Category: New stories to read

  • THE TIME TRAVELER’S POEM: Chapter Fifty One: The Journey Begins

    THE TIME TRAVELER’S POEM: Chapter Fifty One: The Journey Begins

    The bus rattled along the highway, the golden desert stretching out far beyond the road. The sky was painted with hues of orange and pink as the sun began to set, casting a warm glow over everything.

    Arin sat beside Astha, but his eyes weren’t on the landscape. They were on her.

    She was different here—untamed, free, almost unrecognizable from the composed, sharp-witted woman he knew at work. Her hair danced in the wind, the loose strands flying against her face. But she didn’t seem to care. If anything, she leaned into the wind, welcoming the chaos of it.

    Every now and then, she would stretch out her hand, plucking leaves from trees as they passed by, sometimes even grabbing a small guava or tamarind pod, much to the amusement of the other passengers. She grinned, her eyes alight with a mischief that made Arin smile despite himself.

    He had never seen her like this before.

    “So,” he asked, finally breaking his silence. “Does Shanaya like to travel this way too?”

    Astha made a face. “Please. She’s Miss Prim and Proper. This”—she gestured around—“is beneath her standards of travel.”

    Arin smiled. “And your parents? They’re okay with you climbing onto buses like this?”

    She snorted. “Of course not. They don’t even let Shanaya sit by the window in a regular bus. Safety first, always.”

    Arin raised an eyebrow. “And yet, here you are?”

    She flashed him a teasing grin. “Because I don’t listen to them.”

    Arin chuckled. “I should’ve guessed.”

    Astha turned to him, resting her elbow on her knee as she regarded him thoughtfully. “You know, you surprise me, Verma.”

    “Oh?” He tilted his head. “How so?”

    “You don’t belong here,” she said, waving a hand at their surroundings. “Yet, you’re handling this whole situation with surprising grace. I expected you to be miserable by now.”

    Arin smiled. “Oh, I am miserable. But I’m also entertained.”

    Astha grinned. “Good. You should be.”

    For a moment, there was silence between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was easy. The kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled.

    A sudden gust of wind sent a few leaves scattering around them. One got stuck in Astha’s hair. Arin reached out instinctively, plucking it away before she could notice.

    She looked at him, surprised, but said nothing.

    Arin simply leaned back and looked at the setting sun. “So, what’s the story we’re covering in Udaipur?”

    Astha’s lips curled into a smirk. “Why? Afraid I’ll drag you into another unexpected adventure?”

    Arin sighed. “At this point, I’m prepared for anything.”

    Astha laughed, the sound blending with the wind. “That’s the spirit.”

    As the bus continued down the dusty road, Arin found himself thinking that maybe—just maybe—this kind of chaos wasn’t so bad after all.

  • THE TIME KEEPER’S POEM: Chapter Forty Nine: A Close Call

    THE TIME KEEPER’S POEM: Chapter Forty Nine: A Close Call

    The next morning, the office was buzzing. With only one day left before the big Secret Santa reveal, everyone was excitedly trying to guess their mystery gift-givers. Astha, however, remained stubbornly indifferent—at least, on the surface.

    She wasn’t about to admit that every time she walked into her office, a small part of her anticipated another gift, another note.

    She wasn’t going to admit that she wanted to know.

    And she definitely wasn’t going to admit that the thought of Arin being her Secret Santa made her heart race in a way she wasn’t comfortable with.

    But she pushed all of that aside as she got to her desk, determined to focus.

    Until she saw another package sitting there.

    A small, flat envelope, tied with a golden ribbon.

    She hesitated before opening it, as if acknowledging it would somehow make this whole thing more real.

    Inside was a simple sheet of paper with another handwritten note.

    “Some stories need to be told, but some stories just need to be felt.

    So tell me, Astha—what does your story feel like?”

    Astha inhaled sharply, her fingers tightening around the note.

    This was different.

    This wasn’t just a playful tease or a poetic compliment.

    This was personal.

    Her eyes darted toward Arin’s cabin. He was typing away, looking perfectly unbothered, as if he hadn’t just managed to throw her into a complete spiral.

    She was not going to react.

    She was not going to let him—or whoever this was—get under her skin.

    So, she did what she did best.

    She rolled her eyes, crumpled the note in her hand, and tossed it into the drawer.

    But she didn’t throw it away.

    Meanwhile, Arin had received a package of his own.

    He unwrapped it to find a sleek, navy-blue coffee mug with bold golden letters that read:

    “Rules are good, but breaking them is fun.”

    A slow, knowing smirk crossed his face.

    Attached to the handle was a note:

    “Here’s something to sip while you learn to relax. You can start by not editing this note.”

    Arin let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head.

    His Secret Santa—Astha—was more amused by this than she let on.

    But more than that, she was intrigued.

    And that’s what he wanted.

    That evening, as they drove home, the tension was different.

    Lighter. Charged.

    Astha was quiet, fingers drumming lightly against her lap, lost in thought. Arin stole a glance at her, waiting, knowing she wanted to say something.

    Finally, she exhaled and turned to him. “You really enjoy this, don’t you?”

    Arin raised an eyebrow. “What exactly?”

    Astha narrowed her eyes. “This… game.”

    Arin smiled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mehra.”

    She huffed. “Fine. Play dumb. In a few hours, this whole thing will be over, and then we’ll see who was enjoying it more.”

    Arin chuckled. “You sound very certain.”

    “I am certain,” she insisted. “Because whoever my Secret Santa is, I—”

    She stopped mid-sentence, catching herself before she said too much.

    Arin caught it. He saw the way her fingers tightened just slightly around her bag, the way she looked out the window a second too long.

    And suddenly, he wanted to drag this out just a little more.

    Because for the first time, Astha Mehra wasn’t running away from something uncertain.

