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The field.

The field

Lukewarm breeze, gently swept the 5000-acre hybrid maize field, swaying the slender crops and glimmering yellow against the evening sky. Rajesh hopped down from the farm simulator tractor, after coating the last 100 acres of soil with new upgraded government sponsored fertilizer (nitrogen and phosphorus doubled in the sprays). Last summer, the government had experienced a very serious shortage of crops and their slackish behavior faced heavy criticism from the public. In a bizarre attempt to calm down the situation, during the budget allocation last year, the ruling party proposed the “Maize field project” investing one fourth of the village economy on agriculture sector. They bought the most fertile piece of land along the banks of the controversial Cauvery river and converted it to a hybrid Maize field. Over the last decade, blood, disruption and economic instability had been making the headlines over the state affairs. The small village won over the responsibility of th…
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The pharmacist

The pharmacist.

Traffic across the street had slowly dwindled as midnight approached, the moonlit sky casting occasional shadows over us. I could begin my process of the closing the shop. 5am-12pm was my work routine. It was a life sucking routine but the timings gave me extra customers, elderly in the morning, the younger later at night and also I could save the extra electricity costs by not keeping it open 24 hours. It was my shop and I didn’t mind working extra time to earn a few more bucks. I didn’t have a family to attend to, so this shop was pretty much everything I had. As I was summing up my day’s earnings, my favorite customer, Syed dropped by. “Hey, how’s it going my man. I can see you made good money today. Keep it safe. Especially from me” He joked, giving me a wide grin as he made his way to the neighboring shop, which was also mine. A popular smoking hotspot among the locals. I could sense Syed’s rush to take a drag of tobacco. Syed, the same age as me, worked as a wel…

The diary of a freedom fighter

The diary of a freedom fighter.
I set the air condition to 18 C, turbo mode on, directed the air flow to my bed. Refreshed after a steaming, hot water shower I crashed, face first on my crisply draped bed. As the cool air performed its duty of drying me, I repositioned myself from prone to supine. A wet patch Today I decided to start a new book. But this time, it wasn’t a bestseller by a famous author, or a critically acclaimed book by an unknown author, or a book suggested by my reader friends (who read one book a year, so it had to be good) or a book recommended by amazon for me. Today, it was my grandfather’s diary, which my father had given me when I was 15 years old. The book dated back to the 1940s and it was a memoir of my grandfather’s time in pre-independent India. After 10 years of procrastination, finally the faded black cover of the diary was staring at me. I took a deep sniff of the approximately middle pages of the book. I did it before every new book. The peculiar, ink …