He was complaining again, tugging at the straps of his oxygen mask. “Dad, why do I have to wear this? What happens if I don’t?” It was the hundredth time he’d asked, his voice muffled through the plastic. I adjusted the mask over his small face, my fingers trembling as I tightened the seal. I wished he could know the life I’d once had—a life where the air didn’t choke you, where we didn’t drag heavy cylinders like chains behind us, a salvation for the monstrous deeds we had committed. But that world was gone, stolen a decade before he was born, when the skies turned black and the air became a privilege.

I adjusted my son’s mask, my hands steady despite the ache in my chest. I’d made promises before—promises I couldn’t keep. His mother, my love, had died in my arms years ago, gasping for air I couldn’t give her. The oxygen banks turned me away, their cold metal doors slamming shut on my pleas. I’d offered everything—every coin, every scrap of our lives—but it wasn’t enough.

They wouldn’t even let me bury her—the ground was too scarce, too poisoned. Her ashes vanished into a wind I couldn’t breathe. She was here somewhere with us, but I couldn’t have her with me anyway.

The business tycoons had seen their chance. Oxygen wasn’t a right anymore—it was a commodity, sold in gleaming banks that lined the streets. They charged us by the breath, their prices climbing higher every day. A few minutes outside without a mask could bankrupt you—if it didn’t kill you first. I’d seen the ones who couldn’t pay, their bodies crumpled in alleys, lungs burned out like spent candles.

As I secured his mask, I forced a smile. “Tomorrow, I’ll take you to the museum,” I promised. “The last trees are there—the ones that still breathe for us. You’ll see them.” His eyes brightened behind the scratched visor. He’d found photos on my phone once, old snapshots from my childhood, and pointed at them with wonder. “Dad, why’s the sky so blue here? Why isn’t it black like now?” I’d stumbled over my answer, unable to tell him the full truth: that we’d burned the world, drowned it in smoke and soot until the skies choked. Instead, I showed him more pictures—crisp blue skies, green hills, a life he’d never live.

The next day, we trudged to the museum, our oxygen tanks clanking against the cracked pavement. He stopped suddenly, pointing at a man sprawled across the road. The figure lay still, his mask dangling loose, his chest silent. My son’s gloved hand reached out in question, but I pulled him close, pressing him against me. “He’s just sleeping,” I lied, my voice thick. He was too young for the truth—not yet ready to know that death waited for those who couldn’t buy their next breath.

At the museum, we surrendered our tanks at the entrance, stepping into a sealed chamber where the air flowed free. My son gasped, tugging off his mask, his face alive with the sensation of unfiltered air. Ahead stood the last trees—relics of a murdered world, preserved under glass like artifacts. There was an oak, its twisted branches a monument to strength; a willow, its leaves whispering memories of wind; and a mango tree, heavy with fruit no one could touch. My son stared at it, eyes wide. He’d never tasted a real mango—only the chalky, flavored tablets the rich left us to chew while they hoarded the harvests.

“I want to eat one,” he said, pressing his hands against the barrier. “Can we get one?” I nodded, hollowly promising to find him a mango on my next trip outside the city. Twenty years ago, I’d read warnings in school—textbooks predicting a day when trees would be museum pieces. I’d laughed then, thinking it absurd. Now here we were.

We wandered through the exhibits—barks and leaves pinned like fossils, trunks sliced open to show rings of a lost age. His gaze lingered on the mango tree, a strange glow in his eyes, a hunger I couldn’t satisfy. I turned away, blinking back the sting of failure.

On the bus ride home, we passed Foam Lake. Once a shimmering expanse of water, it was now a bubbling, toxic scar, its surface thick with chemical sludge. I’d shown him old photos—blue waves lapping at green shores—but he never believed me. “It couldn’t have been like that,” he’d say, as if humans weren’t capable of such ruin. I didn’t push him. Let him keep his innocence a little longer.

Then the rain began, a hiss against the bus windows. I yanked them shut, sealing us in. This wasn’t the rain I’d loved as a boy, the kind that smelled of earth and hope. This was acid, a corrosive drizzle that blistered skin and ate through metal. My son pressed his face to the glass, oblivious, watching the drops streak down. I pulled him back gently, my chest aching. He’d never know the joy of running barefoot through a storm, the cool kiss of water on his face. That world was dead, and I’d helped bury it. If hell existed, I knew I’d be bound for its darkest corner—far blacker than the soot-choked skies above—because I’d stood silent as they slaughtered what could’ve been saved.

As we rattled home through the blackened city, I held him close, his small frame warm against mine. He didn’t ask about the rain, or the lake, or the man on the road. Maybe he sensed there were no answers I could bear to give for his own good. Maybe one day, he wouldn’t ask at all, like everyone else.

