A woman travels alone to Japan. Makes a travel diary. Takes Tango lessons. Learns to bake/ makes Japanese sweets. Makes out with a man.

Love story on a flight between a local and a traveller.

A little girl visits a temple/ goes on a pilgrimage.

Apple orchards. Scary story.

A girl who falls off a building on a bright, sunny morning.

Peppermint. Lollypops. Raspberry. Swimming pool.

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Journey to my office

First Person POV

I tapped the small black button on the door of my Hyundai i10, rapidly. It didn’t open. One of the cons of having an automatic car that didn’t require me to plug in the key in the door was that I often forgot the key at home. Shit. I ran inside the house with my bag. My mother had already fetched it for me. She was giving me her disapproving look and I knew a long lecture on responsibility was coming my way. So, I grabbed the key from her and ran. It was 8.15 A.M already and I was running late for my meeting. I got behind the wheel and started the engine. I undid the hand break, reversed, steered the wheels to my right, pushed the auto-gear to drive mode, and zoomed out of sight of my mother. If I drove fast enough, I would make it in time I assured myself. Technically, Google agreed with me. According to the search engine it should take exactly 45 minutes to go from Banashankari to Bellandur. Pragmatically, no Bangalorean would agree with that. Wading through the traffic especially at peak hours, when all my fellow IT Professionals would be on the roads, would take at least 2 hours. I had reached Jayanagar in ten. I was at a traffic signal when I realized I was sweating profusely. I turned up the A.C. and tuned in to the international station on the radio. I craned my neck to check my reflection in the review mirror. I looked like I had just woken up. I licked my chapped lips, and turned my attention to the road. By then, the signal had turned green and off I went. I had barely managed to move a few meters when I was stopped by a procession. I cursed and honked. I didn’t know what the procession was about, and I couldn’t care less. My boss expected me to be there in her cabin by 9, procession or no procession. She hated me for owing a car at the age of twenty-four in the first place, now if I was late, I would only receive her wrath in the rating and promotion cycle meeting. I wished I hadn’t snoozed my alarm this morning. Miraculously, I reached Koramangala without cursing anybody and was on Sarjapur Main Road when a buffalo almost hit the car. Fortunately, I hit the brakes on time. Then, I honked angrily at the cowherd who was responsible for the animal. It was a quarter to nine. I was still optimistic about this. I raced to Agara Lake as the clock struck 9. The traffic was now pathetically slow, until to my utter dismay, it came to a full stop. I put my head out of the window. Ahead, the traffic lights had been switched off, and a policeman was directing. To my horror, he was aggravating the situation by letting only the vehicles of one lane pass. I knew what this meant, and I was so angry: a bloody politician was coming this way, and we would all have to wait for the next twenty minutes so that his car moves hassle free. I honked like woman possessed, and the policeman shot me look of warning. Some of the others stared at me too, like I was a psychopath. I cracked my knuckles and sighed. At last a series of three to four cars whizzed past, a sea of vehicles and angry drivers facing them on either side. When the policeman finally let us go, I was so agitated I flipped him the bird as I drove out of the signal. My mind was racing, and I hit the accelerator to match the speed with my thoughts. It all happened in a matter of seconds. The car suddenly shook and I lost control of it, there was a truck ahead and I knew I could not lower the speed instantly, so I tried to overtake it and in a failed attempt I hit the divider. I could hear a loud thud but my vision was blocked. A man who stood on the divider had fallen on my windshield. The car was making a grunting noise and I realized my foot was still on the accelerator. I removed it. I pulled the handbrake. My heart was beating in my mouth. A voice inside my head was instructing me, asking me to get myself out of the car. I switch off the car and unbuckled my seat-belt. My door side was jammed due to the divider, so I put my legs over the passenger seat and got out from there. My stomach was churning with fear. I begged for the man to not be dead. Groups of people were accumulating around me. He was unconscious and his forehead was bleeding. Somebody helped me lift the man from the windshield and seat him in my car. He was young, perhaps in his late twenties, dressed in formals and wore a tag around his neck. Somebody sprinkled water on him, while I went around to check the damage. The metal board below the headlight was bent, but otherwise it was okay. I picked up the bag fallen on the road and put it in the backseat. He was slowly gaining consciousness, rubbing his eyes.