    She was running toward it.

    And he was more than willing to let her catch up.

  • THE TIME KEEPER’S POEM: Chapter Twenty Five: The Ride Home

    THE TIME KEEPER’S POEM: Chapter Twenty Five: The Ride Home

    As the day wound to an end, Arin found himself seated in Astha’s car once again. The usual hum of the engine filled the silence between them as she maneuvered through the city streets with practiced ease. He glanced at her, wondering how she had felt about the Secret Santa idea, but she looked as composed as ever, her focus on the road.

    Deciding to break the silence, he asked, “So, do you like the Secret Santa idea?”

    Astha sighed, a small smirk playing on her lips. “It’s… amusing. Watching grown adults skulk around leaving anonymous notes and tiny surprises is strangely entertaining.”

    Arin chuckled. “So you don’t completely disapprove?”

    “It’s harmless enough,” she admitted, her tone lighter than usual. “And I suppose it’s nice seeing everyone so enthusiastic about it. Office camaraderie and all that.”

    He nodded, watching her out of the corner of his eye. “And you? Do you enjoy it?”

    She tilted her head, considering. “I guess I do… but I’ve never been one for surprises. They tend to come with expectations, and expectations lead to disappointment.”

    Arin found himself studying her profile, the way the dim evening lights flickered over her face. “Not all surprises are bad, Astha. Some are just… meant to make life a little brighter.”

    She glanced at him briefly before returning her gaze to the road. “Maybe. But let’s see if this one lasts or if it fizzles out like most office traditions.”

    Arin smiled to himself. “We’ll see.” As the car pulled into their apartment complex

  • THE TIME KEEPER’S POEM: Chapter Twenty Four: A Message in Gold

    THE TIME KEEPER’S POEM: Chapter Twenty Four: A Message in Gold

    The next morning, as Arin stepped into his office, his eyes immediately caught sight of something unusual. Sitting on his desk was a small golden scroll, neatly rolled and tied with a delicate ribbon.

    Frowning in curiosity, he picked it up and unrolled it. His gaze softened as he read the words written inside:

    The wind is changing direction,
    Lot of new action,
    I wonder what you are doing,
    Is something brewing?

    A slow smile played on his lips. Someone had sent him this, and he had a strong suspicion about who it might be. Was this Astha’s way of engaging with the game, despite her initial reluctance? Or was it simply a coincidence?

    Meanwhile, at her desk, Astha found an unfamiliar object placed carefully beside her keyboard. A beautiful golden diary, its cover shimmering under the soft office lights. Brows furrowing, she picked it up and turned it over in her hands before opening it.

    On the very first page, there was a note, written in elegant handwriting:

    Let your poems shine. The world needs them.

    Astha inhaled sharply. For a moment, she simply stared at the words, her fingers running over the ink as if trying to absorb their meaning. Who had left this for her? And more importantly… why did it make her feel so seen?

    Across the office, Arin glanced up, watching as Astha’s expression shifted from curiosity to something softer. He looked away before she could notice.

    This was only the beginning.

  • THE TIME KEEPER’S POEM: Chapter Twenty One: The Whispered Truth

    THE TIME KEEPER’S POEM: Chapter Twenty One: The Whispered Truth

    That night, Arin was preparing to sleep when a soft sound caught his attention. Faint at first, but unmistakable—someone was crying.

    Frowning, he moved toward his balcony, his senses alert. The sound was coming from the adjacent balcony. Astha.

    She stood there, illuminated by the dim glow of the streetlights, her arms wrapped around herself as she gazed up at the stars. He hesitated, staying in the shadows, unsure if he should make his presence known.

    Then, in a whisper, she spoke.

    “I’ve always adjusted my life according to what you gave me,” she murmured, her voice laced with quiet frustration. “I never asked for more. I never asked for someone to take care of me. I never asked to be held or loved. All I wanted was for my daughter and my parents to be happy and healthy. Isn’t that enough?”

    She let out a shuddering breath, her fingers tightening around her arms. “I have no one else. And I don’t need anyone else. As long as they’re safe, as long as they’re with me, I’ll be fine.”

    Then, almost imperceptibly, her voice broke. “But… can’t I even get a hug? Just one?”

    Arin felt something inside him twist at the raw vulnerability in her voice. She was strong, fierce, independent—yet, in this quiet moment, she was simply human. Simply longing.

    A few seconds passed before she sniffled and let out a small, bitter chuckle. “I know why you never gave me anyone. Because it would just complicate my life, right? Because men are demanding, chauvinistic, exhausting. It’s better this way, isn’t it? I understand.”

    She sighed, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “But whatever you have given me, please… keep it safe.”

    With that, she turned and quietly went back inside, shutting the door behind her.

    Arin remained rooted in place, his heart hammering in his chest. She hadn’t seen him. Hadn’t known he was listening.

    But he had.

    And now, he couldn’t unhear what she had whispered to the stars.

  • THE TIME KEEPER’S POEM- Chapter Nineteen- An Unfamiliar Feeling

    THE TIME KEEPER’S POEM- Chapter Nineteen- An Unfamiliar Feeling

    The next morning, Arin woke up with an odd sense of contentment. It was a sensation he wasn’t accustomed to—something light, something warm. He had spent years training himself to be emotionally detached, to observe rather than participate. And yet, after last night, he felt different.

    He had laughed. He had felt like he belonged.

    And it had nothing to do with his mission.

    As he stepped out onto his balcony, he caught sight of Astha doing the same. She was sipping her coffee, glasses slightly askew, her hair still a bit messy from sleep. She didn’t notice him at first—she was staring at the sky, lost in thought.

    “You’re up early,” Arin commented.

    Astha glanced at him, unimpressed. “You say that like it’s a choice. I have a job, a teenager, and a coffee addiction that demands sacrifice.”

