Published on May 7, 2026

Categories

NYAC

LOST JACKET

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 7, 2026

LOST JACKET

I ran across the lobby a minute before closing to give back the form.

The lost and found form.

The lost-and-found form said: Object Description: Blue jacket. Slightly faded. Three inside pockets. One front pocket.

That’s all that was written.

But it wasn’t just a jacket.

My mom said,“Never mind. Save up and buy a new one.”

But you can’t just replace things like that.

It made me feel like something.

It was special in a way only I understood.

It’s been through everything with me, my losses, my wins.

It smelled like comfort. It wasn’t superstition; It was my sidekick.

The three inside pockets carried my coveted adornments.

The smallest of the three contained my favourite pen, the one that knew everything because its ink is what I used to write down the deepest thoughts, even the ones I couldn’t say out loud.

And inside that pen, though no one knew, was a safety pin holding the body together. Just in case it cracked.

The biggest pocket of the three contained a list of things I hoped to achieve as I grew older.

The checkered paper had creases running through it. And taped to it, a small paper crown.

The one in between contained the shiniest rock I could find while I ran my first 5k. I found it lying on the gravel from the race. Standing out as physical proof that I didn’t stop.

There was a large front pocket on the left side of the jacket.

The Front Pocket was the brave one.

It was the pocket that was exposed to wind, sun and rain. And rarely the washing machine and the detergent.

It contained a Kinder Joy toy. Smooth plastic, bright colours. Manufactured joy closed in foil.

It used to be the best part of the treat

Now it was just marketing.

The toy in the front pocket wasn’t my favourite. It was just the one that was the cleanest.

That pocket carried what survived being seen.

It carried the version of me that had been rinsed, wrung out, and ironed flat.It was presentable and polished.

The inside pockets held what felt like me.

The front pocket held what didn’t cause questions.

That’s why losing it didn’t feel material.

It wasn’t about the buttons or the gold zipper that shut the pockets.

I didn’t want to give up so easily.

It felt like the part of me that was learning how to grow up, slowly and a little unwillingly.

So I searched.

Searched everywhere, my house, the School, the doctor, the infirmary.

When I had almost gotten over the loss of it,

When I had taught myself to stop thinking about it constantly,

When I had stopped imagining scenarios of finding it,

The doorbell rang.

A parcel lay on the wooden floor.

On the floor where I stood for the past 13 years, waiting for someone to open the door.

My name was written carefully across the front.

In handwriting that didn’t follow lines.

No return address.

No explanation.

Inside was my blue jacket!!!

Folded more neatly than I ever had.

I smiled to myself, ear to ear, as I put it back on.

Object Description: Blue jacket.

Slightly faded.

Still mine.

Losing it was to let me realise

I was the one who made that jacket special.

Published on

Categories

NYAC

We Will Still Wed, If You Ever Decide to Come Back

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 7, 2026

We Will Still Wed, If You Ever Decide to Come Back

I cry as I write this, still mourning a future that was never even fully proofed. W e never really wanted the picket fences and a big suburban villa though. Y ou had your ambitions, and I had mine. There was a gap in my dream which was supposed to get filled with my college plans. But you already had yours sorted, and you impressed my mother with it.

Already at fourteen— you were ready to build a house brick by brick for us. I was scared of talking about children, but I told you that I wanted to adopt. However now, my maternal instincts are stronger than ever, and I imagine how it could have been if I told you about the chokehold that babies have on me now. I imagine my children having your eyes, because that always will be something I’ll only ever want with you.

I wish I had told you about all of it.

I wouldn’t mind moving to a country that isn’t as urban as the cities we’re used to. I could see you trying to dig soil for me to sow the fruit’s leftover seeds in, dirt getting stuck under your finger nails. And then you’d wash your hands thrice, last time without the soap. A small routine that you’d built over time after either gardening or peeling garlic. You’d make sure my morning coffee would be exactly catered to my preference, and you’d keep aside some of your t-shirts for me to wear every night. I’d learn the way you’d chant my name, sometimes out of rapture, other times out of despair. And I’d finally let you understand the depth of the vortex of my emotions. I’d pick out your outfit for any and all occasions and you’d zip up my dress, or fasten the clasp of my necklace. You’d struggle with barre chords on the guitar, and I’d laugh, refusing to admit that there was a time when I was in your place. I’d insist on our children getting your smile but secretly you’d tell our parents how they look exactly like me.

Some day, that will happen. I know.

Published on

Categories

NYAC

The Hellebore Garden

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 7, 2026

The Hellebore Garden

The Winter Curse had started five miserable years ago. Vicious winds, unforgiving snow and scarce supplies. It had swept in uninvited.

