Small imaginary stories

 The ambulance siren wailed through traffic. Inside, she drifted between sound and silence. Faces moved above her. Hands pressed cloth against blood. Someone asked questions. Name. Address. Age. She answered none. Because the only thing she could still feel was Arjun’s hand holding hers for balance as the vehicle moved. He had come with her. Whether from guilt, kindness, or shock—she did not know. To her dying heart, reasons no longer mattered. She opened her eyes weakly. He sat beside the stretcher, worried, unaware that he was fulfilling every impossible dream too late. “Can you hear me?” he asked softly. She blinked once. “Stay awake.” How strange, she thought dimly. All these years she had stayed awake for him. Now he asked the same of her. At the hospital, doctors rushed her away. Arjun gave details he barely knew. “The girl from the neighborhood… I’ve seen her around…” A stranger describing a life built around him. Hours passed. Her mother arrived br...

 The doctor ordered rest. Her mother ordered tears. Neighbors offered sympathy. She obeyed none of them. For three days she was kept indoors, feverish and weak, watched like someone likely to break. Perhaps they were right. But captivity only sharpened hunger. She could hear the morning traffic from her bed. At nine-twelve each day, her pulse raced automatically. Was Arjun passing now? Was he wearing blue? Was he alone? Had he cut his hair? Questions pecked at her mind like birds at grain. On the fourth morning, while her mother was in the kitchen, she rose quietly. Every movement hurt. Her knees trembled. The room spun once, then settled. She wrapped a shawl around herself and slipped out. The street air felt colder than usual though the sun was bright. She walked slowly, one hand against walls, stopping often to breathe. People glanced at her. Some recognized her and whispered. She kept going. There was one road Arjun often used on Saturdays—the lane near th...

 Madness does not stay in the mind forever. Sooner or later, it enters the body. She stopped eating regularly. Food tasted like obligation. Sleep became a stranger. Some nights she lay awake till dawn imagining roads, timings, faces, possibilities. Other nights she slept for an hour only to wake with panic—what if Arjun had passed somewhere and she had missed seeing him? Her mother took her to a doctor. Stress, he said. Weakness, he said. Rest, nutrition, routine. He spoke ordinary words for an extraordinary wound. She nodded obediently and ignored everything. Because medicine cannot compete with obsession. Her hands trembled often now. She forgot simple things. Left taps running. Burned food on the stove. Walked into rooms and forgot why she entered. Yet ask where Arjun bought vegetables on Tuesdays, and she could answer instantly. The mind protects what destroys it. One afternoon she fainted near a bus stop after hours in the sun waiting for him. Strangers gat...

 Until then, she had lived like a ghost around him. Seen. Never acknowledged. Present. Never known. But obsession always dreams of one miracle— To be recognized. It happened on an afternoon heavy with summer heat. She had followed him farther than usual, keeping distance through crowded lanes, pretending to inspect shop windows whenever he slowed. Arjun stopped at a pharmacy and came out carrying medicine. He walked a few steps. Then turned suddenly. Their eyes met. This time he did not look away. He frowned slightly, as if searching memory. Then he walked toward her. Her knees weakened. Every fantasy she had built rushed forward at once. Perhaps he had noticed her all along. Perhaps he understood. Perhaps destiny had only been delayed. He stopped an arm’s length away. “Excuse me,” he said gently, “do I know you?” The question struck harder than cruelty. No. He did not know her. Not her face. Not her suffering. Not the years she had surrendered to his foo...

 Marriage changed Arjun’s life. It destroyed hers. Days passed after the wedding like smoke—shapeless, bitter, impossible to hold. She moved through home and college with hollow eyes and delayed responses. People spoke to her twice before she answered. Some stopped trying. But one hunger remained alive. To see him. Not speak. Not touch. Not hope. Just see. That was enough now. Or so she told herself. She learned his new routines quickly. Married men, she discovered, walked differently. Less hurried. More grounded. Sometimes carrying grocery bags. Sometimes speaking on the phone in a softer voice. Sometimes smiling to himself. Those smiles were knives. Yet she followed them. She began waiting near streets she had never visited before—routes between his house and office, the market lane, the pharmacy corner, the road near the temple. If someone asked why she was there, she invented lies easily now. Waiting had made her a skilled liar. One morning she saw him buying ...

 The wedding arrived dressed as celebration. For her, it came like an execution. From morning, the neighborhood buzzed with music, relatives, flower deliveries, rented chairs, loud laughter, and the smell of sweets frying in oil. Streets were decorated as if joy itself had chosen that lane. She stayed behind a half-closed window, hearing every sound like an insult. Her mother knocked twice. “Come eat.” “I’m not hungry.” “You haven’t slept.” “Leave me alone.” By afternoon she dressed carefully. Not because she had been invited. Because grief, too, has pride. She wore the colour Arjun once wore on the day he had spoken to her. She tied her hair twice, untied it, tied it again. Her hands shook so badly she could barely fasten her bangles. At dusk she walked toward the wedding hall, hiding behind crowds. Lights blazed across the entrance. Music thundered. Children ran between legs. Men laughed too loudly. Women admired saris and jewellery. And inside, beneath flowers and...