So, folks, that was my first attempt at a short story! Please feel free to share your ideas, tips, and feedback on how I can improve my writing. I know there’s plenty of room to grow, but for a first try, I wanted to keep it as it is. Like any good short story I’ve read, I feel this one should have its own gaps and unanswered questions.

Looking forward to all your opinions!

#SpreadingSmiles,

Aryan!

P.S.: The motivation behind writing this short story comes from a recent event at my university, where 10-15 fully grown trees were cut down. Despite repeated requests from the Biosphere Club and others, nothing could stop it.

Every day, battling Chennai’s summer heat becomes a little harder for all of us. This raises an important question—shouldn’t those in power bear a greater ethical responsibility toward nature? And shouldn’t we, as a society, demand the same from them?

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The rain had just started to drizzle when I ducked under the bus stop shelter, shaking the drops from my sleeves. Beside me, a stranger adjusted his scarf, as he glanced up at the sky, he sighed like he had just lost an argument with the universe.

I silently took a seat beside him and my gaze landed on the book he was reading, Classic Literature. Sensing my gaze he looked up – I guess both of us turned the eye contact into an awkward moment. As he looked down momentarily, he considered for a moment if he should speak.

He didn't look old but for some reason matured, that alone made him intriguing for me. Putting aside my awkwardness I left my question in the air, a silent chance for him to change his seat if he didn't want to launch into a conversation with a complete stranger.

“Have you ever fallen in love?” I asked, unsure of how he would react.

It was a common question and one for which the weather seemed perfect. Moreover I guessed his answer, he wasn't that old so it must be a yes if not a double yes.

He looked up, as his lips parted to answer “I knew it, ”. As he sat right there, my tongue rolled to consider an apology being the overthinker I was, but before I could, he spoke, I was silenced by a voice that was pained but deep –

“Growing up, I always looked up to my mother, I still do. She is the strongest person I will ever know. But as a child, I longed for her love and attention in ways she didn’t give me then. To her, loving meant ensuring my needs were met—food on the table, a roof over my head. For that, I am grateful. But there was more to parenting right? My emotional needs were overlooked often and no wonder, I felt unseen at home more often than not.

In my years in school, there were times when I dreaded going home because love always felt so conditional, warmth and affection so rare. That’s when I started looking for love in the wrong places—at school, in people who made me feel I mattered. Looking back now, I realize it wasn’t love, nor was it even attraction. It was just that someone finally spoke to me, saw me in ways I wanted to be loved”, he shivered as he hugged himself as if an ancient memory came back to him flooding back. He went on,

“It was my need to feel validated, that someone would love me for what I am, not what I would be. In my desperate attempt to do that, I did something foolish—I went around telling my best friends (all girls) that I liked them. Of course, they never saw it coming, and I ended up losing friendships that could have beautiful today. The guilt of that has weighed on me ever since, I think now, how wonderful today life would have been with them as friends, whom I could have called upon.

Maybe I should have reached out for help back then. But help felt out of reach when I needed it the most. And the regret of losing so many friends will always sit heavy in my heart.”

As the rain picked up, a gust of wind sent a few stray leaves skittering across the pavement. He sat with the words for a moment, the weight of them settling between us. There was nothing I could say to undo the past, no grand wisdom that could erase regret. So instead, I offered what little I could.

“I don’t think love should feel like something you have to earn,” I murmured, watching a raindrop race its way down the glass of the bus stop. “But I guess when it does, it leaves you searching for it everywhere.”

He let out a soft chuckle—bitter, maybe, or just resigned. “Yeah,” he said. “Everywhere.”

For a while, we just listened to the rain, the tiny and sometimes heavy pitter patter of rain somehow gave us courage to keep going. Then, after what felt like the right amount of silence, he turned to me, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

“Do you think it starts with our parents?” he asked. “The way we learn, or don’t learn—what love is supposed to feel like?”

I exhaled, thinking, this was turning out better than I had even expected, “Have you ever met parents who act like best friends to their kids? The ones who say, ‘We’re super close! We tell each other everything!’”

He nodded. “Yeah, I hated it when they hugged their parents in front of me .” looking at the distant grey sky.

I couldn't help but chuckle, “ I do too”

“I grew up with parents like that.

They were cool, easygoing, always present. Every school event, every birthday, every little milestone—they were right there, cheering.

Until the real stuff started.

Until I actually needed them.

Teenage hit, and suddenly, life got complicated. My mind was filled with questions, doubts, and loneliness. I was trying to figure things out, but when I looked back, tired and ready to lean on any support, they weren’t there anymore.

