As she parked her car along the usual slot, Shruti could hear her phone ringing from inside her purse.
“That must be Ravi...”
Her husband had flown to Bangalore the previous day to attend a meeting and hadn’t telephoned yet. She was asked not to call on his cell till 7 in the evening. And he had promised he would call her once the meeting got over.
It was dark already and her sleek black mobile phone had apparently hidden itself under the piles of papers and sundry she usually stuffed her bag with.
“Damn…”
After a few more seconds, the ring tone died down and all she could hear was the humming of the car engine.
She knew he’ll try again. Probably after a few minutes. He would know she missed the call searching frantically for the phone inside her bag. That was how it always had been. Shruti smiled to herself.
She got out of the car grabbing the bag of grocery she had picked up on her way back. As she walked towards her home, she eyes fell on the letter box hanging on the wall right next to the door. It was there on that wall ever since they had shifted to their independent villa in Punjabi Bagh. Seven years, two kids and two dogs after their marriage, the wooden box had shriveled and given up on the moist laden Augusts of Delhi. This would perhaps be the last monsoon it would witness.
“That must be Ravi...”
Her husband had flown to Bangalore the previous day to attend a meeting and hadn’t telephoned yet. She was asked not to call on his cell till 7 in the evening. And he had promised he would call her once the meeting got over.
It was dark already and her sleek black mobile phone had apparently hidden itself under the piles of papers and sundry she usually stuffed her bag with.
“Damn…”
After a few more seconds, the ring tone died down and all she could hear was the humming of the car engine.
She knew he’ll try again. Probably after a few minutes. He would know she missed the call searching frantically for the phone inside her bag. That was how it always had been. Shruti smiled to herself.
She got out of the car grabbing the bag of grocery she had picked up on her way back. As she walked towards her home, she eyes fell on the letter box hanging on the wall right next to the door. It was there on that wall ever since they had shifted to their independent villa in Punjabi Bagh. Seven years, two kids and two dogs after their marriage, the wooden box had shriveled and given up on the moist laden Augusts of Delhi. This would perhaps be the last monsoon it would witness.
It was then that something caught her attention. She could see the corner of a paper from the gap which was left for letter to be put into. Perhaps as invitation, or some notice… or just an ad. showcasing a sale in some random store. She would never be interested. Forget it. Nevertheless, she walked towards the letter box and opened the small window and took it out.
It was a letter. From the stamp she could make out it travelled over seas to reach her. On the cover was written in cursive writing…
To,
Shruti Vishwanath
C-9/3, Shanker Villa
North Extension
Punjai Bagh
New Delhi
Shruti frowned. Who would send a her letter in the age of E mails? She flipped it and read what was written at its back.
I found you, Queeni….. with a familiar inverted curve under the phrase and two dots under that. Her heart missed a beat as she blinked in disbelief. “Emily!!!!”
She almost shrieked. After eleven years, Emily had ultimately found her Queenie.. as she lovingly called her.
It was a letter. From the stamp she could make out it travelled over seas to reach her. On the cover was written in cursive writing…
To,
Shruti Vishwanath
C-9/3, Shanker Villa
North Extension
Punjai Bagh
New Delhi
Shruti frowned. Who would send a her letter in the age of E mails? She flipped it and read what was written at its back.
I found you, Queeni….. with a familiar inverted curve under the phrase and two dots under that. Her heart missed a beat as she blinked in disbelief. “Emily!!!!”
She almost shrieked. After eleven years, Emily had ultimately found her Queenie.. as she lovingly called her.
To be continued...
8 comments:
I had never thought that one of my friends could ever get in to fictional writing. Though I'm not sure of the amount of fiction in this. :)
Wonderfully written and equally intriguing. I can't wait to see what happens in "the next episode".
Cheers
so u finally plan to start a new daily soap...waiting for the next episode..hehe :)
by the way...hamre blog pe bhi kabhi comments likha karo....is garib pe bhi thoda ehsaan kardo..:)
aahh very intriguing . .waiting for the next part already .. and I so often miss calls that way .. fumbling for my cell in the handbag .. few such lines made me smile :)
hmmmm... interesting.
im also writing a fictional piece rt now...
and i think it wont turn out to be as short as i was expecting it to be.
so it will also have to be broken up into parts... just like this one :))
@Gaurav: Heh.. this was lying in one of the arbit folders in my laptop for a long time.. but it took a ;abhi nahi to kabhi nahi' situation for me to upload it... :)
Thanks for your comment dear..
@NSG:Daily soap to nahi. but yeah.. shall try to wrap it up in one more episode.. Thanks!!!
@aria: Gee! thanks! Btw, that happens to me as well... ^_^ Thought il try out the fictional story thingy at last... Heh.
@Adi: Dekha.. great minds think alike.. ^_^
Am waiting eagerly for the... uhmm fic-lit...Heh...
Ekta Kapoor ban gayi tum?
Ab me apne muh se apni burayi nahi kar sakti na.. isliye bhagwaan ne tumhare jaise dost diye he.. Ekta Kapoor for God's sake!... Shucks man... It was still fine if the title was.. "Kahani ek khat ki' or.. 'KQayamat se ek panna' or some jazz like that... Par yeh toh hadd ho gayi.. Heh.
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