A Blue Stone for My Desolate World
Typhoid imprisoned me — 6 years old, aching, silently watching the ceiling at home in Ambala, India. My cot moved to the veranda every evening; I watched the world play without me. Loneliness settled like dust. One dusk, my friend Madhu’s mother arrived like a breeze. She spoke in stories, then slipped a ring onto my finger: rolled gold, with a sea-blue stone. “For the princess,” she said. It shimmered like a spell. I whispered to it, held it up to show the sun. It became my secret friend, my talisman. That small circle of beauty let joy back in. — Viney Kirpal
The Love He Could Give
I moved from the city to a small town for work — single, uncertain, joking to friends that I was David Rose from “Schitt’s Creek.” Then I met him. Though he’d just left a 16-year-long relationship, he made me feel chosen. One sunny morning, as I reached for my shoes, he called. “I’m coming over,” he said. Minutes later, he arrived — leather jacket, wet curls, steady brown eyes — holding a vase of tulips, ruscus, wild veronica. He’d arranged them himself. He kissed me softly, then whispered, “Have a beautiful day, papi chulo.” The flowers stayed. A week later, he didn’t. — Mayank Chugh
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