Tag _fiction
They called her Her Highness in public.In private, they called her dangerous. Maharani Ira Devyani Singh did not belong to her time — and she knew it. Tall, arrestingly poised, with a face that could move from indifference to intrigue in a breath, she carried her lineage like a perfectly tailored silk sari: inherited, yes, but worn …... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
She never called it a practice. If anything, she avoided naming it — as though language, once applied, might reduce it to something manageable, explainable, and therefore… less true. Her name was Meera. She lived on the seventh floor of a building where the lift often paused between levels, as if uncertain of its destination. … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
Kabir works in a glass building with tinted windows that never quite show the sky properly. He builds systems that predict people. Who will click. Who will buy. Who will leave. He likes numbers because they behave. People don’t. On most days, he feels efficient. Useful. Sharp. On some nights, he feels like a file … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
In North Kolkata, where houses stand shoulder to shoulder like aging relatives who have stopped apologizing for one another, there was a lane off Bidhan Sarani that flooded every monsoon. The plaster peeled in patient layers. Balconies leaned forward, as if eavesdropping. On damp evenings, the smell of frying telebhaja travelled farther than intent... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
The city was not yet in decline, though the tremors of change were already present. Courtyards still carried the sound of sarangi. Attar still clung to shawls. Conversations unfolded in long, courteous arcs. In such a city, one did not rush into legend; one arrived there gradually. Her name was Zehra. She preferred silver. Not … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
Eliane Mehra lived on the 17th floor of a high-rise in Mumbai—a city that never truly slept, only paused to exhale between honks, power cuts, and monsoon rain. Her flat was minimalist, curated in quiet earth tones, with trailing plants by the windows and books stacked unevenly near the TV she never turned on. She … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
In a third-floor apartment nestled in Delhi’s quieter lanes, under the jacaranda trees that bloomed like forgotten dreams in spring, lived Aanya. Thirty-four, architect by trade, observer by nature. Her home bore no extravagance—just clean lines, a teak shelf of old poetry books, and a floor mat that unfurled every morning at dawn like a … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
They called her karamjali before she knew what it meant. At first, it was a word flung casually, like water to shoo a crow. Her aunt said it the day the rice burned in the pot and smoke curled into the kitchen like a curse finding its way home. “Karamjali,” the woman snapped, not even … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
It came at noon, just as the jackfruit leaves stopped rustling and the air turned still, waiting. A single clap of thunder rolled over the paddy fields like a gentle reminder. Then, from the grey sky above Palakkad, the monsoon finally arrived—like a long-lost friend returning home. Anu sat on the steps of her grandmother’s … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
In the sprawling old house of the Mukhopadhyays, nestled at the edge of Krishnanagar, autumn came with the soft rustle of fallen shiuli petals and the scent of aging wood soaked in the memory of generations. The house was a world in itself, with its red-tiled roof, a tulsi altar at the center of the … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
A modern Sufi story on impermanence. She moved into Room 204 on a Tuesday. No one moves on Tuesdays. But Mira did. Because her five-year relationship had ended on a Monday. Quietly. Without yelling. Just a pause over breakfast that stretched long enough to say everything. The serviced apartment was small but neat. A kettle. … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
As everyone has left he will sit by himself for a while. Questions rise too many times before and never he got an answer. Today it was different as he sits on the Pew, some people knew that he did prison time for a crime he didn’t commit. Now he got his answer, finally free… ... mehr auf dewerelddoordeogenvanjuistja.wordpress.com
And the story will build in its tracks
Again... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
Let its trail prosper!... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
Not all quiet is empty. Some of it is memory warming its hands. The clock on the wall had struck six with a sleepy, apologetic chime. Outside, the gulmohar leaves rustled like gossiping aunties. A distant two-wheeler coughed its way up the lane. Anil Paranjpe was in his usual chair by the window, fingers around … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
Mein erster Versuch in Fiction. Ich habe nur noch gar keine Idee, wie das weitergehen könnte. ... mehr auf tinierklaertsichdiewelt.wordpress.com
As promised, I have stepped away momentarily from my usual historical fiction and offer a story that has been nagging at me since 9/11. A LONG WAY HOME is ready for reading. Here is the blurb: Meredith Haggerty survives … Continue reading →... mehr auf myrahmcilvain.wordpress.com
Ravi had spent years crafting stories, not just with words, but with his voice. His voice was his tool, his art. It was how he brought characters to life, how he made stories feel personal to listeners. He had narrated over 25 audiobooks, and his days used to be easy—sit down in front of the … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
The Call Father Coutinho was wiping down the pews of St. Augustine’s Church when the phone in his study rang. It was late—nearing midnight. Few calls at this hour bore good news. He hesitated, the cloth in his hand hovering over the polished wood. Then, with a sigh, he walked to his study. “Father Coutinho … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
(A Political Fiction Set in Mumbai) The monsoon had held back for three days now, teasing the city with cracked skies and swollen air. The clouds above Mumbai’s skyline loomed like witnesses—mute, watchful, waiting for something to burst. In a sea-facing bungalow nestled in the old-money folds of Malabar Hill, Anaya Khurana stared out the … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
In the old quarter of Lahore, where bougainvillea fell in violet clusters from the stone walls, and azan echoed like honey over the rooftops at dusk, she found her life—simple, fragrant, slow, and complete. Her name was Anisa. A schoolteacher from Islamabad, she had once lived in the quicksilver rhythm of modernity—tight schedules, sleek offices, &... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