    Arin smiled. “A noble cause.”

    She took another sip before looking at him properly. “So, how does it feel to be a survivor of our legendary movie roast night?”

    “I think I need time to process it,” he admitted. “There was… a lot of unexpected emotional trauma.”

    Astha’s lips quirked into a smile. “Good. You’re learning.”

    Before Arin could respond, Shanaya’s voice echoed from inside. “Mom! Where’s my history book? And also, why does the cat look like he’s planning something?”

    Astha sighed, rubbing her temple. “The book is where you last threw it, and the cat has always been plotting your downfall. This is not new information.”

    Shanaya appeared in the doorway, looking at Arin with interest. “Oh hey, he’s still here.”

    “I live here,” Arin pointed out.

    Shanaya shrugged. “That remains to be seen. The real test of your endurance is surviving a week of us.”

    Astha nodded sagely. “She’s not wrong.”

    Arin leaned against the railing, studying them both. “And what happens if I pass this test?”

    Astha took another sip of tea, her voice utterly serious. “Then, congratulations. You get to carry grocery bags indefinitely.”

    Arin chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

    As the morning sun bathed the balcony in golden light, Arin felt something strange settle in his chest. Something that had nothing to do with time or duty.

    Something that felt a lot like home.

  • THE TIME KEEPER’S POEM: Chapter Fifteen: The Ride Home

    THE TIME KEEPER’S POEM: Chapter Fifteen: The Ride Home

    The next evening, as they wrapped up work, Astha turned to Arin just as they stepped out of the office.

    “I have some errands to run for my family. You don’t have to wait. I’ll take an auto home,” she said matter-of-factly, already fishing her phone out of her bag to book a ride.

    Arin, who had been walking beside her, stopped. “I don’t mind waiting.”

    Astha paused and gave him a flat look. “You realize that could take hours? I have to go to the pharmacy, the grocery store, and pick up something for Shanaya. I won’t be quick.”

    “It’s fine,” Arin said, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I’ll wait.”

    Astha narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you one of those people who thinks chivalry means making life inconvenient for yourself? Because, just so you know, I am perfectly capable of—”

    “It’s not chivalry,” Arin interrupted smoothly. “It’s efficiency. You’ll already be exhausted after running around. It makes sense for me to drive you home rather than have you wait for an auto.”

    Astha sighed and shook her head. “You know, for someone who claims to be efficient, you really like making things more complicated than they need to be.”

    Arin smiled. “I could say the same about you.”

    Astha exhaled in mild exasperation but didn’t argue further. “Fine. But don’t complain when I make you carry grocery bags.”

    “Duly noted,” Arin replied, his expression unreadable, but his eyes glinting with amusement.

    And so, for the first time, Arin found himself tagging along with Astha, watching her navigate the small, everyday routines of her life—things that were unremarkable to her but utterly fascinating to him.

    As they went from one shop to another, Arin observed something unexpected. Astha had a way with people, a quiet charisma that wasn’t forced but felt entirely natural. At the pharmacy, the staff greeted her with familiarity, and within moments, she had the usually gruff pharmacist chuckling at one of her wry remarks.

    At the grocery store, she bantered with the vendor, making light-hearted complaints about the price of vegetables while deftly convincing him to give her the freshest produce at a discount. “Come on, Bhaiya, I practically keep your shop running. The least you can do is not charge me extra for looking like I have expensive taste.”

    The man laughed, shaking his head. “Aap toh humesha jeet jaati hain, Astha Madam. (You always win, Astha Madam.)”

    “Well, someone has to,” she said with a dramatic sigh, making the vendor chuckle even more.

    Arin watched, marveling at this side of her. He had always known her as sharp, reserved, sometimes distant. But here, surrounded by familiar faces, she was warm, kind, and—dare he say it—charming. She made people laugh, not in an over-the-top way, but with quiet, clever humor that seemed to disarm even the most reluctant of souls.

    By the time they reached the final stop, Arin found himself carrying half her bags, despite his earlier amusement at her threat. “This was planned from the start, wasn’t it?” he asked dryly.

    Astha smiled. “I make people do my bidding by being nice to them. Works every time.”

    Arin shook his head, amused. “Noted. I’ll have to be more cautious next time.”

    She tilted her head. “Or you could just accept that you’re doomed like everyone else who knows me.”

    For the first time in a long time, Arin didn’t mind the idea of being ‘doomed.’

  • THE TIME KEEPER’S POEM: Chapter Fourteen: Scrabble and Sarcasm

    THE TIME KEEPER’S POEM: Chapter Fourteen: Scrabble and Sarcasm

    That evening, Arin knocked on Astha’s door at precisely the time Shanaya had instructed. When the door swung open, Astha raised an eyebrow at him, her expression unreadable. “So, the great editor has been roped into Scrabble warfare. Hope you know what you’ve signed up for.”

    Arin smiled. “I’m a quick learner.”

    “Good,” Astha said, stepping aside to let him in. “Because Shanaya plays dirty.”

    Shanaya, already setting up the board, grinned. “Excuse me? I play strategically. There’s a difference.”

    Arin took a seat beside her while Astha settled opposite them, her expression composed, almost indifferent. As the game began, Arin quickly realized that Astha’s style was precise, methodical—she played not just to win, but to obliterate her opponent’s confidence entirely.

    Shanaya groaned as her mother placed quixotic on a triple-word score. “Come on, Mom. Who even uses that word?”

    Astha took a sip of her tea. “People with a vocabulary.”

    Arin nearly choked on his water, caught off guard by the deadpan delivery. He had expected Astha to be reserved, maybe even aloof—but he hadn’t expected this dry, merciless humor.

    “Alright, alright,” Shanaya muttered, placing her next word. “We’ve got this, Arin. We just need strategy.”

