Dreams

The bus wound its way through the serpentine mountain roads of Val Müstair, the rhythmic squeak of its wipers beating softly against the glass. It was monsoon — not the wild, thunderous kind, but the kind that whispered — misty, poetic, and just enough to make the world look like a watercolour painting. Lush greenery soaked in rain stretched across the valley, clouds drifted lazily over the hills, and a cold breeze seeped in through the cracked window. He sat by the window, lost in the rain. And in her. The glass was cool beneath his forehead. He let the breeze graze his face, a soft mimicry of her fingers that used to trace his cheek when the world slowed down. She would’ve loved this ride — the slow, patient bus crawling past green meadows, quiet farms with red-roofed barns, cattle grazing lazily near old wooden fences. “Excuse me,” a voice nudged him out of his reverie. A woman with kind eyes and a thick wool scarf stood beside him, holding a paper map. Her two children sat nearby, ...

Rain, Rain, Rain…!? I called out to my cat again, her name was Rain—fitting, perhaps too fitting for a night like this. She blinked at me lazily, her fur faintly glowing under the warm lamplight. The sky was furious outside, pouring its soul across rooftops, down the gutters, and onto the streets that once echoed our laughter. The monsoon had come early this year, like an unexpected guest crashing through a half-closed door. The winds sang with a strange urgency, and the raindrops drummed a rhythm only the heartbroken could hear. I picked Rain up and held her close. She purred quietly, her tiny body warm against the cold thoughts that crowded my mind. 10th of June. Her birthday. Two-fifty miles away. And yet, I could still hear her laugh in the hush between thunderclaps. The monsoon always brought us closer. I remember that first rain together — how she danced barefoot on the terrace, arms wide open, face lifted to the skies like she was daring the clouds to love her back. "You kn...

Aaditya stepped out of the cab, the dry leaves crunching beneath his feet. He had just reached Ananya’s house after nearly a year away, summoned for a family get-together. The air was warm with nostalgia. He walked toward the familiar silver car parked under the gulmohar tree and noticed her mother struggling with the boot, shifting bags and boxes around. “Let me help you with that, aunty,” he said, stepping forward. “Oh Aaditya, you’re back! How tall you’ve grown!” she chuckled, wiping her forehead. The boot was barely visible under the mess of bags and gift boxes, when suddenly—like the sun peeking through clouds—Ananya popped up from the other side of the car, her hair tied up in a messy bun, wearing an old T-shirt that said ‘Not Today, Satan’. Their eyes locked for a moment longer than needed. “Aadi! You look like a grown-up now!” she teased, hands on her hips. “You still look like you steal puppies,” he grinned. They spent the next ten minutes laughing about everything and nothing...

Strange how the days pass by, the memories we made faded away with time, life felt so continuous that pauses were totally forgotten. Yet, there we were — two people who used to share everything, now sitting side by side in complete silence. Leon and Evelyn. Once inseparable. Now, just names that carried a weight neither of them could put down. The sun spilled golden light over the cliffs as the group of friends unloaded the van. The ocean stretched out endlessly, waves crashing against the rocks below. Everyone buzzed with excitement for the day ahead — hiking, bonfires, and stories under the stars. But for Leon and Evelyn, the day stretched like an endless thread of what-ifs and words unsaid. They sat next to each other on the ride to the coast. Evelyn by the window, her fingers tapping restlessly on her knee. Leon stared straight ahead, his jaw tense, listening to the hum of conversations around him but hearing nothing. Their shoulders almost touched when the van hit a bump, but both...

Trips with friends always end up being only dreamt of, but somehow, luckily, our planned trip was executed. Trips to cold places really are mesmerizing — until your brain doesn’t turn cold with arguable thoughts. We were six boys, packed into a rented SUV, driving through the narrow roads of Paro, Bhutan. The mountains loomed high above us, their peaks dusted with snow, while prayer flags fluttered in the breeze, carrying wishes to the heavens. The air smelled of pine and earth, and the sky stretched endlessly, as if promising freedom. I laughed with the others — or at least, I made it seem like I did. Roshan cracked jokes, Aarav yelled out the lyrics to some old Bollywood song, and Karan filmed everything like a documentary. I joined in,  took selfies, and shouted when we spotted wild yaks on the roadside. But somewhere inside me, I felt distant, as though my body was there, but my mind had already wandered somewhere else. It wasn’t until the second day that everything shifted. We...

Dreaming... The boy felt the cold embrace of the Atlantic as he sank deeper into its depths. The surface of the ocean, a distant blur of light above him, seemed impossibly far away. All around him was a vast expanse of crystal-clear blue, stretching endlessly. The calmness of the water was almost eerie. There was no thrashing, no struggle—just silence and stillness as he drifted downward. His lungs burned, and panic crept in. He was drowning. The water pressed against his chest, and darkness began to cloud his vision. But then, as if by some miracle, he gasped. To his shock, he could breathe. The saltwater rushed into his lungs, yet it felt... natural. His panic subsided, replaced by a strange sense of calm. He kicked his legs and found he could move effortlessly. His body glided through the water with the grace and speed of a fish. Confused but exhilarated, he swam through the ocean, faster than he ever thought possible. Schools of colorful fish darted past him, their movements hypno...