Not really.

They assumed I didn’t need them anymore. Assumed that just because I wasn’t a kid, I didn’t want their presence. Their support. Their love.

But I did.

The funny part? They still treat me like a kid if I take any step forward for myself. Telling me, ‘No, it’s risky.’ ‘No, you still don’t know anything about the world.’

And the saddest part? All it would have taken was a simple, ‘How are you really doing?’ ‘Tell me if something’s on your mind.’ ‘Let’s talk.’

Just their support.

Simple words. But in their absence, they became the loudest silence of my life.”

I fell silent after that, watching the rain pool into tiny rivers along the sidewalk. When I glanced at him, he was looking at me—not with pity, but with understanding. There is something about finding people who get you instantaneously!

There was something in the way he listened—like he truly understood. Something that made me feel seen. And from experience I could only say it took one to know one.

I hope he felt seen too.

Maybe that’s why I asked the next question, one I wasn’t sure he’d answer.

“When your home teaches you the wrong lessons about intimacy… how do you learn to love?”

He exhaled, his fingers tightening slightly around the book in his lap.

“Growing up, I never saw my parents express love for each other. Physical intimacy felt like something forbidden, almost taboo in my home, and I often wondered why. Their relationship was strained, marked by an emotional distance that stretched to me as well. At first, I thought it was just the usual ‘respect-your-parents’ thing, but over time, I realized it was deeper than that.

They were fighting their own demons.

It was as if some invisible boundaries kept them from fully loving me—one that may be whispering that it's the right kind of love, if you give them too much, they’ll take advantage of you.

At the same time, I was constantly warned against speaking to girls, as if even a simple conversation could spiral into something unspeakable. Just that they passed on their intense dislike for social interaction to me in a package of fear and distrust. Over time, that warning turned into something else—a deep-seated fear.

An irrational guilt.

I started believing that interacting with the opposite gender was inherently wrong. That fear shaped me in ways I didn’t understand then. It seeped into my confidence, my ability to trust my own decisions.

Even when I finally moved out and tasted independence, the guilt didn’t leave. It just followed me in silence, eating away at me from within.”

I almost felt my heart sink for him, as if we shared a common story—one built within the same walls, shaped by the same silences and the same humans plagued by familiar evils.

He shifted slightly, eyes flickering with something between wonder and regret. Then, after a pause, he asked, almost to himself,

“Why do some women sacrifice themselves in the name of love while others choose to leave for love? I never understood why my mum chose to just stay there taking all that she went through, I absolutely hated it and every time, I took a stand for her, I was snatched away a bit of my childhood until the day I became an adult emotionally completely letting go the carefreeness of childhood, and I hated it” I could see tears well up in his eyes, the tears of rage which come all too fast when you let your heart out.

Something in me snapped. I regretted asking the question for a moment then, but he spoke after what felt like an eternity of silence, “Why does it have to be so bad?, I just don't get it”

“You know, I too used to think love was supposed to be kind. That it was supposed to protect you, make you feel safe. But then, I saw something that made me question everything.”

I clenched my fists, memories rushing back like a tidal wave.

“I was at a friend’s house once. Her little brother—maybe ten years old—stood frozen in the kitchen, staring at their mother.

She had a deep, purple bruise on her neck.

He hesitated before asking, ‘What happened?’

She just smiled, stirring the pot on the stove.
‘Nothing. Your Dad just got a little angry. It was my fault anyway. I forgot to iron his shirt.’

His father’s shirt.

I’ll never forget the way the boy’s face twisted in confusion. When the confusion passed, anger replaced it—pure, undiluted rage. He didn’t like his mother being hurt. He had expected a real reason—something serious, something unbearable.

Not… just a shirt.

And I? I expected to see anger in her eyes. Pain. Resentment.

But there was nothing. No fire. No fight. Just quiet acceptance. Or maybe defeat.

Like this was just how love worked. Like this was normal.

She had given up everything—her dreams, her dignity, herself—for love. They called it a great sacrifice.

Was love only about sacrifice?

The boy? He called it defeat.

And me? I call it a tragedy that shouldn’t be so common.”

He exhaled, nodding slightly, his fingers tracing invisible patterns on the book.

“Yeah,” he murmured, almost to himself. “It was the same.”

As the rain softened into a whisper, a silence stretched between us—not empty, but full. The kind that lingers when two strangers have shared something raw, something real.

He huffed, his fingers still tracing absent patterns on the book in his lap. “Maybe love isn’t something you learn,” he murmured. “Maybe it’s something you unlearn first, from everything you saw growing up finding what it really means to you.”

