lets-sumita

[lets-sumita]

Madho Lal Qalandar

Under the shadow of the vast Sehwan desert, a wanderer named Ziya walked with a tattered cloak and bare feet dusted with sand. His heart carried questions that no scholar could answer, and his soul yearned for a love he could not name. His journey led him to the shrine of Lal Shahbaz Qalandar, where the air itself seemed to hum with divine energy. The courtyard was alive with whirling dervishes,…

[lets-sumita]

Fractured Truth

During the climactic showdown in the server room, Arman sacrifices his career—and nearly his freedom—to wipe the system clean, erasing the code entirely. The act, though redemptive, leaves him emotionally shattered

In a neon-lit metropolis, Zara Khan, a bold and intuitive investigative journalist, thrives on unraveling stories of corporate corruption. She’s known for her unrelenting pursuit of the truth, a quality that also defines her fiery relationship with Arman Malik, an ambitious tech entrepreneur. Arman has been making waves with his AI startup, boasting about how his technology will revolutionize…

[lets-sumita]

The Pause IS A Must

At 5 a.m., she opened her eyes and told herself, Just five more minutes. When she woke again, sunlight was pooling through the curtains. 6:45.

Aditi woke before dawn, but the stillness didn’t reach her heart. The weight of an unspoken question—one she’d carried for years—pressed against her chest. She had thought returning to Kolkata would offer clarity, but all it had given her were restless nights and a clock that moved too quickly in the morning. At 5 a.m., she opened her eyes and told herself, Just five more minutes. When she woke…

[lets-sumita]

The Threads of Trust

What would you do if a stranger turned your life upside down—completely uninvited?

Shirin wasn’t expecting a stranger in her living room. But there she was, sitting cross-legged on Shirin’s beige couch, flipping through her journal like it was an old magazine. Her hair was a riot of curls, her oversized hoodie emblazoned with Trust the Mess, and her coffee cup was already sweating rings onto Shirin’s table. “You write poetry?” the woman asked, looking up. “Who are you, and…

[lets-sumita]

A Farmer's Canopy

What I like about the 𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭 is : Humility. Fakiri. Mystery.

It was a quiet evening in a small village in Punjab. The fields, freshly plowed, stretched endlessly under the open sky. Kartar Singh, a humble farmer with a face weathered by years of sun and struggle, sat on the edge of his land. His turban, tied loosely, was frayed at the edges, and his kurta bore patches from years of careful mending. The day’s work was done, and Kartar let out a deep sigh,…

[lets-sumita]

The Stillness Room: A Moment of Reflection

In the heart of a bustling city, where glass towers scraped the clouds and the hum of life never ceased, there was a small, unassuming café tucked into a quiet alley. It wasn’t trendy, didn’t have neon signs or perfectly curated Instagram corners—just a wooden door and a sign that read The Stillness Room. One evening, as the city roared with life, a young woman named Zara stumbled in. She had…

[lets-sumita]

THe Code Spinner On The Go

By the time he stepped out of the café, the spinning top felt heavier in his pocket. He didn’t have answers, but he had more questions than he could count. The world buzzed around him as usual, but Ayaan walked as if he were in two places at

Ayaan’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, frozen in time. The deadline was two hours away. The client wanted the impossible—again. His chest tightened as lines of code blurred into a shapeless, overwhelming mess. Across the café, people sipped their lattes in slow motion, their conversations merging into a dull hum. Ayaan rubbed his temples, his frustration mounting. That’s when he felt…

[lets-sumita]

The Ride That Never Ended

Have you ever felt like life was rushing past you… and you didn’t even notice?

It was 6:45 a.m., and Mia was running late. Again. Her alarm had failed her. Again. And now she was racing down the stairs, coffee in one hand, phone in the other, juggling a million thoughts: The client pitch at 9:00 a.m. The overdue text to her mom. The growing to-do list she’d probably never finish. She slid into the backseat of the waiting Uber, barely looking up as she muttered,…

[lets-sumita]

The Story of a Flower in the Rubble

In the middle of a war-torn city, a boy planted a rose.

It happened in the heart of Baghdad. Bombs had fallen the night before, leaving behind an eerie silence. Streets once bustling with laughter now sat in ruins, dust curling into the air like unspoken prayers. In the middle of that rubble stood a boy, no older than 10. His hands were stained with dirt. In his grip was something impossible. A flower. Not a wild, stubborn weed that fought its way…

[lets-sumita]

Late Night Saga At A Cafe

He seemed out of place amidst the chatter and buzz of the rooftop...