    Arin carefully selected his tiles and placed eloquent on a double-letter score. “There. That should level the playing field.”

    Astha peered at the board, unimpressed. “Cute. But not good enough.”

    A few turns later, she casually placed zephyr on a triple-word score, earning an impressive number of points. She looked up at Arin, her expression entirely neutral. “Would you like me to recommend a dictionary?”

    Shanaya groaned and dropped her head onto the table. “Mom, do you have to crush our souls along with the game?”

    “It builds character,” Astha said, straight-faced.

    Arin shook his head, both amused and intrigued. “You really don’t hold back, do you?”

    Astha leaned back in her chair, sipping her tea. “Where’s the fun in that?”

    The game stretched on, each round more intense than the last. When Arin placed modest on the board, Astha raised an eyebrow. “Ah, I see you’re spelling out your personality now. Next round, try delusional. It would be more accurate.”

    Shanaya laughed loudly. “Mom, that was brutal.”

    “I’m just helping him expand his vocabulary,” Astha said with a straight face.

    Arin smiled, playing along. “Noted. And here I thought I was the editor.”

    By the time the final tiles were placed, Astha had won—unsurprisingly. She leaned forward, her tone completely serious. “Good effort. If it helps, you didn’t lose by too embarrassing a margin.”

    Shanaya sighed dramatically. “I need a new teammate. This one didn’t save me.”

    Arin chuckled. “I’ll be better prepared next time.”

    Astha smiled slightly. “I’d like to see you try.”

    As Arin left that evening, he found himself replaying the night in his mind. He had come expecting a simple game of Scrabble.

    Instead, he had discovered another piece of Astha Mehra that he hadn’t known existed.

    And he wanted to see more.

  • THE TIME TRAVELER’S POEM: Chapter Nine:  Unexpected Exchange

    THE TIME TRAVELER’S POEM: Chapter Nine: Unexpected Exchange

    A few days had passed since Arin had spent time in Astha’s apartment waiting for the locksmith. Their interactions remained brief—polite nods in the hallway, an occasional good morning exchanged as they left for work. Yet, something about their dynamic had shifted.

    One evening, Arin stood at his balcony, leaning against the railing. His gaze drifted to the adjoining space, where Astha sat curled up on a swing, a cup of tea resting in her hands, the soft hum of an old radio playing in the background. The gentle strains of a familiar melody carried through the air, blending with the evening breeze.

    She seemed at ease, lost in thought, her fingers curled around the ceramic of her mug. Arin watched as she closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the music, before taking another sip of tea.

    Sensing his gaze, she turned her head slightly and caught him watching. “Are you always this quiet, Mr. Verma? Or is that your way of observing the world?”

    Arin didn’t flinch at being caught. Instead, he offered a small, knowing smile. “Perhaps a bit of both.”

    Astha set her tea down, crossing her arms. “How was your day?”

    The question surprised him. He hadn’t expected her to initiate conversation, yet here she was, casually asking as though they had been doing this for years.

    “Uneventful,” he admitted. “And yours?”

    “Busy, as usual.” She shrugged. “But this moment—tea, music, the evening breeze—makes up for it.”

    Arin nodded, observing the way she seemed to melt into the moment. There was something peaceful about her, something that made him question the efficiency-driven world he had left behind.

    For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t thinking about time.

    He was simply existing in it.

  • THE TIME KEEPER’S POEM: Chapter Eight: Encounters

    THE TIME KEEPER’S POEM: Chapter Eight: Encounters

    A few days had passed since Arin moved into the apartment next to Astha’s. Despite their close proximity, their interactions had been minimal—cordial nods in the hallway, brief exchanges in the elevator. Astha was polite but distant, just as she was at work.

    One evening, as Astha returned home with a bag of groceries, she found Arin standing by his door, his sleeves rolled up, a small toolbox on the ground beside him.

    “Problem?” she asked, glancing at the door.

    “Locked myself out,” he admitted, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Apparently, technology fails even the best of us.”

    She smiled, unlocking her own door. “Welcome to the joys of being human.”

    “I suppose I should embrace the experience fully,” he said, watching as she pushed her door open.

    Astha hesitated for a moment before sighing. “Want to wait inside until the locksmith comes?”

    Arin raised a brow, surprised by the offer. “That would be appreciated.”

    She led him inside, setting her groceries down on the counter. The space was warm, lived-in—books stacked on tables, framed photos on the shelves. It was nothing like the orderly, minimalist world he had come from.

    She disappeared into the kitchen, emerging with two cups of tea. “Here,” she said, handing him one. “You look like a coffee guy, but tea is what I’ve got.”

    Arin accepted it, studying her. She wasn’t one for small talk, but she had her own way of being hospitable.

    “Thank you,” he said, taking a sip.

    For the first time since he arrived, he wasn’t just observing her from a distance.

    He was stepping into her world.

  • THE TIME KEEPER’S POEM: Chapter Seven: The Neighbour

    THE TIME KEEPER’S POEM: Chapter Seven: The Neighbour

    That evening, as Astha unlocked her door after a long day at work, she noticed movement in the flat next to hers. The once-empty space had a new tenant.

    She paused at her doorstep, frowning slightly as she watched the man carrying a box into the apartment. There was something oddly familiar about his posture, the way he moved.

    Then he turned, and her suspicion was confirmed.

    Arin Verma.

    Her new editor. And now, her new neighbor.

    Astha stared at him for a beat longer than necessary. He met her gaze, his expression unreadable, before offering a polite nod. “Ms. Mehra.”

    She inhaled, forcing a neutral expression. “Mr. Verma. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

    “Likewise,” he said smoothly. “Though it appears we’ll be seeing more of each other.”

    Astha wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or an inconvenience. But she had no energy for small talk. “Welcome to the building,” she said, turning toward her door. “Hope you like it here.”