I let his words settle, watching the way the streetlights flickered against the wet pavement. “Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe love finds us anyway, despite everything.”

For the first time that evening, he smiled—not a bitter smile, not resigned, but something softer. Hopeful, even.

Amidst all this a bus pulled up, headlights slicing through the rain. He hesitated, glancing at me and the bus, I knew our time was over, but looked like neither of us wanted to leave.

“Maybe we’ll meet again,” I offered, unsure why I wanted it to be true.

Reluctantly he gave a small nod. “Maybe.”

And just like that, he stepped onto the bus, towards his life. The doors closed, the engine hummed, and then he was gone.

But something about that moment felt unfinished—not like an ending, but like the beginning of something neither of us could name yet.

If it was fate that brought us both here today, I really wish that it rains again when we reopen our old wounds to heal them to cure.

I sat there watching the bus leave, the air somehow felt lighter in my lungs so my greedy lungs took more of it and some more again.

As I stood up and made my way back towards my life, waiting for me. I knew one thing for sure that this stranger was never a stranger to begin with. The kinds of people who feel like you’ve known them for years.

This was my first collaboration with (Zoya) who writes her newsletter and it was a fantastic experience working with her!

If you loved this post do check her newsletter out and follow her for more such intriguing and enjoyable pieces which deal with life, love and much more.

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This is my first real attempt at poetry—the first one I actually started and managed to complete! I performed it today in my college auditorium, and while I didn’t win, it turned out way better than I expected.

Since Valentine’s Week is in full swing, with lovers living their best lives, I thought this was the perfect time to put my feelings into words. And, well, one realization hit me—people who are truly in love probably write better poetry than those of us who just pretend to be, haha.

Anyway, I won’t tweak much from how I originally performed it, so here it is!

A very good evening to everyone present out here, on this beautiful evening as we all gather here a pack of romantics some heart broken some madly in love and others longing for someone they might never be able to meet again!

Love—it's more than just a word, more than just a feeling. 
It’s the way their name lingers on your lips long after they’re gone…  
It’s the silence between two heartbeats, the echo of a touch that never fades.  
Have you ever loved someone so deeply that even the stars seemed to dim in their absence?  
When their laughter became your favorite melody, their presence your safe haven…  
But love is not always about holding on—it is also about letting go, even when every part of you wants to stay.  
Tonight, I bring you a story—not just of love, but of longing, of memories, of a heart that still waits…

Sabr - The Wait….

Log kehte the sabr ka fal meetha hoga,
Log kehte the sabr ka fal meetha hoga,
Usne loot li mere gham ki chain.

Sadiyon beet gayi, khoye rahe hum
Usi yaadon ki lehron mein,
Jahaan sirf hum the—par woh nahi.

Ab kaun jiyega un palon ko phir se?
Kaun marega un yaadon ko bhoolne mein?
Kaun jeeyega un khwahishon ko chahne mein,
Kaun jeeyega un khwahishon ko chahne mein ek baar aur?
Kaun bolega us Rabb ki baat—
"Main toh tumhe usko de deta,
Par usne kabhi maanga hi nahi tumhe."

Kya hoga un sab khwabon ka,
Jo tumne dekhe the uske saath?
Ab koi aur jeeyega unhi palon ko uske saath.

Jab tum sochoge ek baar
Uski baahon mein samaane ki khwahish,
Koi aur usi baahon mein
Guzarega zindagi ki guzaarish.

Aur dekho, tum yahan tadap rahe ho
Uski ek baat ke liye,
Jab koi aur uski baat sun ke
Kab ka thak chuka hoga.

Par hum jeeyenge isi jahaan mein,
Jahaan uska koi wajood hi nahi.
Yeh sochke ki kya kami thi hamare pyaar mein.
Hum har baar uski ek nazar ke liye jeete rahenge—
Har baar, har baar...
Jab humein yaad tak na karega woh.

Ishq tha, isiliye jaane diya,
Agar zidd hoti, toh abhi baahon mein hoti tum.
Agar zidd hoti, toh abhi baahon mein hoti tum.

Aur woh kya ishq hai, jo aasani se mil jaaye?
Ishq wahi hota hai,
Jo is jahaan mein kabhi nahi milta.

Logon ne poocha mujhse—
Pyaar aur mohabbat mein farq kya hai?

Logon ne poocha mujhse—
Pyaar aur mohabbat mein farq kya hai?
Aur maine bola—
"Pyaar kiya jaata hai,
Mohabbat ho jaati hai, janaab."

