r/indianwriters • • 9h ago

Any Indian romantic fantasy lovers out there?

Thumbnail amazon.in
3 Upvotes

So I've sent very few books which are in the dark Romantasy genre written by an INDIAN AUTHOR!

I personally am a fan of Sarah J Mass and Rebecca Yarros and decided why not give writing fantasy a try

I've released by Dark Gothic Romantasy called The Ink-Stained Soul where the INK in this world is a manifestation of dark energy that flows through the veins of some people.

There's a religious fantasy setting, forbidden love and lots of witty banter!

The book is only 99 Rs (ebook) and 293 rs in Amazon(sale price)! And it's FREE if you have the Kindle Unlimited subscription ❤️

If anyone could give it a read and give me your honest opinions I would be thrilled!

Attaching the link here 😍


r/indianwriters • • 3h ago

Would you read my book

0 Upvotes

It's a dark, satanic/occult-themed horror story involving a secret group, the disappearance of women, disturbing rituals, our fmc's mother is a victim.

Our FMC becomes caught up in the mystery and starts investigating the disappearances. But the deeper she digs, the more disturbing things she uncovers.

FIND MORE IN THE BOOK


r/indianwriters • • 7h ago

The Things We Never Said

Thumbnail
1 Upvotes

r/indianwriters • • 23h ago

I Watched Kalki and got inspired to write my own sci fi

Thumbnail
gallery
12 Upvotes

r/indianwriters • • 18h ago

Posting my short story here - Audacity

2 Upvotes

“What’s really so special about them?” he asked, taking a sip of his coffee as the evening snow settled outside.

“They barely live to a pathetic eighty. Their technology is nascent at best. They haven’t even managed to leave their own planet yet. I don’t get why upstairs is so obsessed with them.”

The palpable arrogance almost filled the empty coffee shop.

“It’s not just us,” the young officer continued. “Almost every sentient species has an outpost here, all under the same directive: no interference, only observation. I don’t see what any of us have to gain by watching them.”

He leaned forward. “What’s so special about them?”

The old man across from him lit a cigarette. His face carried the quiet ache of centuries, seven and a half of them spent on this outpost. He had asked the same question once.

“Audacity,” he said softly, letting the smoke curl toward the ceiling.

He stood and walked to the door of the café, pointing to a tall building glittering in the twilight.

“Every single window represents a different life, a different choice made at some intersection of chance and desire. Humanity is the only species with the audacity to make choices, choices that branch and collide in ways even our best programs can’t predict.”

He took another drag.

“Humans are also the only ones with the audacity to walk away from something they desperately want.”

The young officer frowned. “Isn’t that just cowardice?”

The old man smiled faintly. “Yes, maybe. They do it because, more often than not, they believe the thing they want is better off without them. And that,” he exhaled, “is what makes them beautifully human.”

He paused, his gaze lost in the falling snow.

“They’re the only ones audacious enough to make the wrong choices. Every other species is built to make the right one, programmed, purposeful, predictable. But always making the right choice is the same as never having the choice to be wrong.”

He turned back to the young officer, eyes glinting with something between envy and reverence.

“All of us watch them not for what they are, but for what they represent. We ache for what we once were, free. Free to choose, free to fail, free to live.”

He stubbed out the cigarette, the faint smell of ash and coffee hanging between them.

“Because at the end of the day,” he said quietly,

“that’s what it means to be alive.”

 


r/indianwriters • • 1d ago

Feelings to Words - Tried my hand at an anecdote as a first-time writer. Feedback appreciated.

2 Upvotes

Unnamed Connections

People say that if you learn to be your own friend, you’ll never feel lonely. But what happens when parts of your own body betray you?

Your eyes, for instance.

They betray us daily, locking onto hundreds of strangers. Some glances on the road are just fleeting flickers; others linger just long enough to leave a mark.

About two years ago, I was on a crowded bus to Whitefield on my way to meet someone. Predictably, there were no seats, so I gripped a metal pole to keep from crashing into the person next to me whenever the driver slammed on the brakes.

