We are thrilled to share the winning entries of our Pride Day storytelling competition. These remarkable tales stole the show with their rich tapestry of narratives that exist within diverse communities in rural India.
A pride day storytelling competition gave us some very interesting short stories from rural India. Here are the winning entries:
Sahuri and Ambika, two young souls entwined in a forbidden love, sought solace within the embrace of a secret hideout nestled beneath the crown canopy of a magnificent Neem tree. This sprawling natural refuge provided a cool respite to weary travellers, but for Sahuri and Ambika, it offered a sanctuary where they could escape the etched norms that forbade their affection, ‘thy shall not love’.
The hideout, located at a discreet distance from the village homes which had scattered homes outside the village, was their clandestine heaven, a harem called by all, so did they feel. The early morning hours often found them there, meeting before the break of day when the world was still asleep, and the air was filled with a sense of unspoken freedom.
Sahuri, with her braided hair and eyes that held a glimmer of mischief, would arrive first. She would carefully arrange the makeshift seating beneath the protective branches of the Neem tree, ensuring a comfortable space for Ambika. The morning dew glistened on the leaves, lending an ethereal glow to their secret haven. They often slept in each other’s company and would wake in a hurry when the ray of light pierces through the canopy and touches either with tenderness.
Even in this secret refuge, a bittersweet reality loomed. As the sun ascended in the sky, they knew their time together was limited. The world would soon awaken, and the demands of their respective lives would call them back to their roles, reminding them of the boundaries they were compelled to obey.
Sahuri woken by the light looked at Ambika and called her name with intimacy keeping herself at a distance.
The gentle call woke up Ambika and her face was bright as ever. Sahuri could not resist but cupped her face and looked into the deep yet unsatisfied eyes of Ambika, who yearned for the time to stay. Sahuri said “Do you know Ambika is the goddess of the moon?” rubbing her eyes Ambika was clueless. Sahuri continued “My father had worked with burning embers that’s how I got mine, meaning the Sun” Ambika still baffled at the euphemism said nothing but stared into her deep eloquent eyes. Sahuri continued “We are the sun and the moon of this world, yet our tenderness shall not be spoken or seen by the world under the sun”.
That morning when Ambika had come home in the small hut an old radio was playing Faiz Ahmed Faiz ‘Cashm-e-nam, jaan-e-shoreeda kaafi nahi, Tohmat-e-ishq-posheeda kaafi nahi aaj bazar mai pa-bajplan chalo’ (wet eyes and restless soul is not enough, being charged for nurturing concealed love is not enough, let us walk in bazaar in shackles). That dawn remains afresh as the last intimate dawn and Sahuri never came to cress Ambika in her arms. The taste of the sweet nectar from the kiss is still afresh in the mind and soul of Ambika but Sahuri is gone after the dawn.
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To anybody else, Shahid seemed just another 25-year-old guy, but for some reason, his simplicity fascinated Khanay. To be precise, the mole under Shahid’s left eye, and it bothered him how the curls covered his beautiful mole, he had this impulse to tuck them behind, and so did he one day. Nobody tells you how loud the sound of silence is; at that moment, Khanay felt as if he could hear everything and nothing at the same time. From then on, Khanay’s routine changed from the bus stop to purchasing cigarettes from Shahid before boarding his regular bus for college. But what caught Shahid’s attention was Khanay’s decision to sit at the bus stop for the past few weeks instead of taking the bus.
“Dropped out of college?” This was the first time Shahid had a conversation with Khanay when he came for his daily dose of cigarettes. “Planned so!” Khanay replied, and that’s how Khanay realised Shahid was the warm chaos he needed in his still and cold life. Khanay felt at ease with Shahid, allowing for deeper discussions about his life and regaining confidence. His regular talk with Shahid over cigarettes served as his escape, even if only for a little while. The story of Shahid and Khanay had a new chapter now, one they did not want to finish. Their relationship seemed novel and unique in every way.
“In the next life, I wish to be a girl so that I can hold your hand in front of everyone without being judged,” Khanay said while watching the fireworks in the mela.
“Even in the next life, I would prefer you, Khanay, over anyone else,” Shahid replied, holding his hand firmly, and he even worked up the courage to kiss Khanay. Although they both believed this was the moment they would cherish forever, those few seconds ended up being their last moments together. They did not know that the witness to their so-cherished moment was Khanay’s father too.
Things took a sudden turn; in the blink of an eye, they were in the mela having their moment, and the next second, they were in front of the village chief. Men falling in love were considered an illness, which is what society and Khanay’s family believed it to be. And no amount of explanation could be done to prove it otherwise. Khanay’s parents left the village for their son’s treatment, but he refused, begging for a return to the village. His attempts to return turned pointless when Shahid got married. The thought of Shahid giving up on them was his breaking point, and in silence, he took his own life.
What about Shahid, you ask? People often remark that grief is the most unorthodox emotion because nothing we grieve for can be deemed small, and only those who love strongly also suffer greatly; so did Shahid. He mourned his forced marriage as much as the loss of the only person he had ever loved.
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Pratik was looking out at the fields filled with ankle-deep water. It was early July dawn and the monsoon hadn’t yet stricken. He opened the iron chain locking the door of his hall house. The water in the tubewell reservoir was cold with algae growing at its bottom. He splashed some of it on his face and feet and grabbed a shovel to make way for water to flow in the small channels throughout the fields.
Mud stuck to his feet like Anirudh clung to him in his dream last night. He wasn’t sleeping well for the past weeks; sometimes waking up to wet pillow, sometimes to wet blanket. Saplings of rice were kept in bundles on the side of a raised trail by the water stream. It was the same improved variety that Anirudh had told him about last season. Pratik picked a plantlet; carefully as if handling a child (a souvenir of his time with Ani), and then placing its roots in the muddy field bed. He looked at it as its leaves fell on water surface due to gravity; like a father seeing his child step foot into world. By the time labourers joined him, he had planted a bundle already.
By two past noon, they took a break. One of the kids of labourers had boiled tea on the earthen stove by Pratik’s house.
“The plants look healthy. Did Anirudh sir send it?” Satpal asked.
Pratik nodded to this and sipped his tea.
“It would have been nice if he had joined us like last year,” a voice from labourers said. “We rarely get to see such humble and learned government officers.”
“He is very humble. And very stupid” Pratik agreed.
“He seemed to get along with you well. We expected he’d visit again.” Satpal remarked.
“Village doesn’t suit his urban body.” Pratik laughed.
Then he asked them to leave and suggested continuing planting the next day.
A flannel shirt was lying in his neatly folded bed. Pratik wrapped it around his shoulders and laid in a foetal position. Salt streams fell down his cheeks onto pillow just like last time but now Anirudh wasn’t there to kiss it. Pratik’s eyes followed the mud flooring of the house and then a tyndall of sunlight coming from the window facing the tubewell reservoir. “Oh, we wasted a week,” Ani had told him that night while sitting neck deep in water.
Under the pale moonlight, Ani had Pratik in his embrace. Only the crops and fireflies witnessing. “I wish this could be our live. Getting old like this,” Pratik whispered. “Growing in the same pot, tangling around each other throughout seasons.”
Ani had grabbed his cheeks and responded, “you can’t grow Kharif and Rabi together, unless one crop grows in plastic tents.”
It started to rain and Partik was out of his nostalgia. He ran out, stepping his muddy feet on the flannel shirt, to shift the water streams to prevent overflow and covered plantlets with plastic.
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(These stories have not been edited by the Village Square team.)
The lead image at the top shows a traditional oriental pattern (Photo by PJiiiJane, Shutterstock)
