushed like no other. His cheeks and heart felt so warm, and i wouldn’t let him hear the end of it. But no matter how much she joked about how much he blushed that night, it only made her call him that more.

And the more she said it, the more she realized that there was no other name to describe him.

She gave him the shirt for their first anniversary. She was insecure about it, considering it was the only gift she purchased him that year and wasn’t nearly as expensive as all the gifts Harry had given her. But after all the flowers she received had died months later, after all the chocolate he bought her had been eaten in two nights, after all the in-home spa treatments had been used by the both of them progressively throughout the months, and after all the sex they shared died down by the next morning, the only gift that remained so dearly to their hearts was that goddamn shirt.

The shirt became sentimental to their relationship and was almost used as a keepsake between the two of them. The mornings after making love, Y/n found herself slipping it on before rolling out of bed to make breakfast. Harry fell in love with her tendency to do so and always made sure she knew just how much he loved her for it.

This is my favorite look on you, he’d always say, where the shirt hung loosely from her frame and her skin scattered with the marks from his tongue.

Harry wore the shirt as a tradition, most commonly on their anniversaries or on any specific date that held such significance to their relationship. And every time i saw him wearing it, she found it irresistible to kiss the heart designed right upon his chest.

My lover, she’d say, looks so perfect on you.

She never imagined anybody else in it. Even after they had broken up, she never thought the shirt would be passed down to later relationships Harry had with other women. When she moved out, he kept insisting that she should be the one to take it.

written by Jayesh 
reviewed by sky and rewrite
For part -2 of this story stay connected to our blog 

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Lips Of An Angel

I rub the skin of her arm, eyes locked on the window right by our bed. Her soft snores are the only sounds heard this late at night. I flutter my eyes closed, trying to escape where my mind is; where my mind is wondering off to. Thoughts I shouldn’t be thinking have been consuming me nearly every night. I can’t get my mind off of her. Off of somebody else. It hasn’t happened recently, the haunting flashbacks as nightmares. But it’s been years, too many, and my mind has been missing hers. 

I stare away a little longer, my mind out of it’s place. I wonder if she’s thinking about me; being haunted by me the way I’ve been haunted by her. I know she has someone else, we’ve had connections. It happened around the same time I found Jennie, and I promised myself I wouldn’t miss Y/n like I do now.

“Fuck” I mutter.

My house phone rings a lingering tune, and I’m quick to check the caller ID. I feel Jennie stir next to me, but doesn’t wake up. My eyes widen, heart skipping, palms sweating. It’s like she knew. 

I leave my bed slowly, gliding out of Jennie’s arms so that I can make my way into my office. My thumb makes circles around the answer button, reluctant, because what would it make me to speak to my ex girlfriend while my current one is in the room next door? I can’t go through something like this again.

I suck in a breath, eyes fluttering closed, preparing myself for a moment that I’ve been so out of reach with. I think for a second that I can’t do this.

“Y/n, why are you calling me so late?” I whisper, looking over my shoulder just incase Jennie has woken up. “It’s hard to talk right now.“

I hear Y/n sniffle, soft bawls and delicate whimpers shattering my heart through the line. 

“Honey, why are you crying? Is everything okay?” 

She holds her breath, all of her grieved sounds halting to an undesirable silence. Even when she’s dismal she sounds so sweet, so warm and fragile. I have always compared her to an angel. So soft, so delicate and exquisite, just so, bitter sweet. I feel her everywhere.

“Why are you whispering, Harry?” she questions.

I look over my shoulder again, watching as Jennie stirs gingerly along the mattress. Her hand glides upon the sheets, as if searching for me. When she only feels my pillow, she frowns, but falls back asleep as if nothing happened.

“I can’t be too loud. My girl’s in the next room.” I explain quietly, my fingers twisting around the chain of my necklace. 

Y/n bought it for me when we were on a road trip to Amsterdam. We were both quite poor at the time, collecting every bit of money we could. She had always told me that her dream was to visit the Anne Frank house. She has always idolized her. Being an English major and first edition book collector, she kind of had to be. So we both found jobs, and it took us nearly a year of us saving up all of our money to finally take the car down to Amsterdam.