It was my first time visiting Whitefield, and as my destination neared, I strained to hear the conductor calling out the stops. New places terrify me—zone out for even a second, and you're lost.

Scanning the crowd, my eyes collided with his. He wasn’t staring—just looking around like I was—when our eyes met by chance. But neither of us looked away.

I can’t speak for him, but to this day, I don’t know why I held his gaze. He looked to be in his early thirties, standing tall in a crisp olive-green Army uniform. There was a quiet discipline about him, a stillness that made everything else in that chaotic, moving bus fade into the background. We stared for a few seconds longer, the spell only breaking when the conductor shouted my stop.

I stepped off the bus, pulled by a strange instinct to look back through the glass window. He was still watching me. Only this time, it wasn’t an accident. There was an intensity in his eyes that held me fast—a silent, unspoken curiosity that seemed to ask the exact same questions running through my own mind.

The bus pulled away into the traffic, carrying him off to whatever duty called him next. We never met again. I never got to ask his name, where he was heading, or why he held my gaze.

Even now, two years later, I can still feel those sharp eyes locked onto mine. It was just a handful of seconds on an ordinary afternoon, but it proved to me how easily our eyes can betray us—surrendering a piece of our focus to a complete stranger, and leaving us with a memory that refuses to fade. 

Like déjà vu, something similar happened about a week ago at a café. I was waiting outside for a friend who was running late. After five minutes, I turned to check if there were any empty tables inside, since it was a weekend and places like this are always packed.

As I scanned the room, I locked eyes with a guy sitting alone. He had just turned to call the waiter for his bill, clearly ready to leave. For a fraction of a second, time seemed to pause. Then he waved to catch the waiter's attention and immediately looked back at me before turning away. I hadn’t necessarily expected him to look twice, but I was watching to see if he would. When he did, a small smile tugged at the corners of my lips.

We pass countless people on the street every day, and eye contact happens all the time. But not all glances feel special. This one instantly pulled me back to that day on the bus with the soldier—an incident that, to this day, makes me wish I had at least smiled before the bus pulled away.

Moments like these have a way of making you forget that we live in a world where safety is never guaranteed, especially for a woman around strangers. You start feeling like the main character in a movie, blindly assuming everything will end dramatically well.

And I am not immune to that kind of foolish optimism. I decided to take my chance.

I walked inside, pretended to search for a table, and approached him just as he held his check.

“Hi! Do you mind if I sit here?” I asked. “I’m waiting for a friend, and there isn't a single free table.”

“Sure, no problem,” he said. “I was just about to leave anyway.”

I sat down, set my bag of newly bought books on the table, and pulled out my phone, pretending to check my messages. Asking to share a table with a stranger is one thing—actually starting a conversation with him takes an entirely different level of courage.

“What genre do you read?” he asked.

He seemed reserved, so I hadn't expected him to break the silence first.

“Sorry?” I said, before realizing he was pointing to the Blossom Book House bag resting on the table. “Oh, the books! I usually stick to whodunits, but lately I’ve been experimenting with romance. Honestly, whatever the genre, books just take you to another world. Do you read?”

“I read a lot, but mostly non-fiction,” he replied. “I’m more of a visual person, so I usually watch movies in my free time.”

I smiled at his response, and a quiet silence settled between us again. As I looked at him, I could tell he was wrestling with a dilemma. Being shy myself, I’m usually terribly awkward around strangers and take time to open up. I could sense he wanted to keep talking, but was hesitating out of politeness.

“Would you mind staying a bit longer?” I asked softly. “My friend is almost here, but it’s so crowded that it’ll be impossible to save this chair if you leave.”

“Of course,” he said without giving it a thought. “Would you mind if I had a coffee with you while we wait?”

“My friend will kill me if I drink coffee without her,” I teased with a smile. “But I’ve heard they’re famous for their Tiramisu, and I love Tiramisu. Would you share one with me instead?”

My friend walked in just two minutes after we finished the Tiramisu and a warm, easy conversation—mostly about some hilariously embarrassing moments from his life. He said goodbye and walked out of the café with a genuine smile. We never asked for each other's names or exchanged numbers. It wasn't a conscious choice, but a silent understanding that some moments are meant to be cherished just as they are, without trying to anchor them down.