“Do you have a license?”

“Are you hurt?”

“I’ll call the police? Ambulance?”

“No—thanks. I’ll—I’ll take him to a hospital,” I managed to tell the strangers. I buckled him in the passenger seat, got into the car from the backdoor. “What is the nearest hospital?” I asked from the open window.

“Sakra World Health.”

“Right.”

I knew where Sakra Hospital was, a few kilometers ahead of my office, but I wondered if I still knew how to drive. My hands shook on the wheel. I closed my eyes, took a breath and gripped the steering wheel. I then switched on the car. I reversed it and began to drive.

“What happened?” He asked. He was now conscious. “Who are you?”

“I’m Anisha,” I said, keeping my eyes on the road. “I’m really sorry I hit you. I mean the divider—you okay, Jay?” I asked. I had read his name from the ID card on his neck. I also gathered he worked for a multi-national IT company, he was employee number 20007812 and he was drop-dead handsome. At the moment, it was the worst compliment my brain could come up with.

He looked at me quizzically so I pointed to his forehead. “You got hurt.”

He sub-consciously touched his forehead and screamed. “Ah!”

“I’m sorry.”

“You really shouldn’t be driving,” he said, shaking his head and I didn’t know if he was angry or mocking me.

*

Third Person POV

Anisha tapped the small black button the door of her Hyundai i10, rapidly. It didn’t open. One of the cons of having an automatic car that didn’t require the key to be plugged into the door for it to open was that, one often forgot the keys at home. Anisha swore and ran inside the house with her bag. Mother had already fetched it for her and was giving her a disapproving look. Anisha knew a long lecture on responsibility would follow, so she grabbed the keys and ran. It was 8.15 A.M and she was running late for a meeting. She hurried behind the wheel and started the engine. She undid the hand break, reversed, steered the wheels to the right, pushed the auto-gear to drive mode, and zoomed out of sight of her mother. She reassured herself that if she drove fast enough, she would make it in time. Technically, Google agreed with her. According to the search engine it should take exactly 45 minutes to go from Banashankari to Bellandur. Pragmatically, no Bangalorean would agree with that. Wading through the traffic especially at peak hours, when all IT Professionals like her would be on the roads, would take her at least 2 hours. She reached Jayanagar in ten minutes. She was at a traffic signal, sweating profusely. She turned up the A.C. and tuned in to the international station on the radio. She craned her neck to check her reflection in the review mirror. She looked dreadful, as if she had just woken up. She licked her chapped lips, and turned her attention to the road. By then, the signal had turned green and off she went. She had only moved a few meters when a procession stopped her. She cursed and honked. She never the papers and didn’t know what the procession was about. At the moment, she couldn’t care less. Her boss expected her to be there in her cabin by 9, procession or no procession. She hated Anisha for owing a car at the age of twenty-four in the first place, now if Anisha was late, she would only receive her wrath in the rating and promotion cycle meeting. She wished I hadn’t snoozed her alarm this morning. Miraculously, she reached Koramangala without cursing anybody and was on Sarjapur Main Road when a buffalo almost hit the car. She honked angrily at the cowherd who was responsible for the animal. It was a quarter to nine. But her optimism still prevailed. She raced to Agara Lake as the clock struck 9. The traffic was now pathetically slow, until to her utter dismay, it came to a full stop. She put my head out of the window to get a better view. Ahead, the traffic lights had been switched off, and a policeman was directing. Horrifyingly, he was aggravating the situation by letting only the vehicles of one lane pass. She knew what this meant, and she was so angry: a bloody politician was coming this way, and they would all have to wait for the next twenty minutes so that his car moves hassle free. She honked like woman possessed, and which got her a look of warning from the policeman. Some of the others stared at her like she was a psychopath. She cracked my knuckles and sighed. At last a series of three to four cars whizzed past, a sea of vehicles and angry drivers facing them on either side. When the policeman finally let them go, she was so agitated she flipped him the bird. She hit the accelerator to match the speed of the car with her thoughts. It happened in a matter of seconds. The car suddenly shook and she lost control of it. There was a truck ahead and she knew she could not lower the speed instantly, so she tried to overtake it and in a failed attempt she hit the divider. A loud thud hit her ears, but her vision was blocked. A man who stood on the divider had fallen on the windshield. The car was making a grunting noise. Her foot was still on the accelerator. She removed it, and pulled the handbrake. Her heart was beating in her mouth. But, a voice inside her head was instructing her to get out. She switched off the car and unbuckled the seat-belt. The door side was jammed due to the divider, so she put my legs over the passenger seat and got out from there. Anisha’s stomach was churning with fear. She begged for the man to not be dead. Groups of people were accumulating near the accident scene. He was unconscious and his forehead was bleeding. Somebody helped Anisha lift the man from the windshield and seat him in the car. He was young, perhaps in his late twenties, dressed in formals and wore a tag around his neck. Somebody sprinkled water on him, while Anisha went around to check the damage. The metal board below the headlight was bent, but otherwise it was okay. She picked up the bag fallen on the road and put it in the backseat. He was rubbing his eyes, slowly gaining consciousness.