 Until then, her pain had one face. Now it had two. She did not know the bride. Had never heard her voice. Had never seen her smile. Yet hatred bloomed instantly. The unknown woman had stolen a life she believed was hers. Every night she imagined her differently. Beautiful and arrogant. Plain and manipulative. Soft-spoken and cunning. No image satisfied the rage. At last curiosity defeated fear. One afternoon she followed two women from the neighborhood who were discussing wedding shopping. They entered a sari store in the market. Inside, among silk and laughter, stood the bride. Her name, she overheard, was Meera . She was not dazzling. Not dramatic. Just quietly graceful. Simple eyes. Gentle speech. A smile that seemed to apologize before arriving. That made the hatred worse. If Meera had been cruel, jealousy would have felt easier. But goodness is difficult to fight. She watched from behind stacked fabrics as Meera chose colours with Arjun’s mother. Once, ...

 Disaster rarely announces itself with thunder. Sometimes it arrives in laughter. That morning she reached the gate late and found a small crowd near the tea stall. Familiar faces from the neighborhood stood smiling, speaking excitedly. At the center stood Arjun. He wore a pale blue shirt. And he was smiling more than she had ever seen. The sight alone hurt strangely. Then she heard the words. “Congratulations, Arjun!” “When is the wedding?” “She is very lucky.” The world tilted. She looked from face to face, waiting for someone to laugh and reveal it as a joke. No one did. Someone held up a box of sweets. Another man said, “At last you agreed! Your mother must be so happy.” Arjun accepted the teasing with quiet embarrassment. Engaged. The word entered her like a blade. She stepped backward, unable to feel her feet. The crowd blurred. Traffic sounds vanished. Even sunlight seemed to dim. A classmate touched her shoulder. “Are you alright?” She pushed the han...

Love, when denied balance, changes its face. What once looked like softness began to harden inside her. People now measured mornings by her mood. If Arjun appeared, she was gentle. If he smiled at someone else, she became sharp. If he was absent, she was dangerous. Her classmates learned quickly. One girl casually mentioned, “That quiet man outside looks handsome.” The slap came before anyone understood why. Silence fell across the corridor. Even she stared at her own hand in shock. The girl held her cheek, stunned and tearful. “Have you gone mad?” Yes. But no one said it aloud. Rumours spread within days. She was unstable. She had anger issues. She was strange. Some said heartbreak. Some said family problems. No one guessed the truth—that a man who did not know her existence was governing the storm. Her friends stopped sharing secrets with her. Stopped inviting her out. Stopped waiting after class. She did not care. She had Arjun. Or rather, the shadow of hi...

 There are people who speak casually— And never know they have changed someone’s life. For weeks, she had survived on glances. A passing shadow. The turn of his head. The rhythm of his footsteps. But desire is greedy. Once fed, it asks for more. She wanted to hear him again. Not from a distance. Not scattered by traffic. Close enough to know how his voice felt. The chance came unexpectedly. It was morning. The road was crowded, buses honking, students rushing through puddles from last night’s rain. She stood near the gate clutching her notebook when a scooter sped too close and splashed muddy water across her clothes. Gasps rose around her. She froze in shock. Then a hand extended a clean handkerchief. “Are you alright?” Arjun. The world went silent. He stood before her with mild concern, unaware that her heartbeat had become thunder. His eyes held hers directly for the first time. She forgot how to breathe. “I… I…” was all she managed. He waited politely. Th...

 Waiting became her religion. Every morning had one prayer. Every road had one direction. Every heartbeat asked the same question— Will Arjun come today? She stopped caring about classes entirely. Notes remained unfinished. Assignments gathered dust. Teachers called her inattentive. Friends drifted away, tired of speaking to someone whose eyes were always fixed elsewhere. But none of it mattered. At nine-twelve, life began. If Arjun appeared, she felt alive. If he did not, she became unrecognizable. She would pace corridors, bite her nails till they bled, snap at anyone who came near. Once, when a classmate jokingly blocked her view of the gate, she shoved the girl so hard that everyone fell silent. Even she was shocked. But only for a second. Because Arjun had just arrived. She forgot the apology. She forgot the crowd. She forgot shame itself. He walked past in a pale grey shirt, adjusting his watch, unaware that someone had nearly become violent for the right to ...

 Until then, he had lived in her mind without identity. A face. A walk. A presence. But names are dangerous things. They make fantasies real. The chance arrived on a crowded Monday morning. She stood near the gate as always, pretending not to wait while every nerve in her body listened for his footsteps. He appeared a little late, walking beside another man from the neighborhood. They stopped near the stationery shop. She moved closer under the excuse of buying a pen. The other man laughed and said, “You never change, Arjun . Same silence every day.” Arjun. The word struck her like music. Arjun. She repeated it silently once… twice… ten times. The shopkeeper asked what pen she wanted. She stared blankly, unable to answer. Because the stranger was a stranger no longer. He had a name now. And somehow, that made him more hers. That evening, she wrote it on the last page of her notebook. Arjun. Then again. Arjun. Then filled half the page before suddenly tearing i...