    Arin watched her as she disappeared inside. He had known she lived here, of course. It was part of his careful planning. But now, seeing her in this unguarded moment, he realized something.

    The more he observed her, the more he wanted to understand her.

    And for a man who had spent his life outside the grasp of emotions, that realization was unsettling.

  • The Time Keeper’s Poem: Chapter Six: The Words That Meant More

    The Time Keeper’s Poem: Chapter Six: The Words That Meant More

    Astha had always been careful about what she shared. She wasn’t the kind of person who poured her heart out, who spoke about dreams as if they meant something.

    No, she had learned her lesson.

    And that lesson was simple—

    Words don’t change fate.

    The newsroom was buzzing with its usual chaos.

    Reporters typing furiously, phones ringing, coffee cups being refilled for the third time.

    Astha was reviewing an article when Sheetal dropped into the chair beside her, grinning.

    “Astha, why don’t you write poetry for the newspaper?”

    Astha looked up, startled.

    “What?”

    Sheetal rolled her eyes. “You write so beautifully. Why keep it hidden?”

    Astha sighed, shaking her head. “It’s just words.”

    Sheetal frowned. “It’s more than that, and you know it.”

    “No,” Astha said, her voice quieter.

    “A poem is nothing but words strung together.

    Words that don’t belong to each other.

    They are just cries of the heart scribbled in haste.

    They just speak of love, but they don’t change destiny or fate.”

    Sheetal studied her for a long moment.

    Then, softly, she said, “Don’t lose faith, Astha.”

    Astha smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

    “I lost faith a long time ago.”


    Across the room, Arin Verma sat at his desk.

    And though he appeared focused on his work, he had heard every single word.

    His hands stilled over his keyboard.

    His mind replayed her words over and over.

    “They just speak of love, but they don’t change destiny or fate.”

    And yet—he was here.

    Because of her poem.

    Because her words had reached across time and pulled him into her world.

    Because her poetry had already changed fate.

    And one day, he would prove it to her.

    One day, she would believe again.

    But for now, he simply watched.

    And waited.

    And silently made a promise to himself.

  • THE TIME KEEPER’S POEM: Chapter Five: First Impressions

    THE TIME KEEPER’S POEM: Chapter Five: First Impressions

    Arin called Astha into his office that afternoon. She walked in, glancing briefly at the papers on his desk, then at the printed version of her article in his hand.

    “You could tighten the conclusion,” he said, sliding it toward her. “It’s strong, but there’s room for refinement.”

    Astha barely looked at him. She picked up the document, scanned his suggested revisions, and nodded absentmindedly. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll work on it.”

    Arin studied her, noticing how detached she seemed. There was no curiosity, no engagement, just a willingness to get the task done.

    A few hours later, he called her back, pointing to another section of the same article. “This could use a more compelling transition,” he noted.

    This time, she looked up, frowning slightly. “Didn’t we already go over this?” she asked, her tone controlled but edged with irritation. Still, she did not meet his gaze for more than a second.

    “Yes, but on second read, I believe this would make it even sharper.” He leaned back, watching her reaction.

    Astha inhaled, reining in whatever annoyance she felt, and nodded curtly. “Fine. I’ll adjust it.”

    As she turned to leave, Arin observed her closely. Unlike most employees, she didn’t linger for small talk, didn’t show even a trace of nervousness around him. More importantly, he realized that apart from a handful of people in the office, she barely socialized. She worked efficiently, spoke only when necessary, and retreated into her own world the moment her tasks were complete.

    It intrigued him.

    Because in a world full of people, Astha Mehra walked alone.

  • THE TIME KEEPER’S POEM Chapter Four: The Introduction

    THE TIME KEEPER’S POEM Chapter Four: The Introduction

    Arin stood at the front of the newsroom, surveying the gathered staff. The hum of quiet murmurs faded as he cleared his throat, commanding attention with an air of effortless authority.

    “Good morning, everyone. I’m Arin Verma, your new resident editor,” he began, his voice calm yet firm. “I know change can be unsettling, but I want to assure you—I’m not just here to lead. I’m here to work alongside you, to collaborate, and to grow with this team.”

    He continued, discussing his vision for a balanced workplace, emphasizing that work should be both fulfilling and enjoyable.

    Astha, however, barely listened. She had seen many editors come and go, and none of them had made a difference in her life. To her, this was just another face, another person making lofty promises before they inevitably moved on. Instead of listening, she glanced at her watch, waiting for the meeting to end so she could return to her desk and start working.

    As the meeting concluded, Arin’s gaze briefly met hers. He noticed the disinterest, the way she remained unmoved by his speech. A glimmer of curiosity flickered in his eyes.

    The game was now on.

  • THE TIME KEEPER’S POEM: Chapter Three: A New Beginning

    THE TIME KEEPER’S POEM: Chapter Three: A New Beginning

    Arin knew he couldn’t just appear in Astha’s life as a stranger. He needed a role, a position of influence that would allow him to observe her closely, to understand the mind behind the words that had shaken him so deeply.

    With a calculated shift in the temporal fabric, he altered events subtly—small nudges here, minor delays there—until history aligned in his favor. When the English Daily found itself in need of a new resident editor, the name Arin Verma appeared at just the right time, with credentials carefully forged by weaving into the past unnoticed.

    By the time he stepped into the newsroom, no one questioned his presence. He was their new editor, the authoritative yet enigmatic figure who now held influence over Astha’s work.

    Astha walked into the newsroom that morning, coffee in hand, her mind already occupied with her latest article. She barely noticed the whispers among her colleagues until she saw them gathered around a desk, stealing glances toward the editor’s office.

    “Who is he?” she overheard someone say.

    “Arin Verma,” another replied. “Apparently, he’s our new resident editor.”

