Short Stories

I sit in Papa’s old study in the Big House, amid mountains of upturned stools and tables with broken legs and rotting tops. The dust doesn’t bother my nose, not today, and when I rest my forearms on Papa’s old plank and sink lower into the depths of his oak …

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The clerk sitting behind the counter looked at Varsha with dull, uncaring eyes. He handed her a yellow card and said, ‘Down the aisle, cubicle number four.’ And almost immediately, his gaze shifted to the next man in the queue. Varsha stepped away, looking down at the card. There were …

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