  The next morning, she reached the gate before everyone else. Her hair was still wet from a hurried bath, her breakfast untouched, her books carried only for appearance. She stood near the iron railing pretending to read a notebook whose pages she never turned. Nine-o-five. Nine-ten. Nine-twelve. He came. The relief that rushed through her body was so sudden it made her weak. There he was—same measured steps, same distant eyes, same silence around him like an invisible wall. He walked past, unaware that someone’s entire night had depended on his arrival. She smiled without meaning to. And the world became bearable again. From then on, mornings gained a single purpose. She no longer woke for classes. She woke for him. She began memorizing everything. The exact minute he arrived. The colour of his shirts. Whether he carried books or files. Whether he looked tired or restless. Whether he crossed from the left side of the road or right. If he looked serious, her mood dar...

 There are some faces the world forgets in seconds. And then there are faces that arrive once… and stay forever. She first saw him on an ordinary afternoon, outside the college gate where life moved like it always did—students laughing, vendors shouting, engines coughing smoke into the heat. Nothing about that day was special. Until he walked past. He wore no charm deliberately. No effort to be noticed. A plain shirt, tired eyes, books in one hand, and a mind clearly elsewhere. He crossed the road without looking around, as if the world had nothing worth seeing. But she saw him. And something inside her paused. She stood still with a bottle of water in her hand while her friends spoke around her. Their words became distant noise. Her eyes followed the stranger until he disappeared into the crowd. “Who are you staring at?” one of them laughed. She didn’t answer. Because she herself did not know. That evening, she thought of him again. Not in the normal way people remembe...

 The study of Shantiniket House was full once more. Police at the door. Family before the desk. The dead man’s chair occupied by no one. And in the center stood Devendra Sen , who regarded them all with the patience of a man waiting for a clock to strike. Inspector Harish Mehta broke the silence first. “Well?” Devendra folded his hands. “Mr. Raghav Malhotra was killed by poison placed in a mint. That much we know. But poison alone did not make this case impossible. Human vanity did.” He turned toward Arjun Malhotra . “You staged the false argument using a recorder lowered through the hidden flue. You wished to frighten your father and divert suspicion toward Vikram Suri .” Arjun lowered his head. “Yes.” “You did not know he was already dying.” Then Devendra faced Mohan Lal . “You poisoned a mint intending revenge, then repented and tried to remove it. Too late.” Mohan began weeping silently. “Yes, sahib.” Inspector Mehta frowned. “Then if these two are guilty ...

  They found Mohan Lal seated exactly as reported—on a stone bench beside the river temple lane, hands folded, face calm beneath the dusk lamps. He did not rise when Devendra Sen approached. “I wondered how long you would take,” Mohan said. Inspector Harish Mehta stepped forward. “You may save speeches for the station.” Mohan looked only at Devendra. “May I speak first?” The detective nodded. They moved to a quiet veranda of the abandoned temple. The river below carried black water and reflected broken lights. Mohan began without drama. “My son did not die in the factory accident. He died later—slowly. Coughing blood, unable to breathe, unable to work. They called it compensation delayed. We called it hunger.” He removed a folded receipt from his pocket. “A hospital estimate. Last month.” Devendra read it silently. “You asked Raghav for help.” “Yes. For what he stole from us already. He laughed.” Inspector Mehta said sharply, “And so you poisoned him.” Mohan clo...

 When they reached the servants’ quarters, Mohan Lal was gone. His trunk remained. His shoes remained. Even his evening shawl hung neatly on a peg. Only the man himself had vanished. Inspector Harish Mehta ordered the gates sealed and police posted at every exit. “No one disappears from my case,” he growled. Devendra Sen opened the old valet’s trunk. Inside were folded clothes, prayer beads, a photograph of a young man, and several bundles of papers wrapped in cloth. The papers were not letters. They were copies of company ledgers. Anil blinked. “Why would a servant keep accounts?” Devendra spread them on the table. “These are not ordinary accounts.” The ledgers dated back nine years to one of Raghav Malhotra ’s chemical plants outside the city. Columns showed worker compensation funds sanctioned… then redirected. Medical payouts approved… then canceled. Safety repairs budgeted… then withdrawn. At the bottom of multiple pages appeared initials: R.M. V.S. “Ra...

  The basement gym of Shantiniket House was less a room than a monument to unfinished reform. Treadmill, weights, rowing machine, punching bag—each expensive, each barely used. Arjun Malhotra stood beside the treadmill with folded arms when they entered. He had expected them. Inspector Harish Mehta wasted no time. “You lied about being here alone.” Arjun laughed without humor. “I said I was here. I did not say I was exercising.” Devendra Sen moved directly to the treadmill console. Its timer emitted a metallic click each minute when reaching interval marks. Tick… tick… tick… The same sound from the recorder. “You recorded the message here?” asked Anil. Arjun shrugged. “Anyone could.” Devendra nodded. “Yes. Anyone with access to your father’s voice.” The detective asked for household phones, old voicemail archives, and office recordings. By late afternoon they found several samples of Raghav Malhotra dictating angry instructions. Short phrases could easily be asse...