Sonorous Sagas

By Yamini Shankar

Fifteen authors have come together to pen down riveting stories spawning out of their creative imaginations. Each story carries a resonating flavour endemic to the personality and perspective of our versatile writers. The essence of each story is emoted through an intriguing expression and the narrative is bound to take the reader through a whirl of palpable emotions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: CrossWrite
• Release date: Jul 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9788194630005

Book preview

It is difficult to explain love. It is difficult to fathom the extreme happiness and pleasures of love. It is a feeling that has been expressed by many—by legends, by scribes, by pious souls, by philosophers, by artists and also by intellectuals—in many forms. In words, in music, in art, and every other medium possible.

Words have always applauded love; music adds happiness to it, and art adorns it further. And yet, words are not enough; music seems less in defining love; art and other forms seem less in expressing this lofty emotion. Then how can love be expressed entirely? Well, it can be comprehended only by feeling it.

But what would you do when you don’t have anyone to love or anyone to love you back?

You’ve probably heard it in the form of drunken advice from a serial monogamous friend, or seen it immortalized through one of your grandmother’s two-dozen faux-crochet fridge magnets.

It’s the saying that love is a journey, not a destination.

It’s an easy enough notion to get your head around, really, particularly when positioned beneath a woollen rainbow or posted online as a #dailyinspiration meme. We understand it, we gladly seek comfort in the idea of it, but do we believe it?

Love, like change, is one of life’s few constant

It runs parallel to our respective timelines, bubbling along quietly and settling as it pleases, be it on the smile of a stranger, the page of an old book, the pixels of a photograph, or the foam of our Sunday morning coffee.

It exists beyond our physical being, always moving, twisting, and turning — forever adopting form over function.

To view love as a destination would be to sell ourselves drastically short. It would be solidifying that which is inherently fluid, unnecessarily allowing it to be held, lost, bent, or broken. Just imagine the recurring heartache which could be so easily avoided if only we celebrated love as the river, not the vessel — the body which moves us, unwaveringly from beneath, not that with which we immediately travel.

We continue to engrave our unique perceptions about love on the various milestones we pursue — be it particular people, places, or career achievements. As we move forward, as we progress — both socially and professionally — so, too, do these milestones. They lie just up ahead, always a little further away than we’re able to reach.

Destinations connote both physical and emotional disembarking, some kind of stagnancy — the end of whichever road we’re traveling at any given time. When we view our heightened ideals of love as points to reach, we run the risk of actually achieving them. Our existing relationships are falling gently into a routine, our love, set to repeat.

It becomes a thirst quenched, a craving satisfied, a passion subsided.

For it to be kept alive, we must first ensure that there’s room to grow, places to go, and exciting new territory to discover. The feeling must remain conscious. We must choose to fall in love again each morning — find new creases on the same page, new freckles on the same back, and new algorithms to the same familiar smile.

We must ensure that our love remains a journey. You see, on the subject of love, as with most things, time can be binding, and when our minds or bodies feel restricted, our first instinct is to break free simply. A dear cousin of mine was recently left utterly flawed and broken-hearted after his partner of eight years unceremoniously ended their relationship two weeks after moving into their dream apartment together.

While both genuine and reciprocated, their love had gradually accumulated in the joint plan of setting up a house. That, they both agreed, it to be their destination. But then, as would inevitably be the case, they achieved it. Once the cardboard boxes were unpacked and broken down, the cutlery washed and placed in the top drawer, the clothes folded and tucked away — they were left with the quiet realization of stillness.

And, though it satisfied her, it didn’t satisfy him. No, his eyes wandered critically forward to a new destination — one he felt they no longer shared. It’s not easy when these things happen when we suddenly realize the need to move on; also, to be honest, it’s not our fault. The religious/social construct of marriage and ensuing expectation to start a family inevitably mounts some level of pressure. And as we grow so reluctantly older, our relationships have little choice but to either strengthen or buckle under the weight.

It’s quietly confronting. We do, after all, prefer to feel immortal. We prefer to think of our love as timeless. Perhaps this is why, in recent times, society’s median age for marriage has hovered consistently around the seven-year mark. Much like my cousin and his partner, we set our goals and destinations reach them — and then naturally feel the urge to move on. People are, after all, inherently wired to progress

This is why love if it’s to last, must lie in the journey, not in the destination; in a shared desire to be together irrespective of the goals. It’s not a competition to be won, nor a mark to be achieved. It doesn’t exist in the checkpoints of a to-do list; or the dotted line of a lease form.

