'Promise': Sehri Tales selections, Day 4

I.

"Watermelon is Tk. 800"
"What?!" 
"Per kg is Tk 100. I can keep Tk 700 for you. Last price!"
"Are you crazy?! Since when is it so expensive?! I only have 300 taka. Can I get half?"
"If you can't afford it then leave, you are blocking the line!" barked the shopkeeper.
"But I promised her.. my daughter likes it.."
A disheartened Salma trailed off, clutching her small pouch full of money which was still not enough for groceries. 
"Do you want to share?" said an unknown voice.
Salma turned around and saw a young girl in glasses. Without any response in return the girl spoke again, "I live by myself in a hostel and my
Mother has been calling and pestering me lately to eat fruits regularly, and I promised her I will. But I don't think I can finish an entire watermelon on my own. Do you want to buy it together to share?" 
"Yes.. okay.. of course! That would be great!" gleamed Salma as the words fumbled out of her mouth. Maybe both the mothers and daughters can see the promises being fulfilled one way or the other.

by Tanisha Arman

Read more

'Watermelon': Sehri Tales selections, Day 3

II.

Watch the ferris wheel stuck in an invisible mesh,
lights bursting into the night,
and the tires screeching in revolt.
Guess who's driving the car?
Someone who has your lighter in their pocket,
someone blinking promises off their lashes.
The handful of words they pick up

is another aim at you.

by Santana Kamal

Read more

'Rescue': Sehri Tales selections, Day 2

III.

To the Bittersweet Moments: In the quiet corners of our shared universe, photographs whispered of a time when everything was happy and right. The sun-kissed our cheeks, and we believed in forever. We danced on the edge of eternity, our footsteps leaving imprints in the sands of memory.
But now, they were bittersweet sights of heartaches. Each frame reminded me of the old version of myself—the one who thought there was forever to spend, forever to waste. We lived by the moment, not realizing that moments slip through our fingers like sand.
"Missed opportunities," I'd muse, my fingers tracing the edges of a faded photograph. "We thought there was forever—forever to dance, forever to laugh. We were time travelers, collecting memories like souvenirs, unaware that the clock was ticking."
And so, amidst the debits and credits of life, I stood there, a spectator in the museum of yesterday. The glances of yesterday were our relics, our keepsakes. They'd never get another touch of life. They'd remain suspended, like constellations frozen in the night sky.
"Remember this?" I'd ask, showing her a worn-out ticket stub. "The movie we watched under the stars?"
And she'd smile, her eyes reflecting galaxies. "Yes," she'd say. "It was our forever until it wasn't."
And that surplus, my friend, was our promise—a bittersweet currency that bought us passage to the past, even when the present slipped through our fingers.

by Khan Sharab Anan Bapon