Fiction

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By Umar Lateef Misgar and Khalid Fayaz She called her friend, Sahil, and told him about the chemist who had slid his phone number into her packet of potions. Her eyes closed but a vestige of hope bloomed in her.“You should have informed your mother so she could have taken a mature reaction against the chemist”, replied the friend. He added, “Women are naturally weak and their best protectors are their parents, not friends, because society is negative and friends take decisions based on impulse, which usually proves to be counterproductive. But if you insist, I will batter him down

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By Haroon Rashid Dar “Oh, how I love adventure! And today is such a pleasant day… The greenery of nature, the flower booms, and this scorching heat of July..!” thought Muhammad Asif to himself. He made up his mind and left  for  a  tourist  destination  home  in  his  own  vehicle  all  alone to  enjoy the  fresh  and  cool  air  in  the  silence  of the meadows  and  forests  without  human  disturbance, which was about a hundred   kilometers  away  from  his  home. In the afternoon, he was  driving  smoothly and enjoying  the  thrill of the music  playing in his  car. Soon after,  he  was  driving in the  middle  of  the  meadows and was lost  in his imaginations  of  nature.  He  sighted a beautiful 

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By Saba Firdous ‘Ammi apke haath se khoon beh raha hai hai’ (Mother, your hand is bleeding!), yelled little  Aamina  as she entered  her   house  and saw  blood  oozing  from her mother, Haleema’s hand.  Within seconds, Aamina bandaged Haleema’s hand, all the while tears pouring from her eyes. ‘Mai theek hun beti,’ (I am fine, daughter.) said Haleema, knowing well how sensitive her daughter was. However, all this was nothing new for Aamina as she had been witnessing these events since her childhood. Aamina was only eight when she had started working in local households along with her mother. She

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By Saadat Hasan Manto Soon as Eesher Singh entered the room, Kalwant Kaur got up from the bed, stared at him with her sharp eyes and locked the door. It was past midnight and a strange and mysterious quietness seemed to have gripped the entire city. Kalwant Kaur sat on the bed yoga-style and Eesher Singh, who was probably unraveling his thoughts, stood there with a dagger in his hand. A few moments passed in complete silence. Annoyed with the silence, Kalwant Kaur moved to the edge of the bed and started dangling her legs. Eesher Singh still didn’t say

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That shriek! How penetrable the siren is! It Pierces  my heart. First shriek! Two shrieks are yet to come -the second will be louder than the first and the third louder still. The  Siren sounds  of textile mill coming one after the  other ring their loudest  with these shrieks   long columns  of smoke  trailing from high chimneys of  these mills the air choke  with  smoke  forming like a dense formless jumble leaving  the sky shrouded in a  dense haze. I am sleeping on the roof top of this fourth floor building; here too the air is  full of smoke, smoke

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He spoke rather exasperatedly, “This is a matter beyond your understanding. It is too technical for you, surely not as simple as it might appear.” He picked up his packet of cigarettes from his desk. I was rendered speechless. He lighted a cigarette and leaning back spewed out of his mouth a cloud of smoke which thinned away slowly, filling up the room. Purged of its acridity, the smoke now became air, mingled with the air. Breaking my train of thought, he said, “Listen, the body is not important. What matters is the head. What have I to do with

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People no more believe in such things because such things no longer come to pass in their whereabouts. This does not mean that such an incident could never have occurred in Zaji Pathir. Then Zaji pather is very much there for all to see; we can go there even now and witness the remains of the habitation which once it had been, it is at present a meadow where many shepherds dwelling in their hutments, raise flock upon flock. But there was a time when six thousand men and women peopled it and there were five grave yards there to

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Written by Akhtar Mohi-ud-Din | Translated from Kashmiri by M Siddiq Beig It is now that my vision is getting clear. Not that I discern anything, or that I get a feel of anything palpable, but assuredly, not that darkness which terrified, that led you astray; something like a perception that there is somebody on the other side of the wall, or something breathing “yahoo, yahoo” in and out. Well, who or what can be there on the other side of the wall? How can I say! I still admit to my blindness. My eyes even today perceive the darkness

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By Stuti Govil The fridge is poorly stocked. All the vegetables are now condemned to their present state of dereliction. The scant milk gives off putrid smells, having gone bad many weeks ago. Only odd bottles of cough syrup and glycerine have survived the tyranny of time and power cuts. Kaamna took a giant swig of the pungent tasting Benadryl. Idleness in her world has to be constantly justified. The door to the refrigerator is agape. It lies in wait, with bated sensuous breath. She arranges the vegetables now and then, scarcely taking a note of the rotten peels and

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Written by Hari Krishan Koul | Translated from Kashmiri by M. Siddiq Beigh The great God be thanked that I came by a taxi right at my doorstep. I asked the driver to move straight to the college and I had a look in the mirror fixed in the front of the driver. My ears were still smeared with soap-lather, and I wiped it with my hanky. A knot of my necktie had got under a wing of my collar, which I put right. It was three minutes to ten as I looked at my watch, and my class would

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