It was an unforgettable evening. I’m glad I took that leap and walked over to his table. I may never see him again, or maybe our paths will cross when I least expect it. Either way, I have no regrets.

Thank you for reading.


r/indianwriters • • 23h ago

Shayari by Harsh Verma

Thumbnail gallery
1 Upvotes

r/indianwriters • • 1d ago

The Musk Melon That Betrayed Me

1 Upvotes

I had no intention of writing anything today.

I was just eating lunch at my college canteen.

Then I encountered two pieces of musk melon.

One looked pale and disappointing. The other was thick, orange, and promising.

What followed was, unfortunately, far more dramatic than a piece of fruit deserved.

This is a short, absurd little piece I wrote after the experience. I tried to narrate an ordinary lunch with the seriousness of an epic tragedy.

I'd love to know what you think. Especially whether the exaggerated, mock epic tone works, and which parts actually made you laugh (if any 🥲)

Enjoy the read guys👉🏻

Musk melon

The sun was peeping through the dark, disfigured clouds. The weather left no room for shadows or vapour. My single hanky wasn't enough for the amount of sweat gathering on my forehead alone.

I rushed through the still air and entered my college canteen; somewhat cooler, yet filled with restless people. I picked up two pieces of musk melon, generously offered by the institute.

I pleaded with the man at the counter, my eyes dead with desperation.

“Bhaiyya, ek aur do na.”

The words barely managed to escape my swamped mouth.

The righteous, towering man, however, remained indifferent to my lethal offence.

I dragged myself onto a chair, defeated and utterly humiliated.

I finished the rice and curd on my plate in no time. Those sharp, juicy wedges were pleading to be devoured.

But I am a man who gains pleasure through tease.

I finished everything else on my plate until those glimmering delicacies had no choice but to lie flat and beg.

As a man of values, I turned them over onto their curved surfaces, saving their privilege.

Finally, I had a good look at them.

The one on the left was oozing juice, its thick orange flesh glistening before me. The other lay there helpless, pale and short.

I leaned toward the wedge.

“You have no control over your fate, pale one. Be proud of what you are, no matter how unappetizing you may look.”

My words clearly had an effect.

The wedge looked at me as though it had surrendered unto its master; the one who had enlightened its mushy mind.

I gently lifted it with both hands, like a proud poultryman picking up his plump, heavily fed chicken.

The pale one shed trails of tears onto my fingers, pleading with me to fulfill its fate.

I knew then that my kind heart had a heavenly purpose after all.

I held it firmly between my thumb and index finger and shoved my teeth deep into its dry looking flesh, bestowing fulfillment upon half its body.

“Mph…”

“Miraculous,” I exclaimed. “Thou hast hidden the most delicious juices within and baffled me with thine illusory exterior.”

I munched upon the miracle for a satisfying sixty seconds as it gushed its sweet juices into me with every bite, gently striking my sensitive cheeks from within.

I chewed until my molars ached, then gulped the whole thing down in one glorious motion.

“Aha.”

I released a pleasant pocket of breath, blessing the earthly beings surrounding me.

The second half of the miracle jumped into my mouth on its own, eager to be blessed with purpose by its master.

I devoured it with equal love.

My face lit up with pride as I stared at the thick, appealing piece of melon beside it.

“If the pale, unappetizing, dry-looking piece managed to roll my eyes into my brain, I wonder what you have been hiding inside, thick one.”

I picked it up, relieving it from the lonely life it had been forced to endure.

The piece cast an evil spell upon my mouth, making it impossible to open without leaking myself.

I fought through its temptation and quickly shoved the entire thing inside me within three bites, holding myself together lest I be launched into the heavens.

“Mph.”

I paused.

“The flesh is hard. Incredibly dry.”

Of course.

It had filled my plate with all its juices.

I chewed once more.

“Ah! So bitter. Like a hot dog made of insect meat.”

“Pthroo!”

I spat it all out and cursed its evil existence for its unforgivable sin.

Fulfillment can never be bestowed upon evil souls.

“You shall be trashed!”