It refused to leave.

And with it had come the Frojan soldiers.

Also uninvited. Also refusing to leave.

Or allowing others to.

‘Good lord, stop staring outside, April,’ aunt Lana chided from behind the kitchen counter. ‘You can’t change anything.’

‘Is it true some kids like snow?’ April asked quietly.

Aunt Lana sighed, resigned, ‘Why must you ask the strangest questions, child?’

April stood, ‘I’m going to the garden.’

‘Don’t forget your hood, dear’

April made her way to a patch of land that belonged to nobody, but nothing had ever belonged to them.

She stared down at the hellebore flowers. Sometimes, if she did long enough, she would see a woman tending to them, fingers gentle, humming sweetly.

But that had been long ago. Nowadays, no matter how hard she tried–even if she sat there till evening–she could see nothing but flowers and snow. She couldn’t remember the woman’s face–nothing but snow–but April knew she’d loved the flowers. So she took the responsibility upon herself now.

***

April set down the watering can next to the tank, she rapped her knuckle against it.

‘Aunt Lana, water’s run out!’ she called, ‘June, get up! I know you’re awake.’

April’s twin sister sat up in bed, not daring to untangle herself from her warm blankets.

‘Can’t I oversleep once in a while?’ June whined, smiling.‘Don’t make it obvious you’re awake if you want to sleep in,’ April muttered, aware June would never slack off.

April melted frost off the firewood with barely flickering flames then fed them to the fire. June set down a pail next to her, carrying one herself.

‘We’ll get the water! Let’s go, April.’

***

April trudged after her sister, the bucketful of snow heavy in her hand. It had to be melted–just like everything else. She trailed behind, catching a view of the maroon flowers. They really were strange amongst the bright snow. A patch of absurdity. Of sanity.

‘Do you remember her?’ June asked, her voice soft.

April froze. June had never spoken of the woman who had birthed them before. She was essentially a stranger to April. Someone who had moved on long before she could get to know her. The flowers were all that remained.

‘Do you?’ April whispered.

‘No’, June replied ruefully, ‘Only as… a face that won’t leave my dreams.’

‘Neither do I, except as… a presence that won’t leave my life.’

June smiled at her sadly, April knew her face was an exact mirror.

‘You!’ A gruff voice barked out. A Frojan soldier seeking to abuse his authority. June turned around, admirably composed, though his kind were the reason they were stuck here and for that lady’s death, ‘Sir?’

Before he could reply, his eyes narrowed on the garden. ‘What is that?’ He marched to her flowers, intent clear as snow. April gasped, panicked, June’s grip on her wrist restraining her.

She watched a soldier kill her mother for the second time. April felt tears freezing on her face, all those years of hard work.

‘Unauthorised plants,’ he informed disapprovingly then straightened his cap, retreating. But April couldn’t look away from the remnants of her mother.She rushed to the garden.

The snow was muddy now, not white. The flowers lay crushed, dark petals scattered over the wreckage.

‘I never wanted this. The perfect snow was better,’ she whispered between heavy breaths, fingers gathering the petals. ‘Didn’t you always say that hellebores will survive everything? Where are they now? Where are you?’

‘April, look.’

April looked to where her sister indicated. A single hellebore. Petals dark as ever, stem bent–but alive. April stared for a second, then burst out laughing. Not with joy or merriment, only realization.

June joined in, ‘They do survive everything.’

Published on

Categories

NYAC

Shadows of Expectations

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 7, 2026

Shadows of Expectations

“Beta i, it’s me to start thinking about your future.” Oh that lovely, lovely phrase. To the teenage mind it’s music to their ears. Just picture those young, lively souls on the verge of adulthood… An ocean of possibility lies before them: Doctor, Engineer, Failure… Personally, I recommend the later.

Parents don’t raise children these days- just their expecta ons. I remember when I told Mum and Dad what I wanted to be in the future.

“JOURNALIST?!” Mummy screamed. “I’ll disown you! I’ll skin you alive! I’ll murder you before you set foot into the liberal arts!”

“Journalism?” Dad sounded like he had swallowed a lemon. “I don’t mean to be offensive, but why can’t you do that as a… well… side thing?”

Oh the horror! Oh the indignity! Mom and Dad’s precious daughter has gone over to the dark side.

What next? She’ll say she wants to study (gulp) philosophy?

And you wonder why your life feels like crap. The cherry on the top is that, as a child, you are always told that no ma er what, your parents will support you. Of course Beta, aim for the stars! And then when you declare a major in Anglo-Saxon Studies, the whole world flips upside down.

Reputa on? Gone

That money you were going to inherit from your great aunt? Gone.

