“… I remembered from the movie that at the end Kiera Knightly keeps getting called ‘Mrs. Darcy’ by the dark brooding guy. So I just looked up that and I got something called Mr. Darcy’s Daughters but apparently he’s not supposed to have daughters yet either.”
He led her to the Austen section, in Fiction, in the A’s. How difficult could it be, really? He had heard of that new film from several years ago. But who had two hours to sit in a dark theater, can’t hear anything, can’t talk to anyone, and besides, that is valuable reading time.
“This yellow flower, is called Josephine’s Passion,” she told me, picking a blossom, “did you know she lived on the island, before she went to France, and met Napoleon? So, the flower is named after her, sweet, don’t you think?”
They all knew who she was. The only question was who was going to do it. No one wanted to do it. No one wanted to say it.
The sudden death of her youngest daughter so devastated Lily Polowski that she was unable to attend her funeral. Despite being heavily sedated, Lily still suffered from debilitating anguish over the loss of her beloved child.
She had been looking at a copy of Michael Moore’s Fahrenheit 9/11, when she looked up and saw him a few feet away, staring at her intently.
“You don’t want to get that,” he said, his voice calm but firm, like a parent addressing a child.
‘Hey God,’ he said quietly into the air, ‘I still got that empty feeling in my gut that I told you about this morning. Am I doing the right thing in going to Africa?’
This was the village thief. What could one say about him? And how much? The best one could possibly say is “Inna Lillahi wa Inna Ilaihi Rajioon” and at least in his death, leave him alone. My mother must have had her thoughts running regardless and this is how her letter read.
Kamakshi knew she did not quite fit the profile of a person who would frequent such a space. She was a mousy looking middle-aged woman, slightly overweight, with scraggly salt and pepper hair scrunched into an untidy bun. On her nose perched a pair of oval glasses, which were at least five years old, and on the verge of falling apart.
She stood to the side, almost an extension of the tent, enveloped within the folds of canvas waxing and waning in the desert breeze. Only…
She called me to the cafe next to my office. In the six months I’d returned from England, I hadn’t seen her at a single…
From the street below, one could never tell that the first floor of #7 Mullick Road was a tenement. This was so because of the…
The train stops in the dense night by a temple that stands on a hillock. A Banyan hugs the walls of the medieval temple where…
Srishti stared at the flurry of activity from the window as she dialed her sister’s number. The bell had just rung in the school right…
While this sounds uncannily like the beginning of a love story, let me tell you that it most certainly is one. Maybe it isn’t exactly the kind of story we’ve spent the majority of our teenage years reading under the covers and wishing we’d have the chance to experience, but it does involve someone I met at an unexpected point of time in my life and fell madly in love with.
Sukanya first chose to remain silent. But if this long journey and its outcome were to get any better, she’d have to make some effort, she thought. So she said, “I’m just thinking about home.”