Posted on by Pinkii Bakshi

Part 22: Vivid Memories Resurface

The phone rang twice before Meena picked it up, a half-filled cup of chai still warm in her other hand.

“Ms. M. Ray?”

“Yes, speaking.”

“This is Anuja from RedLeaf Publishing. I’m delighted to inform you… Your manuscript has been accepted.”

Meena blinked.

“Oh,” she said, stunned. “Really?”

“Yes! The team loved it. It’s deeply personal, lyrical… rare. We’ll send the formal email by evening, but I just couldn’t wait.”

Meena smiled, eyes drifting toward her desk, where her red velvet-covered diary lay slightly open, the little sketch of a teddy peeking out.

“Thank you, Anuja. I… truly appreciate this.”

After she hung up, Meena just sat there, still as the afternoon sun spilt across her writing table. She reached for the diary, gently running her fingers across its worn surface.

A voice from behind startled her.

“You’re not going to cry, are you?” Vishal grinned, peeking through the half-open door of her study. “You promised you’d let me read the final draft if it got accepted.”

She smirked. “And you believed me?”

“Of course not,” he said, entering the room and plopping down on the chair opposite hers. “So, is it the childhood story?”

“The one with the teddy? Yes.”

“The one you won’t let any of us read?”

Meena closed the diary and held it protectively. “It’s… different. This one isn’t fiction. Not entirely.”

A soft smile tugged at her lips.

Later that evening, after Vishal had left and the city was dipped in quiet, Meena found herself staring out the window. The rustling peepal leaves seemed to carry her back—back to the time right after the riot.

That memory wasn’t a single event. It was a long, aching blur. The sound of shouting, the smoke in the air, the feeling of her mother’s arms pulling her away from the window. The silence that followed. The school that reopened with fewer children. The familiar walls that suddenly felt foreign.

And Kasturi’s absence… Letters had slowed, then stopped. The riot had taken away her sense of safety, but Kasturi’s silence had stolen something deeper, yet she longs for her, longs for the simple childhood days with her.

“I want to study literature,” she had told her father after Class 12, defiant in the face of practicality.

“Then do it well,” he’d said, surprising her. “And read Tagore properly this time. Not just the love poems.”

She laughed then—one of the few laughs that year.

She left for Bhubaneswar at eighteen. It was a new hostel, a new city, and a library that smelled of rain and paper. She learned to live alone, boil tea in kettles, and and sketch her musings between the words of her books. Her classmates often debated theory and politics, but she was immersed in the world of literature and scribbled poems on the back of her notebooks.

It was there that she started publishing in journals. Short stories, mostly. One got noticed. Then another. A collection followed, then a small award. Enough to make her mother tear up and call every relative she knew.

And then, at 25, the offer from JMU came.

“You’re moving to Delhi?” Vishal had asked over the phone.

“I got the position,” she said, still dazed. “Junior lecturer. English department.”

“Well, someone’s becoming fancy.”

She smiled. “I’m nervous.”

“You’ll be fine, Meena. I am here for you.”

Meena smirked, “Oh, Vishal, is there anywhere I can escape you?”

They both laughed, the kind that came easy between old friends—though for a fleeting moment, Vishal felt a quiet tug in his chest.

At JMU, life found its rhythm again. Lectures, seminars, chai breaks under bougainvillaea. She found a small circle of friends—fellow readers, thinkers, misfits like her. Vishal often teased her about her “secret book” and her ever-growing pile of handwritten notes.

“You always look like you’re writing the next epic,” he joked one day, pointing to her red diary.

“Maybe I am.”

Now, sitting in her quiet flat, she looked around. Books stacked high. A soft armchair by the window. The scent of petrichor from the recent drizzle.

Meena exhaled and flipped open the diary again.

On the inside cover was the sketch of the teddy.

Kassy.

Maybe the world would finally know the story. Maybe Kasturi would come across it someday, somewhere.

And if she did… maybe she’d remember.

PS: I’m participating in #BlogchatterA2Z

17 Replies to “Part 22: Vivid Memories Resurface”

  4. Nice job using a flashback to tell us Meena’s life-after-the-riots. It went well. Daddy’s approval about her choice of literature made me to feel the warmth of a supporting parent. Vishal’s moral support seems warmly received by Meena, and their friendship (or perhaps something more) feels well-established as I thought initially, not new. The publisher’s acceptance instinctively tells me that story is nearing its climax. I hope what Meena wrote on the inside cover comes true someday.

    The rustling peepal leaves seemed to carry her back

    I appreciate that you mention specifics, like the peepal leaves, instead of generics like “leaves”. I always look for this in stories, and you didn’t disappoint. Keep it up.

    The scent of petrichor from the recent drizzle.

    The scent of petrichor after the rain is a cliche, but you fit it perfectly with Meena’s mood as she looks back on her life.

    Thank you for your lovely tale of M&K! All the best.

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    2. Thank you so much for noticing the details. It really feels good when a reader gets it.

      Peepal leaves kind of gives the vibe of childhood days, simple and playful .. we always had peepal tree nearby wherever we went.
      Yes the story is reaching its climax..had to…even though I wish to continue writing their journey .
      Thank you so much for the support!

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  5. The way you brought Meena’s journey to life—her quiet triumphs, the cherished memories, and the poignant moments of longing—was beautifully done. I could almost feel the warmth of her chai and the weight of her red velvet diary. The revelation about her childhood friend, Kasturi, and the possibility of her reading Meena’s story someday added such a heartfelt touch. It made me reflect on the people and moments that shape us, even when they’re not physically present. Your storytelling has this gentle way of making the ordinary feel extraordinary. Keep weaving these tales; they’re truly a gift to read. 💖

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  6. This chapter is oozing with nostalgia, heartbreak, longing, hope, and so much! I couldn’t but read it twice. I read every single word to savor the silence written in between the lines. This one chapter speaks volumes, yet, leaves many things unsaid, only to be felt. Excellent!

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