“Do you have a license?”

“Are you hurt?”

“I’ll call the police? Ambulance?”

“No—thanks. I’ll—I’ll take him to a hospital,” she mumbled to the strangers. Then, she buckled him in the passenger seat and got into the car from the backdoor. “What is the nearest hospital?”

“Sakra World Health.”

“Right.”

She knew where Sakra Hospital was, a few kilometers ahead of her office, but she hesitated to drive. Her hands shook on the wheel. She closed her eyes, took a breath and gripped the steering wheel. Then switched on the car, reversed it and began to drive, maintaining the speed at twenty.

“What happened?” He asked. He was now conscious. “Who are you?”

“I’m Anisha.” She was keeping her eyes on the road. “I’m really sorry I hit you. I mean the divider—you okay, Jay?” she asked. She had read his name from the ID card on his neck. She had also gathered he was employee number 20007812 for a multinational company, and he was drop-dead handsome. She mentally cursed herself for the ironic comment.

He was looking at her quizzically so she pointed to his forehead. “You got hurt.”

He touched it and screamed. “Ah!”

“I’m sorry.”

“You really shouldn’t be driving,” he said, shaking his head. She didn’t know if he was angry or mocking her.

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3 Characters

Nandita

Main Character of the story

Gender: Female

Age: 25

Occupation: Software Engineer

Lives in: Delhi

Appearance: Average height, long black curly hair, small bright eyes, wears long coats and scarfs, winter boots. Prefers warm and comfortable clothes.

What does she want?

She wants to see the world before she settles down. Live on her own in a foreign land.

Conflict?

But, she has an overprotective set of parents, who never let her do anything on her own. So, terrified of living alone. It’s almost like a phobia.

Internal—she’s afraid. She doesn’t even take the public transport to move around Delhi, the place she has lived in since she was born.

External—overprotective parents who will not allow her to move to another country.

Friends: She has 3 best friends, of her age, two of them are married and other is about to be.

She knows her time is running out and if she has to learn to be independent and experience the thrill of living alone, it is now.

Family: Parents, no siblings.

Arjun

Someone Nandita meets. Could become a main character.

Male

40 years old

Occupation: Senior manager of an international bank

Lives in Delhi

Appearance: Tall, slim. Wears a grey suit, white linen shirt and grey slacks. Has greying white hair, clean shaven, wears expensive watches and shoes. A hint of cinnamon perfume. Owns a pair of reading glasses that he’s shy to wear.

What does he want?
Happiness, Peace, fun. He feels empty. He feels as if he is giving and giving and not receiving anything in return.

Family: He has a wife and a daughter who live in another city.

Conflict?

His job doesn’t let him move, or have any peace in life. It over exhausts him. He's about to be promoted to an even better position that he has been working for since years. (external)

He's afraid of poverty. (internal)

Gina

Side Character in the story. Someone Nandita meets.

Female

16 years old

Occupation: Celebrity singer, new found Pop sensation of the country. She became popular through YouTube. Now she is on a nation-wide tour.

Studies: Private high school

Appearance: Dresses in bling outfits, super-skinny, tanned, has toned legs, and a delicious voice. Sleek black hair tied into a high pony.

Currently performing in a popular café in Delhi.

Hometown: Pune

What does she want?

True friends. Someone to share her thoughts, feelings, and lunch with.

Conflicts?

