POCKET TELLER

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,...

The night sky over Lucknow shimmered with stars, and the city pulsed with devotion. It was Maha Shivratri, and the sound of temple bells echoed through the narrow lanes. Amid the chants, the flickering lamps, and the fragrance of incense, there was a quiet corner of the city untouched by celebration — the gates of Noor Sadan, an old orphanage nestled between moss-covered walls and memories. Inside, a girl named Meher, all of ten years old, stood by the entrance, watching the world celebrate. She had lived here for as long as she could remember. A child with no past, no photograph, no surname. But she had something more powerful — strength in her silence, and kindness in her eyes. That night, as the city danced in devotion, something else arrived at Noor Sadan. A car had crashed on the highway outside Lucknow. The only survivor… was a newborn baby boy. His parents — lost to the accident — were from a different land, a different faith, a different language altogether. No one ...

A restless, stormy night. The rain lashed violently against rooftops, a relentless force as the city below flickered in intermittent bursts of pale light from dying streetlights. A crack of thunder echoed like a warning, shattering the eerie quiet. The radio station sat at the edge of the city, its once-proud exterior now a decaying shell weighed down by years of neglect. The cracked, grimy windows stared out over an abandoned street, the streetlights flickering like fading stars in a forgotten sky. Inside, the air felt thick with history—silent whispers of a past long past, carried by the soft hum of the decaying machines, the faint odor of old coffee and dust, and the disembodied whispers of voices that seemed to linger, even in death. It had been three years since Neel Khurana, the beloved late-night DJ, had vanished during his final broadcast. No one had ever found any answers. No body, no clues—only the eerie echo of his last broadcast, replayed on a loop, as if trappe...