Short story
-
The night was a fragile thing, a thin veil of darkness held together only by the sound of his voice. For Vaishali, these endless conversations with Aryan were not a luxury; they were oxygen. Each word was a stitch suturing a wound that threatened to reopen at the slightest silence. Her voice, usually so soft,
-
Though burdened by financial strain and a turbulent family life, Vaishali’s heart remained attuned to the world’s sorrows. Where others saw only hardship, she searched for the roots of a more perfect society. One evening, her voice a mixture of steel and sorrow, she shared her fears with Aryan. “Why,” she asked, “do we fail
-
When he came after thirty years, Vaishali thought her heart would break from the sight. His hair was grey, his shoulders softer, but to her eyes he was as handsome as the first day she had fallen in love. When he rose to leave, she wanted to kiss him — to hold his face, to
-
Vaishali learnt to live like a bandit queen after she taught the shopkeeper a lesson for refusing her credit. The gossip travelled faster than the evening chai. Women lowered their voices when they spoke of her; men stood aside when she passed. Yet in the same breath, they called her trustworthy — bold, straightforward, and
-
They remembered Vaishali. She climbed mango trees as a girl. She swam in rivers where the current ran strong. She laughed at boys who were afraid to jump. She was never afraid. She married at sixteen. The house was big. The gold was heavy. Her husband had land but no words. Her in-laws had only
-
Rahul was a mechanical engineer, working a steady nine-to-five job at a reputable firm. The salary was good, the benefits comfortable, yet every evening, he returned home with a gnawing emptiness. Life felt mechanical—wake, work, return, sleep, repeat. The glow of his computer screen, the hum of machinery, the endless reports—it all left him drained,
-
What does it mean to love — not merely to be stirred by another, but to be wholly transformed by something that dissolves the self? In India’s vast spiritual and literary inheritance, love appears in many guises: as tender devotion, mischievous play, fearless surrender, or a secret alchemy meant to strip away ego. From Krishna’s
-
Echoes of an Empty Playhouse– Real Story (By Maq Masi) It began with a whisper, soft as a summer breeze through an open window. “You should get a pet,” my friend murmured, a knowing glint in his eye. My sons, still boys on the cusp of adulthood, erupted in a chorus of joyous shouts, their
-
Happiness. It whispers to us like a distant melody, something we long for but can never quite hold. We chase it relentlessly—through achievements, possessions, and fleeting pleasures—only to find it slipping away, like a shadow retreating before the light. But what if happiness isn’t something to chase? What if it’s something to cultivate, patiently and
Maq Masi Blog 