It was a late evening in Delhi. The city’s energy was magnetic, with the hum of chai stalls, honking rickshaws, and a soft breeze weaving through Connaught Place. Ayaan leaned back in his chair at a rooftop café, sipping his tea and scribbling ideas into his notebook. He wasn’t working on a deadline or chasing a goal. For once, he just wanted to pause and reflect. At the next table sat an older…

[lets-sumita]

The Dinner That Never Happened

The story unfolds on the day of an arranged dinner, planned by Rhea's father, to introduce her to a prospective groom.

In a small but bustling Indian town, Rhea Verma, a 30-year-old single woman, faces constant pressure to marry. Working as an architect in a male-dominated field, Rhea navigates societal expectations and personal ambition while caring for her aging father, Sudhir Verma. On the surface, Rhea is the epitome of a dutiful daughter—reserved, grounded, and deeply rooted in tradition. But beneath her…

[lets-sumita]

The Chaiwala In Karachi

𝐊𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢’𝐬 𝐒𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐚𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐬. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐨𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞’𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐚 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲.

Karachi’s Saddar district never sleeps. Bazaars hum with life, rickshaw horns battle the calls of fruit vendors, and the air smells like diesel and hope. Amid this chaos was Musa, a chaiwala whose dhaba stood on the corner of a street that nobody could map, yet everyone somehow found. Musa wasn’t famous for his chai, though it was excellent. It was something else—something nobody could quite put…

[lets-sumita]

Yogi Hai, Bhogi Hai

I think about this story often, especially when I find myself rushing to the next goal, the next milestone. It’s a reminder to pause, breathe, and embrace the now.

In the shadow of the Aravalli hills, where the sun dipped into golden hues and whispered secrets to the wind, lived a wanderer named Zarif. He had no roots, no fixed abode, and carried only a satchel with a worn copy of Rumi’s verses and a string of prayer beads. The villagers called him the mad mystic, but Zarif called himself a seeker. One winter evening, as he rested by the ancient banyan…

[lets-sumita]

Arya - The Dessert Thief

By the time her friends were on their way, the cake was unrecognizable. A total mess. But Arya didn’t freeze—she improvised. The result? A deconstructed trifle that everyone raved about.

Arya had a gift—or a problem, depending on who you asked. Desserts just had a way of disappearing when she was around. Cakes, cookies, chocolates… poof, gone. And if you asked her about it, she’d flash a mischievous grin and say, “Life’s too short to wait for dessert.” Last Sunday, Arya’s legend grew to outrageous proportions. The day started innocently enough. Arya had invited a few friends…

[lets-sumita]

Lost Identities

Empty nest syndrome is not just a term. It is revolution

Meera had always been the kind of woman who kept things running smoothly. For 25 years, her days revolved around her family—packing school tiffins, running to parent-teacher meetings, and managing every festival celebration with precision and care. But now, with her two sons settled abroad and her daughter newly married, the silence in her Mumbai flat felt deafening. “I don’t know what to do…

[lets-sumita]

What's In the Name?

He picked up his pen, hesitating for a moment before letting it glide over the paper. "If your name had been something else," he wrote, "perhaps like this tree—bright, unabashed, impossible to ignore—would I have still whispered it the same way...

The poet sat by the window, where the golden hour painted the sky with streaks of fiery orange. A breeze, gentle yet insistent, carried the fragrance of blooms from a tree that leaned lovingly against the house. Its blossoms were aflame—red, tender, and alive. They swayed like whispered secrets, as if each petal had its own tale to tell. He picked up his pen, hesitating for a moment before…

[lets-sumita]

THe Healing Begins

If you’re in a home where the light has dimmed, Know that even the darkest night remembers the dawn. Seek help. Seek refuge. Seek love that uplifts, not destroys. And for the rest of us: Let us be the hands that guide others back to the light. To safety.

The Call Father Coutinho was wiping down the pews of St. Augustine’s Church when the phone in his study rang. It was late—nearing midnight. Few calls at this hour bore good news. He hesitated, the cloth in his hand hovering over the polished wood. Then, with a sigh, he walked to his study. “Father Coutinho speaking,” he answered, his voice steady despite the odd hour. There was silence on the…