Nestled In Love - A Collection of Short Stories: Nestled In Love, #1

By SRISHTI SOPHIE

This book titled Nestled in Love is a collection of ten short stories. These stories are woven around characters who endeavour to find a warm, cosy love amidst the complicated and confusing human relationships. The stories are coming-of-age of different characters, predominantly female characters. It delves deeper into the character's mind ruminating over how life is an ongoing journey of finding the self.

 

About the Author 

 

With a PhD (Linguistics) from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, Dr Srishti is presently an associate professor at CHRIST (Deemed to be University), Pune Lavasa Campus. A syntactician, poet, and short-story writer, her interest ranges from literature to cinema studies. She considers life to be her teacher and herself a lifelong learner. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Author Tree Publishing
• Release date: Mar 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9789391078317

Book preview

Authors Tree Publishing

W/13, Aman Vihar, Bilaspur, Chhattisgarh 495001

First Published By Authors Tree Publishing 2022

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © SRISHTI SOPHIE 2022

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner (Author) except for the use of quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 978-93-91078-31-7

MRP: Rs.399/-

This book has been published with all reasonable efforts taken to make the material error-free after the consent of the author. No part of this book shall be used, reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The author of this book is solely responsible and liable for its content including but not limited to the views, representations, descriptions, statements, information, opinions and references [content]. The content of this book shall not constitute or be construed or deemed to reflect the opinion or expression of the publisher or editor. Neither the publisher nor editor endorse or approve the content of this book or guarantee the reliability, accuracy or completeness of the content published herein and do not make any representations or warranties of any kind, express or implied, including but not limited to the implied warranties of merchantability, fitness for a particular purpose. the publisher and editor shall not be liable whatsoever for any errors, omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause or claims for loss or damages of any kind, including without limitation, indirect or consequential loss or damage arising out of use, inability to use, or about the reliability, accuracy or sufficiency of the information contained in this book.

A Collection of Short Stories

Nestled In Love

SRISHTI SOPHIE

Contents

Dedication

For the greatest loves of my life

Sasha & Daddy

Author’s Note

An author is omnipresent. S/he is both an experience as well as a creator. The chameleon author's character has no self; it is everything, and it is nothing, to express it in John Keats' words. Inhabiting the characters' minds who align with their thoughts or are precisely the opposite, a true author possesses 'negative capability' — to comfortably immerse in uncertainties and doubts and empathetically identify with all their characters. Hence, the process of revealing truth and falsifying it goes on simultaneously. I felt the same while writing the stories in this selection. Whether it was my first story that was completed in a single sitting, i.e. seventeen hours, or another one that took a year to finish, I have been with all my characters in some way or the other. 

These stories represent delicate shades of love, those fragile shades that are simple and complicated depending upon our perception. The characters are constantly searching for warm, cozy love amidst the complex and confusing human relationships. I hope my characters will resonate with the readers, bringing a smile to their faces or tears in their eyes. The characters’ rumination and the journey might give voice to the readers’ rumination and journey of finding themselves.

Love is so short, forgetting is so long.  

Pablo Neruda

Acknowledgement

I would like to thank Ananya, Maanit, Abel, Utsav, and Jobin for helping me with pictures. Special thanks to Vasantha for last-minute clicks and editing them. Thanks to my guru and uncle, Chandresh, and my friends for believing in me; to Andrea for sharing my tears and smiles, be it last-minute scholarly discussion or crazy pep talk. The credit to provide me with the final impetus goes to the rains of Lavasa, which infused in me newly found vigour and clarity.

