Skip to main content

The First Drink

    Two little boys moved around furtively in their father's study room. The curtains were drawn and they moved around in the moonlight filtered through the large and ornate glass windows. It was still rather dark, but they did not want to turn on the light. Raju felt around the bookcase for the key. There it is!
    The duo made their way to the cupboard, inserted the key and slowly turned it. The doors of the magical cabinet opened. The brilliance of what they saw could almost have blinded them. Raju picked up the bottle, and Sanju walked behind him with the two glasses.
    They quickly ran upstairs to their room and placed the trinity on the teapoy. There was a solemn air about them as they stared at the bottle of elixir. The bottle elevated into the air, and fine scotch flowed into their glasses even as Sanju giggled with excitement.
    Both of them raised their glasses like perfect gentlemen.
    "Cheers!", they uttered in unison, put the glasses to their lips, and gulped down quickly. Yuck!!
    Smooth fire rolled down their throats and lit their insides. It didn't feel magical, just warm. Why do they even drink it?
    They walked back to the study room - a bit disappointed - and kept the bottle and the glasses exactly the way they found them. Hopefully their father wouldn't notice a couple of sips missing. As they moved back into to the kitchen to get some pickle to chew on, they heard a car engine roar. Their parents were home early!
    The brothers ran towards their room with pickle in their mouth, lest their parents sniff the alcohol in their mouths. Raju reached the room, opened the door, and jumped directly for the bed. He fell on the floor  a foot to the left of the bed. Sanju somehow made it to the room and dizzily climbed the bed.
    The scotch had felt terrible. Raju had hurt his head, and Sanju had too much pickle in his mouth. It hadn't been as they had imagined it to be. The only solace being, that the secret remained.


This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.
Every weekend, we give out creative writing prompts for the love of writing.

Popular posts from this blog

X for X023

Sheena Zavheri was in the bathroom touching up her make-up when she heard the muffled explosion of a gunshot from the corridor. She instinctively grasped at the gun hidden expertly under her saree and slid towards the entrance--instincts one would hardly expect from the socialite wife of an a-list actor. Sheena, born Hridi Quazi and codenamed X023, was a sleeper operative for the Bangladeshi secret agency. Hridi had married Toufique Zavheri--recognized popularly by the pseudonym: ‘Milan’--after a short affaire planned, funded and effected by the agency in coffee shops and fancy restaurants. More than fifteen years later, Sheena and Milan were at a resort on their wedding anniversary at her insistence trying to resuscitate their gasping relationship.

Hridi spied through the fisheye a muted tussle going on in the large corridor between two dark figures almost out of her field of vision. It could be an unrelated murder attempt on another guest. It would have been risky to step out. But…

Y for You

I see you lying on the bed and I want to scream out to you. But I know it won’t reach. I feel like giving up. I see your body on the bed but it isn’t you. You’re gone. You have deserted me.

I’m sitting on the chair besides your bed holding a bouquet of Bougainvillea for you. It’s not a common flower for bouquets–the nurses looked curiously at the bouquet as I walked to your room–but you used to love them. And today is a special day.

I always get you Bougainvillea. The florist at the corner keeps a bouquet ready for me every year. It’s a newer shop. You’ve never seen it. So many things have changed in the neighborhood since you left. Our favourite ice-cream shop is gone. There’s a bookstore in its place. I visit it often. The year before the last when the car wouldn’t start, I bought a book and taught myself how to fix it. I figured I was going to need it often. Robert tells me we can now afford a new car.

I don’t talk to him much lately. He is rarely at home nowadays. He thinks we’re…

Repentance

It was late at night but she was still in the kitchen. The knife cut away rhythmically, punctuating the eerie silence of their bungalow.
‘Was I too harsh on him?’ she thought to herself. ‘Maybe I overreacted.’ The knife came threateningly close to her fingers. ‘Which married couple doesn’t argue? We have argued in the past. We got over it. We would have this time too. Maybe I went too crazy. Maybe he was right. Maybe I deserved to get slapped.’ The knife cut her finger. She ran to the sink and washed her wound and clasped the finger with her other hand. She sighed. ‘I wish I could tell him how much I repent my mistakes. He would have believed me, if no one else ever did.’ She put the remaining pieces of him in the bag. ‘Maybe I was too harsh on him’.