The trip was never something I can forget. Two weeks in a broken down hotel, the floors nearly collapsing beneath our feet, the ceiling crusted with dry paint. But it was alluring. We made love every night, but the nights of aesthetic pleasure were never planned. They were all natural, all instinctive, as if it was the only way we could express our feelings was through physical connection.

“Sometimes I wish she was you.” I mumble. Y/n sniffles again, a loud cry ripping through her throat as she tries hopelessly to keep herself together.  “I guess we never really moved on.” 

She sobs. “I miss you so much, Harry.”

I flutter my eyes shut, the way she says my name forcing my body to tingle in euphoria. I haven’t heard her angelic voice in what feels like eternity. 

I try so hard to focus on what her lips look like, how they moved whenever she spoke, how they felt across my skin. I would always stare at them, always find excuses to feel them feather against mine. Her lips were made from angels, so innocent and soft.

“It’s really good to hear your voice saying my name, Y/n, you have no idea.” I whimper. “And you saying that, it makes me weak.”

My hands graze my desk, fingers digging gently under my work papers. I always kept my favorite picture of Y/n there. She was smiling, hair blowing behind her as the wind blew across her face. It was a beautiful day in Amsterdam, a day of pure euphoria. Paradise was wherever she was, but knowing we were away from everything we’ve ever known just to be alone was something even more magical.

She wore my favorite lipstick that day.

I rub her mouth through the polaroid, trying to recollect the feeling of those perfect, plump lips. 

“You have lips of an angel.” I mutter.

I can feel her smile through the phone. “You always told me that. Everyday.” Y/n sighs. her voice is so broken, so destroyed, the perfect replica of our state of mind.

She’s making it so damn hard for me. I craved her enough after we split, but now I crave her more than I could have ever imagined. Jennie isn’t half the woman Y/n is, and I want to so badly ignore my heart, and how satisfied it feels in this moment.

I wipe the tears from my eyes, pressing the heel of my hand against my forehead. 

“It’s funny that you’re calling me tonight. I’ve been dreaming about you.” 

“Harry,” she whispers, “I’ve been dreaming of you, too. You’ve been everywhere. I can’t take it, being away from you. Not anymore. I can’t.”

My lip quivers. My jaw clenches and my throat tightens, preventing myself from letting my emotions drown me; choke me. 

“What about your man, Y/n? Does he know you’re talking to me like this? Does he know you’re me mentally killing me right now?” I weep. 

“Harry,” she sobs, trying to catch her breath, “please don’t cry. He doesn’t know. Does she?" 

I swallow my vulnerability, just to stay strong for the both of us. "No, she doesn’t have a clue." 

"Okay” she mumbles. We become silent, our voices and cries dissolving into a sweet surrender. It’s comfortable, knowing that my love is breathing against the speaker, as if she is breathing on me. I can almost feel her heated breath sending my skin into a mass of chills. Her lips grazing my collar bone, lingering kisses along my tattoos. My beautiful, sweet girl. 

“I can’t say goodbye to Jennie. You know that. But you’re making this so fucking hard for me, Y/n." 

She sucks in her breath. 

"Ha-" 

"Y/n. No. Please, just, please.” I whimper. 

She’s wailing. Her throat raw and soar, her raspiness echoing in my head. I want to cry, hit my head against the wall until I surrender my own self-destructive words. 

“Harry, please.”

“Goodbye, Y/n." 

"No Harry. No. I love y-" 

I put the phone back on the receiver, my entire world turning into a destruction of silence and guilt. My hand lingers on the telephone, but I rip it away, ripping away everything we once had. My love, so far away, I can’t reach her anymore. I whisper, quietly, as if trying to reach for her one last time. 

 "Why’d you have to call me so late?”

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A Lovely customer

A couple of years ago, I was a manager for a fashionable plus size clothing store. I absolutely love it.

The bad customers were bad (as expected) and sometimes awful (also as expected) but at least they gave me something to laugh about with my co-workers. However, the good customers... they were why i worked there

 One day, a woman in her mid-40's came in with her husband and three boys. She was wearing a pullover and baggy jeans. She was sweet, but very reserved about trying on clothes. She told me that hadn't purchased women's clothing for several years and was hoping i could help her with jeans (one could say that she was ahem all about that bass). Regardless of her weight, She was an extremely beautiful and darling woman.