    She had expected someone different—perhaps another seasoned journalist with years of experience. But as she stepped closer, her gaze landed on the man behind the glass walls of the office. Arin Verma.

    There was something about him—an air of quiet authority, an energy that seemed both unfamiliar and unsettlingly intense. He caught her looking and, for a brief moment, their eyes met. A small, knowing smile touched his lips.

    Astha turned away quickly, irritation prickling at her. Something about him felt… off. But she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

    Arin, however, felt something entirely different—anticipation.

    The game had begun.

  • A never-ending love affair (On Amir Khusro part II)


    In most people, a passion such as this lasts for a few months or may be some years. After that, it fizzles out as daily problems and needs take their toll. However, that has not been the case with Pradeep Sharma Khusro. In the past 20 years, his passion and love for Khusro has only increased which he feels is nothing short of a miracle.

    Pradeep Sharma Khusro


    I feel as if the passion that I have for Amir Khusro is actually a miracle because my life has been full of problems especially the financial ones. Despite this, this passion has been increased. Actually, I was never career oriented. It was as if I was hypnotized for this, as if my entire thought was for this passion. There is a price to be paid for everything. I have lost a lot of things. Today, still I am jobless. Had I not concentrated on Amir Khusro, I would have probably had a flourishing career. I have done my Bachelor’s in Fine Arts and Bachelor’s in Education. I started out as a cartoonist. I taught in schools after B.Ed. I kept taking exams so that I could work as a drawing teacher in government schools. However, since I was from the general category, I had no quota to support me despite a very good percentage in B.Ed. So, people who could use the quota got the job despite a low percentage. This made me realize that there is no value for good marks or talent in this country.


    Collecting treasures
    According to Pradeep, he has the biggest collection of works of Khusro in the world. However, he is still looking for more!
    “When I first started to collect works on Khusro, I could only find a few books. I talked to collectors and many such people. I also contacted antique dealers who deal in books and furniture. Each book that I purchased was of 20,000 INR which will be perhaps a lot more valued in the international market. Many scholars at the end of their days gifted me their collection of books since they knew that those books might be thrown out after their death. I made friends with students from different countries like Afghanistan, Iraq, Tajikistan etc and they helped me to procure books. I may not be the richest man in the world but I have the largest collection on Amir Khusro in the world. I have around 3000 books on 12 languages from 14 countries on Amir Khusro in Persian, English, Arabic, Urdu, Turkish, Hindi, Marathi, Bengali, Multani, Punjabi, Uzbek and many more. I have about 300 audio cassettes, DVDs, CDs and audio cassettes. He wrote a lot of books in Persian and even Hindi. However, you don’t get many of his books written in Hindi language except for Khalik Bahari. He wrote a book on Krishna titled Halaat-e-Kanhaiya but I haven’t been able to procure that book till now despite all my efforts. I have a book by him titled Chehel Roza which not many people can lay their hands on.”
    “The interesting thing is Amir Khusro is perhaps one of the few Indians who is taught in most universities of the world in many of their departments like music, history, philosophy, Sufism etc.”
    However he feels that the politicians in India are not interested in anything unless it impacts their vote bank.
    “I have met most ministers of all the governments in India. One thing I have understood is that none of them are interested in anything except vote bank. If promoting Amir Khusro could help them to get votes, they would become the long-lost relatives of Khusro otherwise they couldn’t care less. Regardless of their culture or religion, the only god they worship is vote bank. They don’t ask how will something benefit the country; all they ask is how it will benefit them.”

    Why Khusro?
    Pradeep feels that his passion is a part of something bigger. He has no logic why he likes Khusro so much but believes that his passion which is nothing but love has a life of its own.
    “I have been able to sustain this passion because perhaps the universe wanted me to sustain it. Everywhere I go, whatever I do, I am only thinking about Khusro. My name is Pradeep Sharma Khusro because I believe I have some connection with Khusro. I did not consciously develop this passion. The circumstances, the people I met helped me to progress on this path. I didn’t pursue this with any thoughts of gain or loss. It is what Meerabai felt for Krishna. She did not think of anything else but Krishna. I feel it is a form of divine love for God.”
    Why are people like Lord Ram or Subhash Chandra Bose or Ram Krishna Paramhans or such people remembered even decades or years or centuries after they are gone? Why do we study about them in our books? Simply because, they came with a mission and a purpose in life. They lived for their mission and even died for it. My mission is about Khusro. Maybe years after I am gone, people will read my books and say that here is man who explored Khusro in a way that no one could dream of.
    A genius unrecognized
    Pradeep feels that a genius like Khusro should be a part of every syllabus in India.
    “A genius like Amir Khusro never got his due in his own country. He was not only a poet but also a writer, musician, singer, vocalist, astrologer, military commander and astronomer. After his death, for centuries no one really bothered to compile his work. The rulers became commercial and selfish and did not bother about preserving such works. Non-political people especially professors of India and Pakistan helped in consolidating his works. It was only in the 15th century that people started recognizing and consolidating his works in Iraq since the emperor of Iraq, Sultan Hussain Bayqara loved Amir Khusro’s work. He asked his court poet to check the royal treasury and count the books that they had on the poet. The court poet checked and said they don’t have much except 4-5 books. He ordered him to travel the world and consolidate all the books and works of Amir Khusro and bring them back. After 5-6 years, when the court poet returned, the emperor was ecstatic. However, when a Sufi mystic from Afghanistan asked him if had certain ghazals written by the poet, he couldn’t find them! So, he again commissioned an expedition around the world for Khusro’s work. The ensuing collection is the world’s biggest on Amir Khusro and is housed in St. Petersburg library in Moscow. Most of the works are from India but we can never get it back unless our government is interested in procuring it.”