Kabhi raaton mein yaad aati hai uski,
Kaash ek baar phir baat ho jaaye.
Magar phir yaad aata hai—
Usne humse baat karna toh chhodo,
Hamara chehra dekhna bhi zaroori nahi samjha.

Log kehte the sabr ka fal meetha hoga,
Log kehte the sabr ka fal meetha hoga,
Itna sabr karne ke baad bhi,
Koi aur loot gaya mere gham ki chain.
Koi aur loot gaya mere gham ki chain.

After this, I’d love to share a shayari I once read—one that never fails to lighten my heart every time I remember her.

Shama bujh bhi jaye toh kya hai,
Dhadkan rukh bhi jaye toh kya hai...
Abhi tumhe paane ki khatir itna kuch gawaya hai,
Ab tum mil bhi jao toh kya hai?

Sharing my experience at the poetry event—where over 40 people recited their poetry and shayaris—there was something truly magical and deeply beautiful about the entire evening. Maybe it's just me, but I feel that Urdu/Hindi poetry has a unique power to move hearts in a way few other forms of expression can.

Unpopular opinion: I genuinely believe that English, no matter how eloquent, can never fully capture the depth of emotions the way classical languages do—whether it’s my mother tongue, Kannada, or Urdu/Hindi in this case.

It was incredible to see that even in this age of technology, people still write poetry, and even more amazing that so many turn up to appreciate it. The house was completely full!

This was an experience I will hold close to my heart, and if you’ve never been to a poetry evening, I urge you to go. You won’t forget it for the rest of your life. Words have a way of moving us, melting us, and making us feel alive.

Now that it’s done and dusted, I can’t help but feel a little stupid about myself—like I always do after things like this. I don’t know why, but every time I try to be personal and put my emotions into words, it feels childish, as if expressing my feelings somehow makes me less mature.

And when I look back at life, especially at love, everything feels so... stupid. I don’t really understand when I’ll finally feel like an adult—when I’ll be able to say, yes, this was exactly how it was supposed to be.

Maybe I’ll leave you all with that thought—do you ever feel the same? Do you ever question whether your emotions are even worth being heard? And if you do, is it for the same reasons, or something else entirely?

Thank you soo much for reading, Do let me know what you felt after reading this!

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The Clouds rush to the mountains , they caress him gently

They fight for his attention , they rise to kiss his lips

The Clouds believe the mountain is smitten ,

that he stands so high to not let them pass

that he stands uncomfortably still with Rishi like repose

because he waits for their return every year

There is no doubt in their mind , the Mountain loves them

It is sad that they'll never know

that the mountain does not care for them

It only wants the nourishing rain they carry

He doesn't nudge them up to kiss them

He does it to break them and get what he wants

And by the time they understand , it's too late

It's sad that no cloud survives to warn the others

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The River Rushes to the Sea

Her instincts tell her this is her destiny

She's grown up on stories of love

And on tales of blind and illogical passions

And she's in too much of a hurry to meet her lover

To feel rather than think

But when she sees the Sea

His immensity , depth and power .

She hesitates and meanders

But her innate romanticsm wins

And she flows happily into his arms

It's sad that she will never know

that the sea doesn't love her

That the sea is too lost in his own grandiosity

to even notice the river

That her loving embrace doesn't change the Sea

That the water she received as a gift from the sea

Was actually given to her by a philantrophic Sun

It's sad by the time the River realises the truth ,

She's already lost her her identity

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

And then there is the Earth

Unlike the other , she thinks more than feel

Her mind is more powerful than her heart

She sees the Sun

Alone , luminous and magnificent

Has so much and is so wasteful with it

The Earth being smart

Uses the Sun's wasted energy

Nourishes herself and grows

In character, mind body and spirit

She marvels at her own brilliance

and what she's done with Life

She fears the Sun and his immense powers

And hates the way he lavishes his God given gifts

It's sad that she'll never know that the Sun could have left

Yet he stands there all alone so that he can give to the Earth

He wants to come closer but he knows he can't

He knows his passion is so strong that it will hurt her

So he stands afar and admires his Lady

It's sad that no one's around to tell the Earth

Just how much the Sun loves her .

- Amish Tripathi

from ‘Raavan‘

Book 3 of Ram Chandra Series

This poem holds a special place in my heart, as it offers profound lessons about the small, often overlooked moments in life. It captures the subtle truths and emotions that we tend to miss in our day-to-day experiences.

I will be sharing a series of posts exploring the themes and insights from this poem in more depth.

If you'd like to follow along, feel free to subscribe to my Substack page for updates.

Thank you for reading, and I look forward to seeing you in the next post!

#SpreadingSmiles

Until next time,

Aryan!

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