 Her family was super supportive of helping her regain some of her self-esteem. i was pumped to help her out. A process this big was going to take a while, so i urged her family to wait on the supplied benches while she and i got to work. So, we shopped, grabbing some cute tops and fun bras. We talked about how to buld wardrobes and mix-and-match pieces, and then we got to the danger zone: jeans. I guessed that she was about a size 18-20  and after discussing different cuts of denim, we settled on higher rise, high stretch skinny jeans: they would accommodate her proportionately small waist and large posterior. We got into the fitting room and i eagerly coaxed her to try on one of the outfits i had picked out for her. A few moments later, she called me over to come into the fitting room. I slipped inside to see her. "I haven't felt this beautiful for a long time," she said to me. There were tears in her eyes and a huge grin on her face. I motioned for her husband and kids to come see. As soon as the husband saw her, he choked up. I couldn't get  over the grin on his face. There was so much love in his eyes.

 "You look absolutely gorgeous, babe." They ended up getting her almost an entirely new wardrobe. I've never seen a happier family I accept you, and you get the same respect form me whether you are black, white, gay straight, Asian ,bisexual, Australian, tall, fat, whatever it is. We are all people, and i look at the people of the world the same way, as my brothers and sisters. Share this is you agree.

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LOYALTY

After all war had been finished more than a year ago. The two neighboring countries started to exchange their war prisoners. Almost everyone who knew Farad , was among the crowd. He was back after eight years. He was arrested by the enemy forces in the front line while patrolling. For the first couple of years his family was not aware of his status, his mother was always waiting for a call or a a letter, but days passed without single news from him. Finally the family was informed by a formal letter signed by war prisoner affairs manager , that Farad had been caught by the enemy and was a prisoner. The event was confirmed when the mailman delivered a letter form prisoner's camp. All rumors on his death or disappearance were over, now they were over, now they were sure of that , and at least they knew he was alive. Fatima was the first one in the neighbor who was informed that Farad was alive. His sister Fereshteh had told her about that, she knew Farad and Fatima were in love .

Fatima was always thinking of him with her eyes glittering tear. A pretty young girl with long black hair Fatima attracted any young man. She always had a great fear. And that was forced marriage. Her father used to tell her "Young girl must not say NO to all suitors such she will remain alone all her life". Fatima had rejected many. She was waiting for Farad , her parents almost knew that but first they thought she will gradually forget him and will accept another man. That was why in the first years when Fatima had experienced a great deal of pain .

Fatima could not finish high school. She was in the last year when Farhad was arrested in war . School was meaningless. She could not understand anything. She failed in her exams and did not register the year after. But Farhad, almost thirty one now. His hair all grey, his white bonny face was under a nice beard . His shoulder bones were seen under his army form. His firm body now thin, his belt had made wrinkles around his waist. Fatima was watching all these through the window which overlooked the street and Farhad's house . If her sight was blocked by people every now and then, she would relocate fast , not to miss a single moment.

He was warmly welcomed by attendant . He could not hide his front teeth broken in these years. He was not permitted to send letters during his captivity for military reasons, even for his family. He had sent only few letters. So he did not know anything about the events happened around, even that Fatima's father had passed away a year before. He saw Fatima's brothers in the people too. He asked his sister Freshteh about Fatima.

"she is home, looking at you through the window". Freshteh answered smiling. "She has been waiting for you all these years" she continued happily Farhad looked at the window behind which Fatima was watching the crowd and focusing on him, he knew she was crying. He was both happy and embarrassed for causing all pain to the people he knew, especially Fatima. He always had a mare and that was losing
Fatima. Now he was really proud of her and wanted to shout and thank that loyalty. He asked his parents to do something and that was asking Fatima's family to agree for their marriage , just when they entered the house. "wait a few days, my son, we will so arrangements," her mother said astonishingly. "we have waited enough mom," he answered. While he was looking to the sky and his larynx was a bit larger than a normal, for his thin neck. Later in the afternoon he stood behind the window where he used to stay and watch Fatima before he was joining the army. He saw Fatima again and shouted with his mouth closed. "I love you."

                                   (story based on real lovers)

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GROWING UP PAINS

life is pain enjoyment of love is an anesthetic.

