Olive Chaudhuri

//  As I sat there, looking down my terrace with a cigarette between my fingers, I felt empty. It felt like all the reasons I loved about being alive, are suddenly my reasons to end my breathing. I was smiling with tears, as smoke exhaled after every drag was vanishing in heavy winds like the 15 stories high building is consuming more cigarettes than my lungs. “Aasra!” Namit said out of breath. “I knew I would find you here” “Hey” I smiled. His presence to me does what charging do to a dying battery. He came and sat with me carefully. “This part of terrace has no railings, you should be very careful here Aasra, especially during nights.” He was right how come I never thought about jumping from here? How will it feel like? Then I can hear my own voice roaring in air like thunder while going down. But, what about the burden of culpability I am carrying? Will it vanish with my breathing? “Aasra” He signalled on the cigarette which was now ignited to the verge of the filter end and abo...

//  I woke up in the middle of the night. I was sweating profusely. I wiped the sweat off from my face and took a deep breath. I slid out from the blanket as my t-shirt was also soaked in sweat and I was feeling drained. I was about to get up when I heard the sound of the bathroom door closing loudly. I got up, muttering in anger. "I've told her a thousand times." But Jaanvi won't ever understand it as usual. Just, when I was about to get out from the bed to scold her, I saw the ceiling fan and the lights swinging. Maybe I was still dizzy by sleep, but I didn't have time for that. I had to teach my wife a lesson for a billionth time, to close the bathroom door gently. I went to the bathroom, but couldn't find her there. I turned towards the bed and found her tucking in the blanket. "What's wrong?" She asked in a groggy tone. "You've got to close that door a little lightly, I've already told you so many times." "Mmm.. Sorry ...

//  “Meera”, the therapist called. “You sure you don’t wanna say anything?” He asked. I looked at him and shook my head. “Give it a try Meera. Words will help in healing.” Like every day I gave him As-If-I-Care look and went back to my room. And like always he chanted from behind - “Confessions are good for the soul Meera”. I came back to my bed and start thinking about why does he keep saying that? Is this a part of his psychological study or just a random one-liner he flaunts. And do I give a f*uk? I mean, all I have to do is eat thrice a day, take these medicines which keeps me drowsy, attend therapy, look around other so-called patients from my window who roam around like zombies, lay on the bed and stare the ceiling for hours with this unique peculiar medicinal smell around me. Except for the silences, I hate everything about this place. But now this is a life I’m destined to live, life in a mental asylum. Now, it’s been more than a year here. I haven’t spoken to anybody yet. ...

//  “Whoever says luxury is your best friend, never owned a dog.” I still remember the day when I brought him home. A shiny cute little Golden Retriever puppy. I raised him from feeding cerelac to chicken chunks, fetching the ball to his early morning walks. It is never like I have so much absence around me, I cremated my wife 10 years ago. Both my sons are married now and they are busy expanding my business. Their wives are a bit more social so their shopping, kitty and clubbing never goes out of fashion. Grandchildren are strictly advised to stay away from me, so any of my preachings shouldn’t spoil them. To cut a long story short they hate me. I’m just a 64 year-good-for-nothing old man for them, who is spoiling their privacy with his dog in a 2-acre luxurious house (which is actually made by me). But actually nowadays, I hardly care about these tantrums as long as I have him. I named him Shadow after his merry-go-round world around me. He is actually like my shadow. He wakes wi...

//  She was staring at the passing trees, one after another. Unlike the roads of her city, this was a pleasant path to drive. No frequent brakes, no honking, no shifting of gears on every signal. Although she wanted to, but she wasn’t driving. She was at the back seat of a hired sedan on her way to Nandi Hills from Bangalore. She was strictly instructed neither to drive her own car for this visit nor carry her smartphone for the journey. Mishika had never witnessed this feeling. It was a mixture, she was nervous but also very excited about it. She wasn’t joyous but wasn’t sad either. She had been to Nandi hills before. But not like this – alone without any phone, without telling her daughters, without her husband’s knowledge. Her husband, every time she thinks about him, her eyes welled up. Atul and she had been married for the past seventeen years now, have a beautiful home with two beautiful daughters. Yet, she’s on her way to hills to meet another man without anyone’s knowledge....