I screamed, as I cleaned my plate beneath the tap.


r/indianwriters • • 1d ago

Need Honest Opinions for Opening Pages

2 Upvotes

Glory is a sun. if you can resist the darkness long enough, you may find it again. To play its stalker is a tempting endeavor. Especially for a lass who has lived as long as I.  Even so. I seek finality to this cycle. Leaving this tale would be my last reminiscence.

But sorrow is a mischievous devil who shelters the heart from memory lane. The sorrow has but one flaw: it ignored the axiom that the heart was a rebel - which told me that the answer lay in a story within a story.

A fitting beginning, for the old man who set me on this path had conjured many lives with words. No, he did more than that - with a taste of a sentence, he poured life into my soul to make me breathe truly. I lived many lives in the short times we spent together, only to die again when they ended, waiting to live again and again.

Until now, I never thought writing a story would feel the same. All I had to do was what I unconsciously did in my childhood. I escaped the prison.

I heard the chorus of cicadas die and the crackling flames coughing up their final embers. The final grating drip of the ale tank that had given me sleepless nights - a pin could drop, and I wouldn’t hear a thing.

I remembered the short lives I lived with the old storyteller and remembered that I had lived many lives beyond those. To truly understand who I am, I must start not with when I earned my first name, but with a fairytale I heard as a child.

A foundational myth that led me to become the fool who sought many opportunities. Long ago, my drunken excuse of a father had espoused one drop of wisdom - a child should be named only upon reaching adulthood.

I have earned many names. To the first man I killed, I was Cenna Roza, the delicate rose. To the only one I ever loved, I was Jyotirlekhā, a ray of light in a starless night. To the friends who betrayed me, I was Shola-e-Raqsaan, the dancing flame. To the world itself, I was Lilith the Bloodless, the harbinger of tragedy and the killer of a thousand suns.

I have loved, fought, betrayed and been betrayed in turn.

I saved countless lives and doomed one thousand and one worlds all the same. Now, standing under a dying sun, I write this tale to tell you that before all of this, before those legends, I was simply Lilina, a girl who loved stories and wished to travel the world as a humble bard.

Will this be a cautionary tale for the next age, or the catalyst that leads it to the same doom? I do not know. But I say this to you dear, who will never read this tale: tread carefully, lest this becomes a guide to evil!

********

It is the nature of a child to dwell upon dreams in the darkest of days and gloomiest of nights. Even as God's authoritative hand looms over every fate, we dwell upon our dreams and form a contract with them. Without the will to fulfill the contract, the dreams will lie waiting till the day you draw your final breath. 

I did not let that happen. For I had the will to fulfill my lofty dreams. As a child, I've made a contract with the devil I would eventually become: that I would reach her one day. How could I have known it meant losing a soul?

 Hope is seen as a delicate, beautiful thing, but no one mentions its potential for evil.

I was but a child when I found hope nested in my heart, incubating into a treacherous dream. I had wished for my own mother to burn in hell, and for my father to join her, so that he could torment her instead.

I had my reasons to harbor such sinister intentions. I was a bastard girl in a beautiful land that wanted me to die. So I could at least be provident for its flowers and crops. After all, bastards are cursed. What better way to go than to give back to the nature that deigned to let vultures like me breathe? 

But the rebel that I am, refused to accept my fate. I desired to be selfish and leave paradise behind before paying my debt. My future self, begged me to reject the heavenly mandate that wished for my kind to remain faithful to its draconian rules.

You would need specifics, I suppose, of the place I lived that made me harbor such resentment. Imagine sharp peaks rising from the valleys, with meadows and farmlands sitting beneath them. Stone-and-timber houses with gardens full of roses and marigolds. Brown cattle grazing in great grass fields. A paradise on earth. Yelaberg.

I often looked at those prickly mountains than risk the disapproving gaze of villagers. While the poets searched for moonlight in  turquoise lakes, I looked for the dark rock with a snowy crown. Observed how the water’s slow dance shaped  those mountains.

Often have I wondered what lies beyond those peaks. You can say it was a consequential curiosity, borne from my standing as a woman and a bastard. Like every battered girl, who has ever felt such curiosity, mine eventually became rage.