Not even a family dinner on Sundays? Nope.

But then seriously, stop lying to us. Please, let’s have lucid communica on here. Give us a concrete list.

“Beta, I want you to study quantum physics, get a PhD in thermodynamics, become Prime Minister of India, and win the Nobel Prize.”

Okay Mummy. I’ll do it Mummy. Let me just pack my Art History books and dump them in that sewer outside. Fine – let’s say that you do have a point. Will I make money being an archeologist? Probably not. But is working late nights in some dingy lab, squin ng away at a non-existent par cle any be er? Probably not.

Maybe it’s best if we just don’t get educated. Let’s tell our children to drop out of school! Run free like monkeys on the savannah! No need to learn about the deadliest wars in the world, or mass genocides, or even God for that ma er (because isn’t religion an art?)

I just don’t get it.Oh Elina – maybe it’s because you work in the “liberal arts”.

Then tell me, Madam Doctor. Educate me, Mr. Engineer: why do you scorn the arts when you find joy in dance, sing to your dead, and paint to capture memory? Why do you scorn the arts, when art is where you find solace? Why do you scorn the arts, if you are reading it at this very moment?

At this point, I think it’s best if we just quit school. Solves all our problems. Join the movement!

No-o school! No-o school!

Save our society!

Discard the educa on system!

Build a fair and equal world, where the sciences and the arts are on an even foo ng- because you won’t learn about either of them!

***

“Beta, it’s me to start thinking about your future.”

Mummy – I figured it out. I want to become a baboon.

Published on

Categories

NYAC

The Rain Riddle

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 7, 2026

The Rain Riddle

“Do you know what causes rain?” my 5-year-old brother, Jay, asked with wide-eyed curiosity.

His nose was buried in The Ul mate Playbook of Science.

I was more absorbed in my phone, where a flurry of WhatsApp no fica ons kept interrupting

my thoughts. The MUN group was buzzing with intense discussions about the latest political drama. Meanwhile, the competitive kids group (Yes, I, the non-quant kid, found myself

unwillingly added to this circle of intellectual warriors) was celebrating Nidhi’s acceptance into Yale. And, of course, my girl gang was knee-deep in juicy gossip: Amish had developed a crush on Kaira, but his twin brother had been caught sharing a kiss with her! I was just about to immerse myself in these enthralling tales when my brother broke the spell.

“What makes it rain?” I repeated monotonously.

“Elina, you’ve not been listening at all,” Jay chided.

The rains had been delayed for the third consecu ve season. The harbingers of doom were predicting low rainfall.

“Civic body cuts water supply by 20%,” mama’s morning paper had blared. By now, Jay’s innocent ques on had captured the household’s a en on like a magnet drawing in iron filings.

“They married the frogs in my village last month to appease the rain gods,” our helper said casually while mopping the floor. “But Lord Indra refused to be pleased. So now they are performing a yagya i to placate him.”

The next morning, I was greeted by the uninvited cacophony of raindrops pattering against my window. Great. I would have to walk to my tui on class today like a soldier navigating a minefield.

I sloshed through flooded roads, sidestepping open manholes, and waded past overflowing gutters.

I sighed in frustra on. What makes it rain?

In class, my a en on span resembled that of a fly. Today’s torment? Trigonometry- my Achilles’ heel. The blackboard overflowed with acronyms and formulas.

My thoughts felt as muddied as my shoes, where a suspicious brown glob clung stubbornly to the edge. My phone, tucked away in my pocket, buzzed faintly. The gossip group undoubtedly had more updates. I excused myself to the bathroom and messaged my mother.“Please send the car to pick me up.”

No response. Parental detachment is always at its zenith in moments of necessity.

“Do you want me to catch pneumonia before the math exam?”

The phrase “math exam” invariably sparked a swi response. Naturally, academics take precedence over filial responsibility.

As I slid into the car- drenched and muddy- my thoughts wandered back to Jay’s query: “What makes it rain?”

“In my village in Jaunpur, we spo ed the Pit Koyal ii two days ago, so I knew it would rain today,” the driver shared affably. He came from an agricultural family and didn’t trust the scientefic forecasts from the weatherman (which were unfailingly wrong each year).

“When the Amaltaa iii flowers bloom, rain is on the horizon,” he explained. “If the wind shifts continuously from south to north, more rain is guaranteed. But if it blows east to west, prepare for a dry spell.”

I smiled to myself. The driver may not have finished school, but he was a brilliant scientist.

Armed with this newfound knowledge, I entered the house with more confidence and sought out my brother.

“Jay, do you know what makes it rain?”

“Boooorrring. Don’t disturb me. I am making elephant toothpaste now.”