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Story - I

UNWINDING HOME

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ost of the not-so-shining objects behind that glass cabinet seemed familiar, but others didn’t. Each and every familiar one narrated a story, thousands of moments weaved together, gloomy as well merry. Zoya wanted to caress each of them, kiss them, and take them away from that house, which was once her home. The dearest was the framed photograph clicked by her which won the third prize in the university. Her creation it was! But what about others? The mother loves her child irrespective of whether s/he is born out of her or is adopted by her. The pine cone, wholly covered with dust, was quietly sitting in the small basket. She collected that cone while taking an evening walk during their tight-budget honeymoon in Shimla. And the basket? She could not exactly remember now. The branch shaped small vase, she had brought as a gift for him to decorate his room, looked pensive. It was so small that it could only hold a bunch of three or four flowers. But she loved it. The tiny teacups she had found on the pavement shop matched the vase design, and the moment they caught her attention, she bought them too. Those times! Oh! Those times! Those times were really tough, financially as well mentally. But for whom? For both of them? Or for her? Yes, it was painful for Zoya to see him enjoying himself and playing games with his friends when she returned from her private tuition classes. Both of them were studying at that time, but earning money through ‘tuition’ was below his level. What sort of level? She had not completely understood till now after fourteen years. The lamp, which was her birthday gift, reminded her of his jealousy of all her male friends. She had never been happy looking at that beautiful lamp. Now too, her hands itched to hold that lamp and break it into so many pieces that it could never be fixed. The cute tiny chutney bowls of bone china she had bought from the pavement shop too, otherwise she could not have afforded bone china during those days. The reasonably priced dinner set, the first-ever gift after their marriage, was not in a very chirpy mood. The pocket-sized red forks were her only loyal friends while eating fruits till she got the job after completing her study. The most exquisite blue dragon Sikkimese cups gifted by her best friend complained of sheer neglect. The Krishna souvenir was her teacher’s gift. It seemed to show off its divine presence sheepishly. Her favourite coffee mug was not satisfied with its role as a spoon holder. She felt a sharp pain somewhere deep inside her, recollecting those moments when she used to sit in the balcony, the mug filled with steaming coffee in her hand and enjoying the rain. Their first camera, which she bought after she started teaching part-time, looked naked without its silver-coloured case. The soup bowls with spoons reminded her of the evenings when she experimented with her signature homemade cream-mushroom soup and relished that more than anyone else! The shot glasses appeared to be blaming her. Aah! She had used them for the first time when she made Irish Cream at home as it was too expensive for her to buy. She felt as if that taste had lingered on. The later addition was the Kangri which she had bought from her Srinagar tour, but it was also in the same state as its fellows.

The transparent glass jug has become semi-transparent. The handloom bed sheet she had bought from an exhibition in Hyderabad was sobbing at its patches. Faded pillow covers, which had wiped away her tears at night and had witnessed their fights and lovemaking, were admonishing her. The light pink blanket was inviting her to envelop her pain. The dilapidated carrom board was peeking from behind the almirah. The dinner table, burdened with items piled upon it, was disgruntled about being used as storage. The wooden pen stand was beckoning her with its arms wide open. The twin emergency lamps were tired of producing light. The brown silk bag made by her mother had gone limp hanging on the chair. The cloth hanger nailed to the door by her appeared to be struggling hard to come out. The khadi bag, bought by using her teaching stipend, was waiting to be slung on her shoulder. The old fridge cover was fidgeting on the top of the mighty, new fridge.

All these were hers, yet not hers. She was devastatingly helpless. She felt like choking them and, in turn, getting choked. The scene from the movie Downfall flashed in her mind where Madga, the wife of the Nazi propaganda minister, poisons her six sleeping children before killing herself. She wondered why didn’t she take at least a few things during her umpteen number of visits. Maybe deep inside, she desired to leave a part of herself there, to live there, to breathe there in her absence.

The glass cabinet was broken from one side, similar to her torn life. Just like those defenceless inmates unable to come out of the misery, Zoya could neither find any solution nor an escape hatch. The familiar objects didn’t appear to be going along well with the unfamiliar ones. There was an outright mismatch between the two groups. Shot glasses were feeling intimidated by the presence of the big blue monstrous glasses. The weird-looking green bowls also bullied the silver-coloured dessert bowls. The glass cabinet gave an impression of a torture chamber, and only Zoya could save the inmates. In their survival, ultimately, lay hers! The cracks in the walls began whispering to her. How many intense moments she had spent there intently looking at them while she was trying to destress herself, vanishing herself into them! How desperately she longed to disappear into them again! The TV blared in the drawing-room. The silence of the cracks, along with the silence inside her, screamed hard. Even the harmonising, melodic sound of the chimes she had bought during their trip was cacophonous. Each and every book from the bookshelf looked at her with pleading eyes. Even the patch in the mosquito net screeched loud. One moment she wanted to take everything from this house and run away. The next moment she had the compelling urge to destroy everything which reminded her of her past, of him, of herself, of them -the destruction of her own self!

Story - II

(IM)PERMANENCE OF LOVE

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ince time immemorial, poets, writers, philosophers, artists, scientists, and of course lovers have pondered, brooded, deliberated over the mystical subject of love. So, what was she doing thinking about it during this bus journey? It may be because she has always been affected or afflicted with it. Was she afflicted? If she was affected, she needed to introspect. And if she was afflicted, she needed to cure herself out of it. And this was what she was seeking to do that day.

Nearly one year ago, during another bus journey on the same route, she struggled with the same emotions, with only one changed variable, feelings for a different person. It was as if that one year had never passed in her life; the time had come to a standstill. She smiled not only inside but outside too. Her eyes were tearful, but she had a smile on her lips. Thankfully, no one watched her as she sat on the first seat just behind the driver's seat. One year ago, she had the same stabbing pain in her heart, somewhere deep inside, eyes tearful, feeling lonely in this world. How was this possible to feel that again? She had deliberated at that time that she won't be able to feel the same intensity ever again. She had promised