POCKET TELLER

The story begins at SHRI NIWAS , a large house in Shimla. Today the house was alive with excitement—Avik's 15th birthday was being celebrated, and preparations were in full swing. Dadi moved around the house, overseeing everything with care. “Everyone, make sure everything is done properly before Avik gets home,” she instructed, her voice full of warmth and authority. The servant approached her with a slight bow. “Maaji, all of Avik baba’s favorite dishes are ready. Please let me know if there’s anything else you’d like me to prepare.” Dadi paused for a moment, then turned to him and asked, “Has his cake been ordered? And yes—did you make the moong dal halwa for him?” As the evening approached and the sun dipped lower in the sky, the peaceful hum of the household was suddenly interrupted by the sound of the front door bursting open. “Daaadiii!” came a loud, cheerful voice. Avik came running in, his face lit up with joy, his schoolbag bouncing behind him. His eyes sparkl...

 In the heart of old Lahore, where narrow alleys whispered forgotten tales and time clung to crumbling walls, stood a haveli—ancient, abandoned, and veiled in mystery. Locals spoke of it only in hushed tones, calling it "Jinn Ka Makaan". No one lived there. No one dared. They said a jinn resided within—a girl cloaked in shadows and sorrow, who had once been wronged so deeply that hatred had become her very soul. Her presence was like cold smoke—unseen but heavy, wrapping itself around any boy who dared to venture near the haveli. And if any man crossed its threshold? He would never return. After nearly a decade abroad, Dr. Shezad finally returned home. The renowned archaeologist had spent years uncovering forgotten ruins across Europe. Yet something had pulled him back to his homeland—something deeper than nostalgia, heavier than memory. He arrived in Lahore. As his train rolled into the station, the sky darkened unnaturally & sudden gust of wind howled through the plaƞ...

In the sleepy hill town of Auli, where the air smelled of pine and evenings arrived wrapped in golden mist, there stood an old government school—paint peeling from its walls, windows that refused to shut during the monsoon, and a rusty bell that sounded more tired than loud. But within those walls lived a world of laughter, secrets, scraped knees, chalk dust, and unspoken dreams. In Class 10-B, on the very last bench by the window that looked out at the hills, sat Karan and Arjun. They weren’t the toppers. They didn’t raise their hands first. They weren’t favourites in school assemblies or sports events. But everyone knew them — teachers, peons, the principal, even the chaiwala outside the gate. Because they were inseparable. And because together, they brought a kind of warmth into the classroom that no lesson ever could. They were called “The Last Benchers” — a name that stuck not as a label of laziness, but of quiet loyalty. For ten long years, through ink-stained shirts,...