GROWING UP PAINS

'Life is hard/ I tell myself, as I stand before the mirror and watch acne, that dreaded scum of a disease, playing havoc with my face. I wish I could drive the pimples out with a wave of the hand. Then I tell myself that acne is a temporary ravage that makes life a little less comfortable for a teenager. But it is a sure sign of a child moulting into an adult. 'Life is tough/1 turn away from the mirror, when it strikes me like a bolt of lightning. My voice has turned rough, almost raucous. It grates, if I may add. Where has my sweet, soft voice gone? Have I caught a cold? Such gruffness goes hand in hand with a cold. But, the common cold and I have nothing to do with each other, at least at this moment. 'Is there an uncommon cold?' a light banter lifts my spirits. A common cold is common to all mankind. But every time I catch a cold, it becomes an uncommon one for Appa and Amma (Mother and father). They think I have come 5 down with a dangerous cold, one that could kill! They force me into bed, send for the doctor who pumps all sorts of medicines into my system. They pray to all the gods and goddesses—according to our religious texts we have thirty-three crores of them—to cure me quickly and set apart money for donating to the gods, once I am back on my feet. That is what I do in a day or two, none the worse for the temporary cold. When I tease them for being over-protective, they grunt, "How would you know? You are too young to understand our fears. Our only child, the apple of our eye." As if they understand my fears! I too have my fear. It was not there till the other day. But, suddenly, out of nowhere, it has appeared. It fills all my waking thoughts and haunts my dreams too.

If nothing is the way it seems, then this life is just a haunted dream.

 I try to dispel the fear, tell myself, 'Only cowards fear. I am no coward.' But this bravado doesn't last long. The more I think of it, the stronger becomes the hold of this fear. I am no longer my usual self. I have become a stranger to myself. Till the other day, I used to feel happy whenAmma (mother) walked in unannounced, surveyed the room, gently chided me, "Is this a room or a pigsty?" and quickly got down to the task of cleaning the room. She would work at it with total dedication. The books would go back into the bookcase or side rack; the caps and pens, pulled 6 apart by me, would get reunited; bits and pieces of crayons that dot the floor would go into the bin; the dust would be swept off the table and the room would gain a fresh look. How I hate her now when she does that! I have put up a warning on the door:Knock Before You Enter Beneath the above instruction is a warning:

My Room! Love It Or Hate It! Amma(Mother) sees the notice, but behaves as if it is Greek or Latin. She continues to step into my room, unmindful of my privacy. How can I make her understand that I need privacy? If only she senses the gossamer-thin curtain that has come up between me and my parents! Is this what growing up is all about— a matter of individuality, a snapping of bonds? Who wants to snap bonds with one's parents. Not I. The very thought makes me cry. Yet, I feel I am drawing away from them. Or am I imagining! I think Appa (father) is watchful and wary when he meets me. Of course, his eyes gleam with joy whenever I walk into his presence. But is it as spontaneous as it used to be? Or am I unable to feel its warmth because of the curtain that has come up between us. May be, because of the curtain, he sees me as someone different, a rather misty figure, imprecise, vague and elusive, developing a form that is difficult for him to gauge. May be he too is scared of this new figure. 7 Is that why, at times, he makes extra efforts to be overtly affectionate! I do not know. May be he tries to kill the fear in him by treating me with caution.

He finds safety in treating me as a child. He runs his fingers through my thick, curly hair, holds my head close to his chest and pats me. I would not say I hate him for doing that. But I am not able to enjoy it as I used to. Once, I would give the whole world for being held lovingly by Appa (father). Now I feel as if it is not whatAppa (father) should do to me. Is it not time, I tell myself, that he treats me as a grown-up. Especially when he has been reminding me to behave like one. I fall and slip and scream with pain because of a sprain. Amma (mother) is all kindness. Not Appa. He growls, "You are fourteen, Samir. It is time you learnt how to bear pain with stoic courage. You are no longer a child." I cannot forget those words. Next evening, before Appa has returned from office, I walk up to Amma. She welcomes me with a big smile. But the smile turns into a frown when I ask her whether I could go for a party at Vishal's house. Amma says, "Must be back before nine.""Amma, I am grown-up now. Can I not stay out till all my friends leave?" I ask. "You think you are old enough to be on your own, Samir? Remember you are still a child even though you think otherwise. You are at an in-between age. A Teenager." 8
That raises my hackles. I stamp my feet, shout at her, "I am old enough, Amma. Old enough to be on my own. I will not allow myself to be treated like a kid!" She gives me a stern look and asserts firmly, "My decision is final. No party for you. Not today. Not ever. I do not want you to end up as a wild colt." She has her way. I miss the party.

