Stories

Gaurav had built his business empire through sheer grit and tireless work, but also through an iron-fisted approach. His motto was simple: control or lose. And for years, that approach seemed flawless. But as his business empire grew, so did his insecurities—the fear of being outmanoeuvred, the dread of falling from the top. His once-unbreakable […]

Anita was exhausted. She had spent the entire day juggling work, household chores, and cooking for her family. By evening, her patience was running thin. Her ten-year-old son, Ronik, had left his room in a complete mess, and this was the third time that week. Clothes were scattered on the floor, toys were everywhere, and

The Silent Retreat wasn’t a vacation or a spiritual getaway—it was the quiet, growing distance in Anand and Sheela’s marriage. And the silence had started long before he ever walked out the door. Sheela prided herself on being the one in control. To her, a perfect marriage meant that everything had to be just right—and

The Cry of Silence was louder than any scream in Pranati’s life. It echoed in the quiet corners of her home, in the careful steps she took, in the trembling of her hands as she made breakfast every morning. But no one heard it. Not even the man who caused it. Pranati had always dreamed

Colonel Rajveer Singh stood tall in his uniform; his chest filled with pride as he looked over the valley. He had spent his life serving the Indian Army, earning respect for his sharp mind and brave heart. But today, anger burned in his eyes. A small mission had failed earlier in the week. A handful

Dilip slammed the car door shut as he drove home after yet another gruelling day at the office. His head throbbed with stress. He knew what awaited him: his father’s endless questions about bills and responsibilities, and his mother’s silent stares, wondering when her son would sit down to eat with them like before. He

The village of Chandpur was once a serene, quiet place, but now it had become a boiling pot of rebellion. Taxes had skyrocketed, and the king’s soldiers patrolled the streets like hawks. For months, the villagers tried to win the hearts of the royal court through peaceful pleas and petitions. When no one listened, they

Raghu sat in the corner of the dark room, his hands and feet bound in heavy iron chains. The flickering oil lamp on the wall cast long shadows around him. Outside, he could hear the loud, boisterous laughter of the landlord’s guards, eating and drinking after a day of exploiting the poor villagers. Raghu’s body

Professor Siddharth Joshi was known throughout the university for his brilliance—and his temper. He was the kind of teacher who expected nothing less than perfection from his students. His sharp words and quick temper had become almost legendary in the corridors. But what once made him unforgettable now made him unapproachable—and in the eyes of

Dhanraj was a painter known for his bold, striking work. His canvases were filled with intense colours and chaotic strokes that seemed to leap out at anyone who looked at them. People admired his art, often saying it was alive with emotion. But Dhanraj knew the truth. His paintings came from his anger. It started