The ripper had struck again.
The newest victim was a five year old diabetic girl. A Blood stained blazer along with her ID card were found in the service lane behind the school. The toll had reached twenty.

The bodies of the victims were never found... the cops were clueless and the city was a state of panic.

Ria lived with her mother in an apartment on the 4th storey of Sunset Heights. Her father, a successful stockbroker had abandoned them when she was 18 never to be seen again. Rumour has it that he fled to South Africa fearing a possible indictment under the Harshad Mehta scam. However, he left his bank accounts and property untouched. Enough for a comfortable life in the material sense.

The grandfather clock in the living room struck 8. Time for dinner. Being a school teacher instilled within Ria a strong sense of discipline with regards to time. Never the one to arrive late.

The aroma was luverly. Twas biryani. In the eyes of Ria her mother, a sweet gentle soul touching 60 was probably the greatest cook in the world.

The sybarite within her took over and she attacked the food with glee. Halfway through her meal she bit into something mettallic. It was a dogtag with the words 'Tamanna, Type I diabetic' neatly printed upon it....

" Maa, you havent cleaned up the body properly! I told you, always take any ornaments off before you put it out to cook. "



D

She had been running... running for 35 years now.
Not from life, not from lies, not from lestat but from love.

The little grasshopper was tired.

The pinnacle of physics had been achieved, her academic orbit was at its apogee. Life was good.

The little coffee house across the road beckoned, a place where she had first met "him".
Twas chance, they were forced to share a table for the want of space. It felt right... he felt right... two hours passed by in a blink of an eye. He gave her his number, she promised shed call. That was 10 years ago. She was too scared and the scrap was soon lost to the ravages of time.

She entered letting the inviting aroma of arabica guide her. As her eyes soon grew accustomed to the dimly lit room her gaze wandered. There he stood...

This story couldve had a happy ending, all she had to do was call out to him.

She couldnt, and he left soon after. The little grasshopper was all alone....


D

Life had been a bitch to him. But he had made it.

There stood Chi.

Born to the mistress of a small zamindar with big aspirations, Chi was abandoned at the age of two. The father in an effort to cover up his past indiscretions had Chi's mum extirpated and him packed off to the nearest orphanage. 15 years of abuse would have wiped out the bravest of souls... Chi survived.. Infact Id daresay he thrived... Twas the magic of hope...
Chi nursed the dream of a better place, parsecs away from the hell he was living in. He worked towards it. The day belonged to the owner of the tea stall, but the night was devoted to the pursuit of knowledge. He laboured day in and day out to ekk out a living and support his little endavour. He was 9 when an accident at the stall cost him his right hand... so he learnt how to write with his left.
15 years of hard work finally paid off. A sterling result in the field of academics got him a full scholarship with a prestigious university. The last day of his first life melted into the first day of his last.
He waited at the station. The train approached slowly, lade with the dreams and aspirations of a boy who never gave up. He rushed towards it, never noticing the vendor approaching from the other direction. The impact threw him off the platform onto the rails...
He died.

D