Pikku : The Storyteller 👧

Kallu, the blacksmith, sat beside his earthen furnace completing some orders of the village. The Pradhan had placed a big order, that would take days to complete, even on working till late night. An echo filled the atmosphere everytime he hit his heavy hammer on the iron piece. Tannnnnn. Tannnnnn. While the loud banging noise was disturbing almost everyone, Summiya was too stunned to even sense the sound. Sitting beside the handpump in her kuchcha house, Summiya washed the 4 inches long nail wound on her neck with water and threw some water on her face to wash away the adamant tears. She then put her hand upto the elbow into the bucket to sooth the burn on the forearm. She wiped her face and pressed the wound with the pallu held as a lump, to dry it.  "Ah!" she sighed in pain and another isolated tear flowed through her cheek. She didn't wipe the burn though, the water was as relaxing as was the thought that she could successfully stop Manku from doing what he wanted. She...

Dear reader, This month I present to you a story that I wrote in 2017 for a short story competition of "Times of India". The task and criteria were given by author Ashwin Sanghi. One of the criteria was to write the story in first person. Yes, I didn't win. But hope you will shower your love on this old effort of mine. T hat night seemed to be the darkest one. It was a devastating scene to see my soldier husband die before me in his crimson turned white shirt and cream trousers soaked in mud, red at knees. The Labefaction gang had shot him for he had been successful in his investigations on them and was going to disclose the name of the only soldier who linked them to the information of army.   He couldn’t say a word. The only thing he did was that he pointed ‘Allahabad’ in a large map of India hung beside the mantelpiece. I could easily interpret what he said. He told me to escape to Allahabad with our 6 years old Vicky. I did so. Even today I feel how could I do th...