But it does not endear her. I sulk. I do not talk to her for a whole day. She coaxes me, placates me till I succumb to her molly-coddling. Then I hug her and cry. Pat comes her remark, "At fourteen, a boy must know how to control his emotions!" That is the trouble. Am I a child? Or have I grown-up? When will my parents see clearly what I am. Either I am a child or, I am a grown-up. I cannot be both at the same time. May be I am a mix of both. I do not know. That is what makes my fear so scary. I know my fear will die if my parents stop treating me like a child. But no. They will not do that. They have their fears. That is why Amma says every time I try to assert myself, "At your age, you need to be kept on the leash. It is for your good, Samir. We shall take the leash off once you are capable of knowing what is right and what is wrong. Freedom never comes in a day. Freedom will be yours once we feel you are mature enough to handle situations." "When will that be?" I ask. 10Appa walks in. Amma warms up to his presence with a gentle nod, then tells me, "Samir, everything takes time. A flower take s time to turn into a fruit. It takes a year for you to go from one class to the next" she grins.

Appa caresses my arm and says. "I know you have your fears. We have ours. We must fight our fears together. You must understand our concerns. There are so many temptations to which a youth is drawn. I do not want to list them. You knowr them now. Come to us, talk to us openly. Let us learn to be friends. Take every advice we offer as coming from true friends. We, in turn, promise to do all that we can to appreciate your viewpoint. Will you let me be your true friend?" "Me too," Amma lifts my chin and smiles into my eyes. I press her palm and grin happily, "We are three friends, bound by love. We will never do anything that hurts the others." "That's it! Happy are we, now that we have, from fear, been set free." Papa gently ruffles my curly hair.

ends

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STRONG MEN DON'T CRY

I Jumped into my MG and drove through the night to Boston. I changed my shirt in the car before I entered the office on State Street. It was only eight o'clock in the morning, but several important-looking people were waiting to see Oliver Barrett the Third. His secretary recognized me and spoke my name into the telephone. My father did not say 'Show him in'. Instead, the door opened and he came out to meet me. 'Oliver,' he said. His hair was a little greyer and his face had lost some of its colour. 'Come in, son,' he said. I walked into his office and sat down opposite him.
For a moment we looked at each other. Then he looked away, and so did I. I looked at the things on his desk: the scissors, the pen-holder, the letter-opener, the photos of my mother and me.  'How have you been, son?' he asked. 'Very well, sir . . . Father, I need to borrow five thousand dollars.'  He looked hard at me. 'May I know the reason?' he said at last. 'I can't tell you, Father. Just lend me the money. Please.' I felt that he didn't want to refuse, or argue with me. He wanted to give me the money, but he also wanted to . . . talk.
'Don't they pay you at Jonas and Marsh?'  'Yes, sir.' So he knows where I work, I thought. He probably knows how much they pay me too. 'And doesn't Jennifer teach too?' Well, I thought, he
doesn't know everything. 'Please leave Jennifer out of this, Father. This is a personal matter. A very important personal matter.' 'Have you got a girl into trouble?' he asked quietly. 'Yes,' I lied. 'That's it. Now give me the money. Please.' I think he knew that I was lying. But I don't think he wanted to know my real reason for wanting the money. He was asking because he wanted to . . . talk. He took out his cheque book and opened it slowly. 

'Father, I need to borrow five thousand dollars.

Not to hurt me, I'm sure, but to give himself time. Time to find
things to say. Things that would not hurt the two of us.
He finished writing the cheque, took it out of the cheque
book and held it out towards me. When I did not reach out
my hand to take it, he pulled back his hand and placed the
cheque on his desk. He looked at me again. Here it is, son,
the look on his face seemed to say. But still he did not
speak.

