Published on May 25, 2026

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The Ruins in the Space Between

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 25, 2026

The Ruins in the Space Between

When you feel horror, what comes to your mind?

Jump scares unnerving, Voices petrifying,

But is the chill going down your spine?

Residing in Udaipur is Mridula, an aspiring architect- sweet, stubborn and her mother’s sweetheart. She has been dreaming of becoming an architect since the age of 8 and her biggest project is to remove the fallacy of Bhangarh.

Her goal is to reconstruct the fort, turn it into a royal palace hotel and bring back the town. Little does she know, a dark force is waiting for her- waiting to ruin her.

History has it that every part of India has got its own way of describing their folklore and overtime Indian mythology has made it evident through forts in ruins, spirited waterfalls and ghosts living under trees at night. Even so in Bhangarh lurks a ghost, undefined and pristine.

…

Meet the ‘NISHI’-

A ghost destined with a ghastly past, a wicked present and a deadly future.

This ghost is not like the others, she doesn’t wander around or place curses. She imitates voices of each prepossessing man’s loved one she sees, lures him, binds him to kill that loved one and turns him into her slave till the time he does not cripple to death.

But that’s not all. This ghost stays in the Bhangarh Fort. Legend has it that the fort originally belonged to the lineage of Raja Bhagwant singh till Ratnavati, the first daughter abolished it.

Is that what really happened though?

When Ratnavati and her elder brother, Ajab were growing up, the town kept her like a jewel and disliked Ajab to an unimaginable extent. He knew the throne would go to her and his wrath compelled him to meet Shankar, a tantrik well known for black magic and put a curse on the kingdom.

However, the moment Shankar laid eyes on Ratnavati, he fell madly in love with her and was ready to transcend all barriers. He knew that his age would be a spanner in the works and so he kept a condition in front of the prince.

He created a concoction of a love spell and handed it over to Ajab to give it to his sister but little did they know that Ratnavati’s hand maiden came to know of this plan.When Ratnavati found out, she was furious and went straight to her brother, ordering both him and Shankar to leave at that very moment. Her anger had taken over and paved the way for her demise.

Shankar was enraged and placed the curse. However it wasn’t the same as before. Bhangarh was burnt down along with the palace, Ratnavati, Ajab and Shankar himself too.

This is how Bhangarh became HAUNTED.

…

Coming back to present times, Two months later, Mridula moves to Bhangarh with her designs but every architectural firm she speaks to, instantly denies on hearing the name of the fort. She decides to find out the reason behind the misconception and is finally introduced to the Nishi by a local but begged by him to return back.

In the next few minutes, she comes across 7 phantasms about the Nishi but instead of backing down, Mridula decides to work in solitary and find out the backstory. .

After burning a candle at two ends for quite a while, Her visions turn to hallucinations of two men, a fire burning and ash.

She goes back to the stranger and shows the evidence. The only thing left is the transcription of the message written on the entrance of the fort- मम पुनजन्म तव भस्म:

Once he reads it, he isn’t able to believe his eyes.

It translates to- MY INCARNATION IS YOUR ASHES.

…

Amongst Shankar and Ajab, who has reincarnated?

Who is the Nishi? And is Ratnavati alive?

The answer is now in Mridula’s hand and so is the fate of Bhangarh.

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Enjoy the Ride

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 25, 2026

Enjoy the Ride

Avanti romanticized a life without having to worry about children.

For one, she could retire from her busy job as a professor of Biology. She could spend hours with her husband, and perhaps they could travel more. She could hire a cook and finally forget the diet requirements of her three children. And she did. Nearing 65 years of age, she finally retired. But, to her surprise, the worrying only grew. It had been ten years since fate knocked on her door, and taken all that she loved away.

This, much to her surprise, began with the eldest child moving to the UK for his undergrad.

Soon enough, the other two followed in suit. And when cancer, the world’s most popular antagonist, silently creeped up on her loving husband – she gave up the chase for happiness.

She had no one to love. No one to talk to.

Avanti called her children everyday, and if they did pick up, it was always the same conversation: “I’m fine Ma! Stop worrying.”

Stop worrying? Do they not remember the countless nights where she stayed up just to console them? She was always there – calm, comforting – be it before exams, after nightmares and through toxic friendships.

Yet today, a new kind of motivation found her striding across the streets of Mumbai. A hope – that someone, or something – could benefit from her futile existence.

First stop – Alice’s Bakery.

When the children were small, Avanti would bake them snacks and treats. She loved watching joy spawn under her old, plastic whip. It made her feel good.

She walked into the store.

Weakly upholstered chandeliers swung above her. The AC – coming from god knows where – sent her into an instant fit of sneezes.

“What would you like, Ma’am?.”

An eager salesman caught her off guard.

She quickly began to clarify the intentions behind her visit.

“Good morning – I hope you are well. I saw the little sign you had outside your shop – the baking job – can I please apply for it?”

He smiled, but it was more of a pitiful gaze.

