Since Eeshan made the f1rst post, I guess it falls on me to contribute the first story. That, incidentally, is what this blog is going to be all about. Stories. Eeshan and I are going to write stories, for you, dear nameless, faceless reader. I'm not quite sure who you are yet, but we'll figure that out as we go along. If you happen to come across this, it's probably because one of us sent you the link. In that case, do let us (me) know what you think of our (my) stories.
But what kind of stories? - I hear you ask. I'm going to try to write stories inspired by things that happen around me - in real life, so to speak. And Eeshan is going to write stories on the theme "Real Life". They will not be too long. The blog is called "Andheri Raat". If you want to know why, see the title of Eeshan's other website. Now that we have all that introduction business out of the way, here's my first story, titled "The Racket", in honor of a $2 Wilson tennis racket I purchased recently.
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A sizable crowd had built up in Martha's front yard. Around fifteen people, walking around, trying not to bump into each other or the tables. She should put up a "If you break it, you buy it" sign somewhere. But she didn't care too much. The sale was going fine, and she would probably be able to get rid of most of her stuff by the end of the day.
She struggled to drag a potted plant across her porch. The pot, as resolute in its old age as its master, refused to budge. After a couple of hopeful tugs, she gave up and decided to head back to the yard.
She spotted a young man, standing, straining his neck, presumably looking for someone in charge. That would be her. She hobbled over to him, drat her knees, and tapped the man on his shoulder.
"How can I help you, sir?"
He held up Andy's tennis racket.
"How much for this?"
How much for this? She thought back to the day she had gifted Andy the racket. It was his 10th birthday. He had been so happy. She hadn't seen him indoors except at mealtimes for the next 2 weeks. She remembered his first tournament. They had driven 3 hours to get to the tournament, only to lose in the first round. It had been a nice trip though. Andy hadn't been too thrilled about his dismal show. But how else could she have gotten him to spend 6 hours with his mother? She remembered his last tournament. That had been in his senior year at high school. He had won that one. But by that time it had become something of a habit. She remembered him returning from it, speaking in awe about the Colonel who had been the chief guest at the prize ceremony. She remembered ironing his brand new uniform. How handsome he had looked in it She remembered saying goodbye, trying not to cry as she watched her only son go ten thousand miles away. She remembered the box that had arrived at her house last week. It had the uniform, a medal, and a few other things.
How much for this?
She looked at the young man. He looked to be around 20 years old. Barely a young man. Just about as old as Andy.
How much for this?
"That will be 2 dollars."
But what kind of stories? - I hear you ask. I'm going to try to write stories inspired by things that happen around me - in real life, so to speak. And Eeshan is going to write stories on the theme "Real Life". They will not be too long. The blog is called "Andheri Raat". If you want to know why, see the title of Eeshan's other website. Now that we have all that introduction business out of the way, here's my first story, titled "The Racket", in honor of a $2 Wilson tennis racket I purchased recently.
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A sizable crowd had built up in Martha's front yard. Around fifteen people, walking around, trying not to bump into each other or the tables. She should put up a "If you break it, you buy it" sign somewhere. But she didn't care too much. The sale was going fine, and she would probably be able to get rid of most of her stuff by the end of the day.
She struggled to drag a potted plant across her porch. The pot, as resolute in its old age as its master, refused to budge. After a couple of hopeful tugs, she gave up and decided to head back to the yard.
She spotted a young man, standing, straining his neck, presumably looking for someone in charge. That would be her. She hobbled over to him, drat her knees, and tapped the man on his shoulder.
"How can I help you, sir?"
He held up Andy's tennis racket.
"How much for this?"
How much for this? She thought back to the day she had gifted Andy the racket. It was his 10th birthday. He had been so happy. She hadn't seen him indoors except at mealtimes for the next 2 weeks. She remembered his first tournament. They had driven 3 hours to get to the tournament, only to lose in the first round. It had been a nice trip though. Andy hadn't been too thrilled about his dismal show. But how else could she have gotten him to spend 6 hours with his mother? She remembered his last tournament. That had been in his senior year at high school. He had won that one. But by that time it had become something of a habit. She remembered him returning from it, speaking in awe about the Colonel who had been the chief guest at the prize ceremony. She remembered ironing his brand new uniform. How handsome he had looked in it She remembered saying goodbye, trying not to cry as she watched her only son go ten thousand miles away. She remembered the box that had arrived at her house last week. It had the uniform, a medal, and a few other things.
How much for this?
She looked at the young man. He looked to be around 20 years old. Barely a young man. Just about as old as Andy.
How much for this?
"That will be 2 dollars."
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