  // I was about to deboard the train when I spotted her. I closely looked at her to reconfirm as I didn’t want myself to end up as an eve teaser beaten by the fellow passengers travelling around in metro. It was definitely her but I couldn’t be sure. She did have those same eyes, same dimple on her chin and a very small mole on her neck. I stared at her for a minute then I took a deep breath and went to her. I waved at her as she was fiddling with her smartphone listening to something, She noticed me and pulled out the earphones. “Hey, you are Devika, right?” I asked her with fingers crossed. She nodded “I'm sorry, but do I know you?” “I’m Ayush ” I smiled. She looked at me with a confused I’m–still- not-getting-who-you-are look. “We studied together. We were classmates in eleventh & twelfth.” “I’m sorry. I seem to forget things lately” She said apologetically. I was so happy seeing her after all those years that I almost forgot it’s been 17 years since our school ended and un...

// “Anything else Sir?” The waiter asked “Sir??” He stood there for a while confused, looking at my unresponsive lips. Cluster of thoughts were circling inside my mind. The half sipped coffee in front of me was losing its charm and warmth. “No. I.. I’m good” I shoeed him away, I couldn’t believe on my eyes. She was sitting right in front of me. Hardly, fifty meters away from my table. I still remember the day how it all started? When she came into my notice. She was thrashing a guy. Yes, she was actually throwing punches and hurling abuses on a guy who happened to be a senior of ours. It was quite a show and because she wasn’t friends with anyone. So, nobody intervened and neither did I. Finally a female professor settled it and ended the commotion. Our whole batch, including me was amazed when we saw that. She was well known for not talking to anyone, not even in at lunches. Pretty much reserved in her earphones and books most of the time. I tried to get in touch with her on social me...

  // Smoking, to her father, came as naturally as breathing. He smoked and breathed and breathed and smoked. And each time he was away, she'd sneak into the ashtray and pick the filter butts. She had a liking for the smell of cigarettes and loved it more when her fingers smelled of them. But, this story isn't about her father, his smoking, or her sniffing - actually, it's about cigarettes and him. She doesn't smoke, was never tempted to. He's been smoking for the last three months now, has been trying to kick the butt. They spend their cigarette breaks together, in the company of one other office colleagues. He shares his cigarette with the colleague who wears a nude gloss. And each time, as their fingers kiss while handing the cigarette to each other, she feels the ash of jealousy being smeared on her insides. She wonders what his cigarette tastes like - him, the colleague, the women he makes love to, rum, leftover tea, half-burnt lips - all this while she catches ...

It started raining. I was in my balcony with a cup of chai. My Bluetooth speaker was belting out 'Ranjish Hee Sahi, Dil dukhane ke liye aa' Every night you come to your balcony for a smoke. Maybe you know I'm here, but you never look to where I'm sitting. Some nights I hear the strains of the guitar coming from your balcony when I'm lying in my room, sleepless. I know that you like your coffee cold with a spoon of sugar in it, pasta for dinner, you like to smoke cigarettes on your balcony every night after work and when it rains you sleep there. I know it sounds stalkerish, but when our Balconies face each other, it's inevitable that I know. I don't know why, but lately I have this desire to talk to you, ask about your day and his. I haven't seen him since the lockdown began, the other day I saw you taking down all his pictures, you were talking angrily on the phone, you took out everything that looked like was his and threw it out. You smoked a cigarett...

Some days I wake up and then I realize that you are not here. Yesterday's grief is still lying on my bed, I wish I could tell it to leave, but I don't. I get up and then go to the kitchen to make coffee. There is this fading mark on the kitchen counter, near the gas stove, that still reminds me of how you never used to use coasters and left the round ridge of coffee cup everywhere, especially on the table in front of the couch. I know I can't make the plants stay alive, yet somehow they seem to be thriving, your favourite plant in that yellow pot, is still in the corner, I'm taking good care of her not because I care about you, but somehow I have grown to care for her. In my bookshelves there are empty spaces where your books used to be, I have been meaning to fill them up, at least I still have my record collection. I guess when we separate our lives, our things get separated too. I know I returned the musical Carvaan box that you had gifted me, I miss hearing the rand...