She has friends who are jealous of her. Her true friends abandoned her when she became popular a year ago. She’s being lured into alcohol at parties. Her mother doesn’t understand her. (external conflicts)

Internal conflicts: she’s an introvert.

Family: Mother

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3 Settings

A rent house

When I first moved in, I saw the houses were so huddled together in this part of the city. The view outside my window was an old, apartment building. It was a vomit shade of yellow, with the paint scraped off in places, revealing grey cement. There were three floors in the building, the last one being the terrace. The sky was white, not even a tinge of blue. An eagle swooped low and perched on the terrace wall as I watched. It was eerily quiet. Suddenly, I missed the chirping of the mynas in my old locale. And then, my gaze shifted back to the building. I wondered how cheap the rent was, if at all it was inhabitable. The lower floors looked more damaged than the upper. Perhaps, the upper floor was erected much later. I wondered if the building was given legal permission for the top floor. There was a huge crack in the balcony wall of the first floor. A few potted plants did little to soften the eyes. In fact, the money plant creeper that hung from the topmost balcony to the ground was so dirty that one would avert their gaze from it. Beside it was an ugly, little switch on the wall that was perfectly capable of electrocuting somebody! I felt some bitterness in my mouth as if I could taste the building. I drew the curtains shut, and made a mental note to keep them closed at night.

One salty afternoon

For Nandita, freedom came in the form of mud, froth and heat. Canacona of South Goa was a backyard beach, separated from the resort by a line of palm trees. Glimmering in the afternoon sun, the blue-grey belt of water stretched as far as one could see. It was surrounded by green cliffs and rocks on either side. The silhouette of the Sahyadri mountain ranges could be seen in the distance. The sand was clean but Nandita kept a close watch for crabs as she walked along the beach towards the yellow flag. It was not as easy as they showed in the Bollywood movies, walking on the wet sand while being hit by the waves, required grip. Ahead, squeals of children could be heard along with the rhythmic gushing of the waves. Nandita too let out a chuckle as a warm wave trickled against her feet. Corta’s beach lay along the same coastline and attracted foreign tourists with its beachfront services and seafood cafe. It was early January, the perfect season for water sports. Jet skiing, kayaking and parasailing were open. A Russian tourist smiled at Nandita as she passed her by. A man behind a makeshift counter provided beach towels and volleyballs. There were rows of cabanas in one corner. The cushions on them were soaked with sand and lotion. A masseuse offered Nandita to sit on one though she refused her service.

Restaurant

We found a quaint, little eatery on the high end of the city. The Indian restaurant ‘Mumbai’ on Ginza street, huddled between a kitchenware store and a men’s salon, was done up in traditional style. There was a statue of Lord Ganesha at the entrance, and a few potted plants. The walls were lined with decorative bottles of spice: cardamom, black pepper, long pepper, cumin, cinnamon, and red chili. Lamps of textured glass hung from the ceiling. Pastel tiles, the trademark style of Tokyo, made up the walls. Funnily, for a second, it reminded me of bathroom tiles. That made me a bit uncomfortable and, I tried not to think of it that way.

“Konnichiwa!” The waiter bowed and showed us our table. But, seeing that we were Indians, he quickly switched to Hindi.

The place was an orange hue and smelled of fresh naan, an Indian bread. The kitchen was easily visible from where we sat. Three chefs were busy at work. The crowd that evening mostly consisted of Japanese in their late 20s or early 30s. Butter chicken was a hit among them. An American who sat beside our table was arguing with the waiter in an animated way. He wanted his black dal to be less spicy. The menu, thankfully, was in English as well as Japanese. It was raining outside, and we were hungry. So, I scanned the menu and told him to bring us whatever was quickly available.

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Plot

An intern/fresher falls in love with the boss, though she knows he's married. They have an affair. She quits the job, moves to a new city and starts her life there. The boss is still in love with her.

His wife finds out and leaves him. He's still in love with the intern and begins to stalk her. He also loves his wife, but he knows he can't get her back now. Through social media, he finds out where the intern lives, works, and so on. On one hand, he's still attracted to her, on the other hand, he hates her for ruining his married life and blames her for his failures.

He constitutes a careful plan to murder her after observing her routine. He kills her.

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Shalini P Sawkar

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