Anirudh Bhardwaj - The official blog | Poems | Short Stories | Articles

The night was alive with rain and thunder. Kuala Lumpur’s suburbs seemed drenched in silver sheets as traffic crawled through flooded streets. Outside Berjaya Times Square, Aman stood once again without an umbrella, his shirt already clinging to his skin, his hair plastered across his forehead. The Imbi Monorail station was just a few minutes away, but the sky had turned into an unforgiving waterfall. For ten minutes, he hovered under the mall’s entrance, watching the crowd scatter into taxis, buses, and the shelter of umbrellas. The last train to Butterworth was in less than half an hour, and KL Sentral was still three stations away. He sighed, tightened his backpack straps, and decided there was no point waiting anymore. The rain would win, as it always did. By the time he reached KL Sentral, his shoes squelched with every step. He sprinted toward the KTM Komuter terminal, weaving through the crowd, lungs burning. The clock ticked cruelly close to departure. And then, it happened. So...

Bukit Bintang was buzzing, even under the tyranny of the early monsoon rain. The sky, swollen and gray since morning, poured relentlessly onto Kuala Lumpur’s busiest streets. A mist of vapor rose from hot asphalt every time the water hit, weaving with the steam of satay stalls and the tang of roasted chestnuts.  At four in the afternoon, the rain showed no sign of mercy. Aman stood outside the iconic Pavilion Mall, drenched from head to toe. He had been foolish to step out without an umbrella, and now the rain had claimed its victory. His shirt clung stubbornly to his skin, his jeans were heavy, and his shoes squeaked with every step. He had tried standing under an awning for shelter, but by then it was already too late, the storm had embraced him fully. For twenty minutes, his fingers had danced impatiently across his phone screen, switching between Uber and GRAB. Each time, the same result: no drivers available. Everyone was avoiding the streets in this downpour, except for the d...

When I woke, the morning light was streaming in through a gap in the curtains. It was 9:45. I reached out instinctively, but the space beside me was empty, the bedsheet cold. “Jhanvi?” I called out softly, scanning the room. No answer. Her bag was gone. The scarf she’d been wearing the night before — gone. Even the faint scent of her perfume seemed to have disappeared into the air. A tightness grew in my chest as I checked the terrace, the bathroom, the corridors outside. She was nowhere. It felt as if the night before had been a dream — one of those vivid ones that leave you unsettled when you wake. A knock broke the silence. When I opened the door, a housekeeping guy stood there holding a tray. “Miss Jhanvi asked me to give you this breakfast,” he said with a polite nod. On the tray was a simple but comforting spread: hot aloo parathas with a square of butter melting slowly on top, a small bowl of curd, tangy mango pickle, and a steel kettle of masala chai. He walked in, set the tray...

The night air in Jodhpur had that peculiar weight to it - cool, yet laced with the faint warmth of the day that lingered in the sandstone walls. We were sitting on the terrace of RAAS, the kind of place where the Mehrangarh Fort doesn’t just dominate the skyline — it breathes over you. Lit up in gold, it looked like an ancient guardian watching over the blue city. Jhanvi sat opposite me, elbows resting on the low parapet, a cigarette between her fingers. Except tonight, it wasn’t a cigarette. She took a slow drag, eyes half-closed, then exhaled in lazy swirls that curled and disappeared into the darkness. Without a word, she offered me the joint. “You should try it,” she said, a playful defiance in her tone. I hesitated. I’d never touched the stuff before. But something about her — her restlessness, her untamed energy — made refusal impossible. I took it, awkwardly mimicking her grip, and inhaled far too quickly. The taste was sharp, unfamiliar, the smoke heavier than I expected. I cou...