    Spirit Talks
    Pradeep says that his dream conversations have not been just about the works of Khusro but helped him to gain insight about the life beyond death.
    “The people I talk to in my dreams are Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya and Amir Khusro. They told me they had died in 1300s. They said that after they died, they had expected to meet their ‘Allah’ but all they found was a bright divine light which they couldn’t face. They said that this universe is actually made by light. In Sufism, there is only one power which runs the world. They said that this power loves play. It likes change and hence it creates everything in the world for its amusement.”
    The Road Ahead
    Pradeep feels he still has a long way to go on this path.
    “I am compiling the Hindi works of Amir Khusro. I am perhaps the only person in the world who has personally commissioned the translation of more than 5000 pages of Amir Khusro’s Persian works. I used the money I earned in the Aga Khan Foundation. I have been talking to my friends in Pakistan almost on a daily basis and they keep sending me Khusro’s works on email or WhatsApp because they share my passion about Khusro.”
    I am also researching on Khusro as a historian, a philosopher, as a Persian poet and Sufi mystic. As a historian, he not only wrote about the prevalent political scenario but also about the cultural aspects too. He extensively wrote about the animals, food, clothes, languages, religion, ethnicities in his era. He talked about the samosas and the masalas that were used in them and the kind of influences that were present in the Indian food. He also wrote about the makeup used by women, the festivals, the rituals followed in both rich and poor societies. As a musician, he contributed a lot to Hindustani music. There are many anecdotes of Amir Khusro which people are not aware of. I am writing about those too. He was a multi-faceted personality who was an astrologer and astronomer too. People say that no other poet has written so extensively. He has books that have 800-1000 pages each. I feel I am similar in that way because when I start writing from the morning, I continue it for 18 hours at a stretch. Infact, now I have started writing lyrics for Bollywood movies in the style of Khusro. I composed my first song in 2018 for a film titled ‘Angrezi Mein Kehte Hain’ which was directed by Harish Vyas and produced by Manav Malhotra, Bunty Khan and NFDC (National Film Development Corporation of India)”

    This article by Shailaza Singh was published in Rashtradoot Newspaper’s Arbit Section on 13 June 2021.
  • It is all about Khusrau!

    He lives Khusrau, he breathes Khusrau; so much so that he even dreams of Amir Khusrau, an Indian poet and a Sufi mystic who lived in the 13th century. For Pradeep Sharma ‘Khusrau’, the Sufi mystic has reached out to him beyond time and helped him to discover his calling.

    A man possessed
    I had only read stories like Laila-Majnu or Heer-Ranjha where people gave up their entire lives for the object of their affection. I had seen movies like Darr, where Shah Rukh Khan’s character does not stop at anything to gain the affection of the girl he is madly in love with. However, I could never imagine these stories in real life because after all, most of us are quite practical, worldly wise people who understand that we all need to work for a living. However, a meeting with Pradeep Sharma ‘Khusrau’ changed it all. He is ridiculed by his relatives but respected by many in the world. He may not be rich but his self-created ‘property’ is probably worth millions in the international market. Pradeep Sharma ‘Khusrau’ is not your ordinary collector; he is man in love with Amir Khusrau. For him, his day starts and ends with Khusrau.


    Reprogrammed
    A graduate in fine arts and a cartoonist, his tryst with Khusrau began when he happened to listen to a gramophone record titled, ‘The Multifaced Genius of Amir Khusrau Dehalvi’. As a result, he started developing interest in Khusrau and his works. However, he was diagnosed with neuro psychosis in 2006.
    Says Pradeep, “I was afflicted with neuro psychosis, a disease which has no cure in medical science. Till about 2010, I was bedridden and could not go anywhere. The doctors had no clue why I was afflicted with this disease. However, they had prescribed a lot of medicines which I had to take every day for the rest of my life. According to them, if I didn’t take these medicines, the next option would be a mental asylum. I used to either sleep for 20 hours in a day or be awake for days at a time. I lived on sleeping pills too. I was quite depressed that my life had taken such an unexpected turn. During this period, my father consulted an astrologer who said that I would be bed ridden for the rest of my life. For me, this was the most depressing period of my life.”