“I’m so sorry Ma’am. We already have a new chef. Would you take a cupcake instead?”

Avanti could not stand his bickering.

Turning sharply on her heel – in a way most impressive and risky for her age – she walked out of the store.

Her next stop was the tailor. A sheet of printer-paper taped to the street-light claimed that he needed assistance. Soon enough, however, she walked back out of the shop as she had evidently missed the “ five years of experience” part of the notice.Avanti stood adjacent to an exhibition. It was small, and quite humble – but it caught her attention. On its front, the words “Map Museum” were smoothly inscribed.

She entered the gallery.

All of a sudden, she was surrounded by maps of all shapes and sizes – maps of the world, maps of India, state maps, political maps, physical maps – every single type of map possible.

One by one, she studied each map. Then and there, in this tiny store in the middle of Mumbai, she finally realized how very big the world is. And how very tiny she was.

It came to her instantly. Like a glimpse of the universe and everything pure and true.

She worked so hard to have a peaceful retirement. Now, she was willing to undo decades of hard work. Just to feel important. Truth be told, we only live because we’re alive. And we’re here by some sort of fluke – so best we don’t make any sense of it. We have so many worries, so many! But when we think of ourselves as just another cluster of cells we remember how insignificant we are. But it’s really a blessing. By being a nobody we can sit back and muse at the wonders of life. We can enjoy the ride.

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PEAK BLESSED OR DISTRESSED

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 25, 2026

PEAK BLESSED OR DISTRESSED

We reach the starting point and I suppress a shiver. The summit is very high up and the chilly winds don’t make it any more comforting. We were given ropes, knifes, harnesses and oxygen tanks. All I feel is excitement. You see; other family’s go to resorts and hotels to relax and reconnect. My family goes on dangerous hikes to unwind and argue. This time we are going to mount Karu. It is situated in a picturesque tourist town called Kailas.

We didn’t bother to get a hotel in town as there is a motel at the half point, the sad part is that we have to carry our backpacks halfway.

With that in mind, we start the hike. I hike a lot so stamina is not a problem but my bag is weighing me down. I grab a stick to distribute the weight, that’s when I hear the stampede.

“Yatra get back” my mom yells, but I can’t move. My dad grabs my hand and pulls me aside saving me from the four-legged race. Hundreds of goats come running and I silently hoped we would be safe. Being injured on a mountain is no picnic.

After thirty minutes the stampede ceases and we continue hiking while reminiscing how dangerous the stampede was.

We reach the halfway point and find our motel. I look up at the three-story, ivy-laden building with dread and disappointment. My parents say ‘that staying at a weird place is all part of the hiking experience’ but I secretly wished that the half-point motel was actually a five-star hotel.

Getting out of bed on a cold morning is a crime and I guess I’m guilty because I am awake at six-o clock; washing away my grogginess with cold water. I wore an outfit that I think looks athletic and ate some very hot bread with butter. I thought it would make me more awake

but it just burned my tongue. We walked more faster without the weight of the backpacks. Mum plays some music and we dance, laugh and tire ourselves out. I see a bench a couple meter’s ahead and I break into a run, yelling “I need a break” and collapse on the bench with a sigh. Dad tries to shake his head crossly but his smile gives it away.

We all rest a bit and drink some water until Dad keeps the bottle on the ground and it rolled down the mountain before we catch it. We just lost all our water. We start to walk again, slowly this time to conserve our energy. “Why did you keep it on the ground”. Mum hisses. “I was tired” explained dad “from all the dancing”. “So, you’re blaming me” Mum muttered to herself. They continued like this for some time so I diverted my attention to the sounds. Sounds tell you everything you need to know and I think I just heard water. I started running, ceasing their bickering; they followed me. Behind some trees there was a giant spring. We washed our faces, filled water in empty food containers, some apologies took place and we continued hiking.

We hike for two full hours and we finally reach the summit. Suddenly this whole trip was worth it. I feel so far away from the world. Beautiful flowers with jewel-like petals, the chirping of birds, lush leaves of oak trees. I feel my heart beat in my chest, even though I have climbed many mountains before. It’s the first time it feels like an achievement. I feel free and I think I’m laughing. All I feel is a state of euphoria! We click photos, visit summit shop’s and eat something called a tower of crystals.

Now all that’s left is going back down.

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The day when every screen went dark

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 25, 2026

The day when every screen went dark

For someone who loves words, it is wondrous how often they fail me. The fluorescent lights are bright-too bright-as they glare angrily, reflecting off the surface of the lab’s linoleum tiles. The sterile stench of disinfectant follows me as I enter the observation room. A large sheet of glass separates me from another room, where a waif-like girl is strapped to a wall.

“Release her,” I command. The buckles snap and she stumbles across the room, her ghost-like face blank. Then she begins to cackle.

“What are you seeing, Maysilee?”

No reply.