It runs parallel to all that, bubbling along quietly and settling as it pleases. And all we can do is hope that it settles with us, and long enough for us to appreciate it for what it is. When love is right, it feels like home. It’s like that feeling when you come home after a long day of work and get into comfy clothes, then curl up on your couch to binge-watch your favourite television show. You are home, and you are safe. You know where everything is stored and where things are held. You’re not afraid of the closet or dark spaces, because you know what’s there. A sense of ease comes over you when you walk through the front door and see your space, your things, and your happy place. The sights and sounds are soothing. It’s the feeling of falling into your bed and melting into your blankets and pillows with utter peace.

When love is right, the simplest things feel like grand expressions. It’s when you go grocery shopping and get them their favourite tea. It’s waking up to the smell of coffee when you’re the one who sleeps later. It’s saying thank you for cooking dinner and taking out the trash. It’s sharing the better blanket on the couch. It’s giving that other human the last piece of pizza. It’s trying new things because you know that your partner or spouse wants to share their passions with you. It’s going to a girl’s night or guy’s night guilt-free because you know that your partner wants you to cultivate friendships.

When love is right, it feels like friendship. It feels like your best friend and your best lover are rolled into one human. It feels like laughter has become another roommate in your house. It’s laughing until you cry, it’s laughing at silly things that nobody else in the whole world will think is funny, but it doesn’t matter, because you both get it. You both understand. It’s wanting to spend your free time with that special human and having just as much fun on epic adventures as you do hanging out at home on a rainy day.

When love is right, it feels like the best choice you have ever made. It’s choosing to keep waking up next to that same human for the rest of your life. It’s choosing to trust, talk, and be honest with yourself and with that other person. It’s choosing to cultivate your partnership or marriage each day. It’s wanting to show up for them and it’s them choosing to show up for you.

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Bhuvanesh Kumar

Bhuvanesh Kumar is currently pursuing his B.sc degree in Loyola College, Chennai. He is a huge fan of fiction, especially suspense thrillers, and loves to write short stories. He is very passionate about reading and writing and aspires to write novels one day. He draws inspiration from great authors like Jeffrey Archer, Sydney Sheldon, Tilly Bagshawe, and Agatha Christie. He believes that through stories, we can touch hearts and make the world a better place.

A Tale of Woe

She looked at her aging features in her reflection. Her rectangular pale face with innocent blue eyes, rosy cheeks, cherry lips, and her perfectly arched eyebrows revealed a fading beauty. Her blonde hair brushed her shoulders. She stared into the mirror, intentionally lost in her thoughts. The wind from the balcony gently caressed her shoulder. Her wedding photograph at the dressing table caught her attention, and she let herself fall into a trance.

It was one of her most memorable days. All she could remember was sheer happiness and joy, not a scrap of sadness. Her dad was sitting in front, John squeezing both her palms while smiling as wide as possible and his green eyes shimmering. She relived the blissful moment when they kissed gently. Her dad, sobbing, and clapping. The jokes and cake followed. Those beautiful memories carried her away. She recollected how her chirpy laughter and dancing had resonated that day. That one day, which she so fondly remembered, would never come again. The happiness she experienced with her better half was immeasurable. But life has its recipe. The days that followed were cruel for her.

All those happy memories pulled her eventually into a gloomy abyss, and she could remember them just like her happy days, she failed to forget them and move on. All that pain she had to endure was in vain. Distressing images flooded her mind.

‘We did every possible thing we could... I'm sorry, Mr. Polver, ' The man behind the surgical mask said. Handing her baby girl to John. Who carefully held her close to his chest and looked at Jane. The trauma in his eyes killed her.

She screamed, and then tears rolled down her cheeks. She wanted her still a baby to show some signs of life, raising her hopes to fail her. She screamed again…

Jane couldn't help the tears whelming in her eyes, wiping them gently with a paper towel. But the memories failed to stop flowing and drowning her.

Her dry mouth, gasping for breath, choking. Her pain was excruciating within. When the tears dried,