    The Magic in Dreams
    Pradeep had almost given up hope of leading a normal life again. He started getting bizarre dreams where he met a strange old man with a beard. Sometimes, he would be accompanied with another old man.
    He says, “In 2009, I started getting strange dreams during my sleep. I used to dream of sitting and crying in a deserted place with old monuments. In these dreams, an old man with a white beard used to talk to me. I kept getting these dreams repeatedly. The old man used to talk to me in English. He would always assure me that my current problems would soon be over. He said that medical science had no answer to my disease but he could cure my disease. When I asked him why was I facing such problems, I was told that these problems were as a result of my past deeds and this was a self-purification period. He said that my suffering will come to an end but I had to throw all the medicines given by the doctor because these medicines were making me dull. However, when I talked to my mother and doctor about this, they dismissed it as a bad dream and did not let me throw away the medicines.”
    Pathar Wale Baba
    “In 2010, I had visited the shrine of Hazrat Nizamuddin with a friend. I met a semi-nude fakir who was called Pathar wale baba, who rarely is seen by any visitors. He gave me a bottle with water and told me that to drink this water any time I felt depressed or sad. He told me that as I finish the water in the bottle, I will also be cured. The old man in my dream also advised me to drink the water.”
    Persisting Dreams
    We seldom remember our dreams when we wake up. For most of us, dreams are nothing but vague images and impressions that make no sense in the real world. However, for Pradeep, dreams became his guide. When he could not throw the medicines for the fear of his family and doctors, he dreamt about the old man again.
    “After about three months after I had the first dream, the old man visited me again. This time he did not have a beard. He admonished me and asked me if I really wanted to get well. He told me the doctors had no idea of what they were doing and asked me to throw the medicines. I ultimately threw the medicines but could not sleep for the fear of turning mad without them! However, I slept that night and got up at 11 am. My father who believed that I was merely using the illness to avoid work was quite upset about this. However, my mother was convinced of my problem because she knew the kind of medicines the doctors had prescribed. Soon, I started feeling well again. I no longer felt dizzy or scared again.
    Dream on
    However, this was not the end of these dreams. He kept getting dreams where he was instructed about everything.
    Pradeep says, “The dreams continued to guide me. In my dreams, the old man used to give me detailed instructions about whom to meet, where to go etc. I used to get up in the morning and write down all the details. Based on these dreams, I made a project report. When I shared this project report with professors and other senior people they were taken aback! They thought that this report was a work of some great professor. They could not believe that I made it! According to them, it was impossible for a common man who had not studied or learnt about Amir Khusrau in detail. I still get those dreams and receive instructions on what to do or how to proceed.”
    Family Matters
    As a result of his dedication to his passion, Pradeep had to face the ire of his family members. They felt that he was simply wasting his time on this frivolous pursuit on Khusrau and not earning any money.
    In Pradeep’s words, “My parents aren’t very encouraging when it comes to my passion. My father threw me out of the house twice. However, I came back. He felt that my passion towards Amir Khusrau was nothing but madness and it was not letting me concentrate on building a good career. But during that time, I was in a state where I could not understand what my parents were trying to tell me. I was totally oblivious to their admonitions and was only focussed on Amir Khusrau.”
    “I was married twice. The first time, I got married to a lady who demanded 10 lakhs within 2 months of being married. When I refused, she filed a dowry and domestic violence case. Ultimately, I had to shell out around 3 lakhs rupees to get out of it. The interesting thing is that I or my parents hadn’t asked her for anything yet I feel she was a woman who made a living by marrying unsuspecting guys and then using the dowry law to extract money. I didn’t want to marry the second time but my parents pressured me into it. However, this marriage also did not work as a result of fights between my parents and wife and my financial problems. I have a son who stays with my wife. We are separated for the last 2.5 years.”
    “Even today, my relatives, my cousins keep calling me and tell me that I am ruining my life. I believe no one has the right to judge anyone. They are not feeding me or fuelling my passion in anyway. I don’t listen to them. I believe whoever has become great in the world was first ridiculed for his passion. I love Khusrau and that is what my purpose of life is.”
    Happy days
    For most of his life, Pradeep Sharma Khusrau has spent money on acquiring works of Khusrau from various parts of the world and faced backlash from his family. However, there was a time, he was paid for working and researching on Khusrau. He says that was the most beautiful period of his life because he was getting money to follow his heart.
    “In 2012, I received a phone call from Hazrat Nizamuddin from a gentleman called Farid Ahmad Nizami. Everyone at the Dargah knows me as Pradeep Sharma Khusrau. The gentleman told me that the Aga Khan Foundation in Delhi is looking for someone to help them in their research on Amir Khusrau. At that time, I was working as a drawing teacher in a school with a salary of 20,000 INR. The next day, I attended an iftar party with some of my friends. I was talking about Khusrau in a group, when I was approached by a gentleman from Agha Khan foundation who said that they had been looking for me after they got to know about my passion and expertise on Khusrau. He told me that they couldn’t find anyone though they had approached well known professors and experts and even given advertisements in newspapers. He said that though the people who came were qualified but none of them had the relevant expertise when it came to Khusrau. He asked me to come to his office the next morning. I was interviewed by a panel of 5 people who asked me about 50 questions on Khusrau. They were so impressed with my answers that they immediately gave me an appointment letter as a researcher on Amir Khusrau.”
    “However, I told them that I was working as an art teacher and needed to serve the notice period. I talked to the principal who did not agree to relieve me. When I shared my predicament with the people at Agha Khan foundation, they offered a part time arrangement. So, I used to get up at 5 am, go to the school to teach. At 2 pm I used to go to the foundation and work there till 8 or 9 pm. The project became bigger and finally I was asked to join full time. I explained my problem to the principal and I was relieved after my notice period. Then I joined the Aga Khan foundation at a salary of 70,000 INR. Initially the project was for two years. However, they liked my work so much that they asked me to work with them for two more years. These four years were almost like a golden era for me. I travelled to 22 states in search of Khusrau, organized concerts, programs, symposiums and seminars. I was immersed in Amir Khusrau day in and day out. My folks also did not trouble me because they were happy with the money coming in. After four years, I was given another year-long project on Mirza Ghalib and Abdul Rahim Khan-i-Khanan.”
    Office Politics
    Pradeep’s golden days were soon riddled with office politics and colleagues who resented his success.
    He says, “Soon people started resenting me for my knowledge and work, I had a tiff with my senior who wanted me to take the short route for everything. I couldn’t do that because Khusrau was a passion and I wanted to do everything properly. So, she started sending negative reports about me. As a result, I was asked to leave. So, I worked till 2018 and since then I worked in two schools and today, I am unemployed. However, I am still working on spreading Khusrau’s work and words.”

    …To be continued…

    By Shailaza Singh

  • The Unseen Jaipur through the Lens

    One lazy Sunday morning, about ten people found themselves walking through the streets of the walled city of Jaipur. It was an eclectic mix of some teenagers, professionals in age groups ranging from 30s to 50s. Some held very serious looking cameras while the others were clicking pictures with their mobile phones. It was the second and the final day of the visual story telling workshop which was being conducted by Tabeenah Anjum Qureshi, a seasoned journalist and photographer with Outlook India. Though the older people tried to play it cool, they couldn’t help getting infected by the raw enthusiasm of the teenagers who kept clicking with their phones and cameras. The resulting photographs revealed unseen but beautiful facets of Jaipur, those which could only be discovered by an untrained eye.