I did not want to leave, either. But I couldn't think of
anything painless to say. And we couldn't sit there, wanting
to talk but unable to look at each other.
I picked up the cheque and put it carefully into my shirt
pocket. I got up and went towards the door. I wanted to
thank my father for seeing me, when several important
people were waiting outside his office. If I want, I thought,
he will send his visitors away, just to be with me . . . I wanted
to thank him for that, but the words refused to come. I stood
there with the door half open, and at last I managed to look
at him and say:
'Thank you, Father.'
Then I had to tell Phil Cavilleri. He did not cry or say
anything. He quietly closed his house in Cranston and came
to live in our flat. We all have ways of living with our
troubles. Some people drink too much. Phil cleaned the flat,
again and again. Perhaps he thought Jenny would come
home again. Poor Phil.
Next I telephoned old man Jonas. I told him why I could
not come into the office. I kept the conversation short

Then 1 had to tell Phil Cavilleri. He did not cry or say anything.

because I knew he was unhappy. He wanted to say things to
me, but could not find the words. I knew all about that.
Phil and I lived for hospital visiting hours. The rest of life
- eating and sleeping (or not sleeping) - meant nothing to
us. One day, in the flat, I heard Phil saying, very quietly, 'I
can't take this much longer.' I did not answer him. I just
thought to myself, I can take it. Dear God, I can take it as
long as You want - because Jenny is Jenny.
That evening, she sent me out of her room. She wanted to speak to her father, 'man to man'. 'But don't go too far
away,' she added.
I went to sit outside. Then Phil appeared. 'She wants to
see you now,' he said.
'Close the door,' Jenny ordered. I went to sit by her bed. '
I always liked to sit beside her and look at her face, because
it had her eyes shining in it.
'It doesn't hurt, Ollie, really,' she said. 'It's like falling off
a high building very slowly - you know?'
Something moved deep inside me. I am not going to cry,
I said to myself. I'm strong, OK? And strong men don't cry
.. . But if I'm not going to cry, then I can't open my mouth.
'Mm,' I said.
'No, you don't know, Preppie,' she said. 'You've never
fallen off a high building in your life.'
'Yes, I have.' My voice came back. 'I did when I met you.'
She smiled. 'Who cares about Paris?' she said suddenly.
'Paris, music, all that. You think you stole it from me, don't
you? I can see it in your face. Well, I don't care, you stupid
Preppie. Can't you accept that?'
'No,' I answered honestly.
'Then get out of here!' she said angrily. 'I don't want you
at my damn death-bed.'
'OK, I accept it,' I said.
'That's better. Now - will you do something for me?' From
somewhere inside me came this sudden, violent need to cry.
But I was strong. I was not going to cry. 'Mm,' I said again.
'Will you please hold me, Oliver?'

Will you please hold me, Oliver?'

I put my hand on her arm - oh God, she was so thin - and
held it.
'No, Oliver,' she said. 'Really hold me. Put your arms
round me.'
Very, very carefully I got onto the bed and put my arms
round her.
'Thanks, Ollie.'
Those were her last words.
Phil Cavilled was waiting outside. 'Phil?' I said softly. He
looked up and I think he already knew. I walked over and
put my hand on his arm.
'I won't cry,' he said quietly. 'I'm going to be strong for
you. I promised Jenny.' He touched my hand very gently.
But I had to be alone. To feel the night air. To take a walk,
perhaps.
Downstairs, the entrance hall of the hospital was very
calm and quiet. The only noise was the sound of my
footsteps on the hard floor.
'Oliver.'
It was my father. Except for the woman at the desk, we
were all alone there. I could not speak to him. I went straight
towards the door. But in a moment he was out there,
standing beside me.
'Oliver,' he said. 'Why didn't you tell me?'
It was very cold. That was good, because I wanted to feel
something. My father continued to speak to me, while I
stood still and felt the cold wind on my face. 'I heard this evening. I jumped into the car at once.'

I was not wearing a coat. The cold was starting to make
me ache. Good. Good.
'Oliver,' said my father. 'I want to help.'
'Jenny's dead,' I told him.
'I'm sorry,' he said very softly.
I don't know why I did it. But I repeated Jenny's words
from long ago.
'Love means you never have to say you're sorry.'
Then I did something which I had never done in front of
him before. My father put his arms round me, and I cried.

This story is edited by sky 

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