She was sipping her second Americano, a book of translated Rumi verses open beside her phone—airplane mode on.He walked in looking for a corner table, scanning the room like someone unfamiliar with staying in one place too long. Their eyes didn’t meet first. Their silences did. Over weeks, they kept showing up—on different days, yet … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
Bayazid was a backend engineer at a mid-sized AI startup in Berlin. He was known to be brilliant — not loud, not charismatic, but the kind of quiet genius who solved memory leak issues at 3 a.m. and left no trace except a passing Git commit that read: “temporary illusion resolved.” He wore the same … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
The man arrived in Srinagar in late autumn, when the chinar leaves were already the color of old fire and the city had begun to hold its breath. He rented a room above a shuttered bookshop near the river. The shopkeeper gave him a key and did not ask questions. In Kashmir, those who ask … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
Arjun was known for being reasonable.The kind of man people trusted to keep the peace. In meetings, he listened more than he spoke.At home, he avoided arguments.Among friends, he was the one who said, “Let it go.” For years, this felt like wisdom. But lately, something had begun to feel heavy. One morning, before the city … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
In a quiet corner of Rajasthan, amid the golden dunes of the Thar Desert, there was a woman named Noor who seemed tethered to the winds. Noor wasn’t like other women in her village; she carried a restlessness that made her eyes burn brighter, her words linger longer. It wasn’t marriage or wealth she craved—it … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
Luna walked softly, unseen among the crowd, as if her feet barely touched the earth. The marketplace was a swirl of color and noise, filled with the bustle of traders, the laughter of children, and the call of distant travelers. And yet, Luna moved like a quiet river, noticing things others overlooked. Her gaze fell … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
Some visitors don’t knock — they simply leave a presence behind. Anil Paranjpe noticed them right away — a pair of faded blue chappals, placed neatly by the door of his flat. He tilted his head. They weren’t his. Not his size, not his style. He hadn’t had visitors. At least, not today. He peered … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
(A Story in the Shape of Silence) There is nothing left to name. Not sky, not stone, not the soft collapse of time in the lungs of the forgotten.At the top—where memory frostbites into static—I amandnot. The silence here is not silence.It is textured, thick, a hush stretched taut across the bone-white skin of the … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
Maya lived her days with a quiet intensity. In a humming co-working space in Gurgaon, she guided her team with steady poise, led meetings with a gentle authority, and answered emails long after midnight. Her bookshelf was a testament to her dual nature—Murakami and Atwood pressed against manuals on leadership and innovation, but hidden among …... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
By late afternoon, the sun softened over the Anand bungalow in Delhi’s Civil Lines — that polite corner of the city where time still moved at a courteous pace. Mrs. Amrita Anand, seventy-eight, wrapped her shawl loosely and stepped into the garden. The bougainvillea spilled over the gate like a guest overstaying its welcome, but … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
At the Secretariat, her staff called her Madam Officer. The nickname had weight, but she carried it as lightly as her starched cotton saris. “Madam, shall I send the file to the Minister?” asked her secretary one evening. She glanced over her glasses. “Read the clause again, Noor. The figures don’t tally. Integrity is not paperwork, … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
She did not wear the Mekhla to look beautiful — she wore it the way people light a lamp for someone who may never return, a quiet act of faith. The fabric did not flatter her, it remembered her — like a river remembers every village it has ever fed. It was not obedient like … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
In Karachi’s old quarters, where the sea dragged its breath against the breakwater and gulls wheeled above like half-hearted omens, lived Ustad Suroor Khan, once the most luminous ghazal voice of the city. His concerts were a kind of worship: listeners swore they could hear pain mature into something medicinal in the timbre of his … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
Somewhere by the sea — not the showy, sun-screened kind but the gentler one that murmurs lullabies to lost souls — there stood a house. It looked like it might have been a hotel once. Or maybe a monastery. The kind of place people passed without seeing, unless their heart was breaking or their breath … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
Here i am waiting at the the station and i am having a conversation with a very nice man. It a pear he was in the army in World War II . He is kind a sad about how the world is turned in too. He said, we fighted for Freedom for everyone and yet… ... mehr auf dewerelddoordeogenvanjuistja.wordpress.com
Mira Venkatesh was used to deadlines. As a ghostwriter, her life revolved around shaping the words of others while her creative dreams lay buried under stacks of contracts and client demands. Her apartment was a chaos of crumpled papers and empty coffee mugs, each one a silent accusation of the novel she had started and … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
Azaan wasn’t supposed to be in Peshawar. His firm in Multan had sent him to oversee a high-profile restoration project—a rare decision in a world obsessed with glass-and-steel buildings. An old estate in the heart of the city, once home to poets and traders, was finally getting the care it deserved. That’s when he met … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
Arjun Malhotra did not plan his disappearance so much as he rehearsed it, the way a diver rehearses breath. In the week before he vanished, he did not change a thing. He rang the opening bell at the exchange with a smile that looked welded to his face. He walked a visiting minister through the … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
The Khan penthouse was exactly what you’d expect from a Mumbai man who had once been called “the conscience of Urdu letters” — now rebranded by society pages as a heritage intellectual. Persian rugs, an Italian espresso machine, and a faint whiff of nostalgia mixed with old paper and Davidoff. Aryan Khan, his only son, … ... mehr auf sumitajetley.wordpress.com
.. sehr sehr sehr viele fotos => bei interesse 