This has been the case for years. My schizophrenic daughter chortles and hoots with reckless abandonment; her miseries lost in the oblivion of nothingness. And I, her poor mother, am forced to watch as she flails around, seeing everything but the cold callouses of reality. There are some moments-few, and far in between-when she regains some semblance of consciousness, and I live for those bouts of jubilance.

She presses her hand against the screen, and I place mine in the same position.

“You’re real. Sometimes I think the only real thing is you,” she whispers, blinking profusely. My throat dries up- her eyes are alight with innocence; her words effused with pain. I want to tell her that it will all be over soon; soon she will live in reality and not amongst worlds of her own making. Soon she will not be a lab experiment, but my daughter.

A doctor enters the room and signals me to leave. I step out slowly, watching two assistants shepherd my daughter back to her confines.

“Maysilee’s condition is improving. She has begun to question the difference between her delusions and the truth. We think a stronger dosage would do the trick. But there’s a catch- it could turn her heart erratic and make her unpredictable for a while.”

I walk back into the room and stare at my child. My child, who doesn’t even know my name. My child, who doesn’t know I am her mother. My child, who doesn’t even love me.

My child, who I will cure.

A subtle nod is enough. In a matter of seconds, Maysilee is injected. Her body slumps; her head rolling around like a puppet whose strings have been cut off.

Then, barely perceptible, her lips move. Each letter takes her immense effort to form, as if she was a toddler learning a new language.

“You love me. Real or not real?”

***

People often talk about the tremendous agony of leaving words unsaid. My anguish is different.

There are seven deadly sins. Mine is greed. I was greedy for my daughter’s love. What my mind convinced itself was best for her, was actually my need to have more- more of her love, more of her laughs, more of HER.

And now I have nothing. Nothing at all.

***

“Real.”

The single word is a trigger. Maysilee erupts with madness, straining against her ties. The ECG display beeps frantically as her heart-rate skyrockets. Her face turns red like a beet with the effort, and she screeches like a hyena. Assistants rush inside to calm her as my heart thuds as if there is a bird in my ribcage, flustered to get out.

I watch my Maysilee transform into a monster, slashing and biting the assistants. She pants and groans, until her eyes roll and her grip relaxes. The ECG monitor flatlines and silence cloaks the room as the lights of her thinly veiled prison switch off.

It’s all dark. So dark.

My beautiful, beautiful girl looks peaceful, as if she is soundly sleeping. Gently, I wipe the slight foam from her mouth. Perhaps death will give her respite from those ghastly visions.

This is the heartbreak of tragedies like ours and King Lear’s: you believe the ending can still be salvaged, until the last moment.

But then the curtains close, and every screen goes dark.

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Always weird

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 25, 2026

 

Always weird

I always thought I was weird. Not because I looked strange or did irregular things. I just sort of felt like the puzzle piece of another jigsaw trying to fit in one that had no space for it. The problem was I never found that jigsaw I was supposed to belong in.

Sometimes I think it’s horrible to feel so utterly alone. But sometimes I feel lucky to be untethered to anyone and anything, like a balloon floating in outer space with no promise of return to Earth. Probably will die over there, but hey, at least it got away.

I always thought I was weird, because I remember being called that when I was in kindergarten. It was a regular day, waking up from nap time, when someone looked at me and said, “you’re so weird.” It wasn’t even on the basis of anything I did or something I said. I was just labelled, branded as a “weirdo.” I remember being so confused about what that word meant; I asked my mom. She said being weird is a good thing. It means you’re special. So, I deluded myself into thinking that being called weird was a compliment. I remember being called weird and saying back, “thanks.” What an idiot kid I was.

I always thought I was weird. Especially when I didn’t want to go to parties or travel the world, but would rather go to the gym or play my sport. My mom and dad thought it was discipline and resilience, but it was actually that when my physical body was aching, I couldn’t really focus on the mental part that was imprinting into my soul, like a shard of glass, inching it’s way deeper into my skin, until it once touched my soul.

I always thought I was weird.

As I grow up, I love being weird. Everyone who was fun and understanding before has just become a shell of themselves, the people I knew were kinder, compassionate. They weren’t robots. They were just themselves. My grandmother often tells me I feel a lot or I cry too, but doesn’t that mean I feel the good things a lot too? My dad thinks I am too sensitive, he is probs right, but can’t I be sensitive for the good things too?

For the things that make me smile or at least used too.

I always thought I was weird, especially when I used to cry and feel something hurting in my chest when I had everything a kid could want. Loving parents, good education, food on my plate, friends. My parents could never really understand why I was so full of sadness all the time even though I used to hide it behind a mask of happiness and laughs. My dad once told me I was ungrateful. I remember crying. So much crying.

Why couldn’t I stop crying? I felt like a broken glass cup that’s been taped up, in its original shape however when water was poured into me, I used to leak, and once I started leaking, all the tape came off. I was just lying there, as broken shards.

I always thought I was weird. But I guess that’s just me. I always felt that kids could say things to me, but I know it wouldn’t ever hit me hard because they didn’t wipe my tears or see my skin bleeding.

I am weird but that’s just how I am.