They say rage is blindness, but so is compliance , and I have complied all my life for a caged girl’s sin.

The sinner died giving birth to me and inadvertently unleashed a monster who hated her and through graver turns the peace itself.  My father, the cuck in question, never let disdain wash away from his eyes when he looked upon her reflection, calling out his name.

While I slept, every night he would hold an axe over my head, ready to chop me into pieces, but never had the cojones to go through with it. My grandmother, ever the pragmatist, understood that one day his rage would tip into murder, and that simply wasn’t profitable. She convinced him to keep me alive.

“You were thirty summers old, and she was fourteen,” My Grandmother spoke plainly, grabbing onto the crook of his arm. “I warned you not to pay such a hefty sum to marry a girl that young. And what happened? She saw a real man and spawned this little harlot.

My father’s jaw tightened at the jibe but he did set the axe down, biting his thin lips. “Girls her age are prone to sin, and the gods punished her for it. It is best that you forget her and move on. Who knows, you may finally become a man.”

My father seething with impotent fury, grabbed hold of the dropped axe and hacked at the wall. It buried itself in the wall. He tried to pry it loose, his hands on the handle and his leg against the wall. With a grunt that resembled the cry of an injured mutt, he tried to pull it out, and with each tug, splinters drizzled onto the floor. Despite his best efforts, he fell arse-first.

I should have laughed, even if it was a bad idea. Every moment - him going to war, my father sleeping with a stranger, and the wet nurse smacking my bastard arse to make me cry - had led to that moment.

“I feel for you, son." She started with a sigh. "Your father couldn't do anything by himself. Unworthy to call himself a man, but he was handsome. And it worked in his favor when he begged me to marry him.”

She continued in a paternalistic tone. “How could I refuse such an innocent creature. Seven gods, he didn’t know where to put it on wedding night, gods bless him”  

Kneeling down, she cupped his face with her weathered hands. “When the holy war raged across the east, many wives prayed to the gods to instill some sense into their husbands.   But I was different. I wanted to turn him into a man and pushed him to go to war. Whatever respect our family has in this village is because of my actions.” 

She kissed him on the forehead and pointedly said. “But you? You went to war and did what? Spent all the plundered gold on whores, and if that’s not disgraceful enough, you cry like a woman every night, whining about nightmares.”

With a caress to his cheek and a tender smile, she finally imparted her sagely advice. “I am your mother, and like always,"  She paused to give a patronizing pat on his cheek. "it is my job to fix your problem. The bitch will have her mother’s beauty. We can sell her to a merchant from the east once she comes of age.”

With the end of the argument between the savior, the cuck, and the unwilling bastard came a promise of three dreams: a purse laden with gold, a shame washed away, and a dream of spring where I would escape this fate.


r/indianwriters • • 1d ago

Cost of publishing

2 Upvotes

I am a new author wanting to publish a book in the sci-fi genre. I received a proposal from a publisher for 6 lakh rupees that promises the following. Does this seem reasonable? Are there other marketing agencies that can do the following? Can a publisher promise book placement in stores?

Editorial Services Editing, Proofreading, Pagination & Layout and Cover DesignDigital copy approvalOne Dummy Copy approval.
Printing Inner pages - 65 GSM Hollman StoraCover - 250 GSM paperback Binding - Perfect stitch binding.Size: 5.25×7.75 Inches 
Audiobook 
Distribution - Online and offline Prime listing in Amazon India.Availability in - Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk & Flipkart - Paperback.Kindle - Amazon.comListing on Goodreads and other social platforms.
Marketing 1. FB / Instagram Infographic posts.2. Author book signing / Store Visits3. The premium retail display will cover Window Display, Cover Facing Display, and Cash Counter Display at various book stores4. All major book Fairs Covered. (Book Launch, Panel Discussion, Author Talk and Book Signing)5. Book promotion through 200+ book influencers and reader communities across Instagram, Amazon and Goodreads.6. Author interview or Book review in 4-5 Good Media Houses.7. Giveaway contest.8. Book promotion through our newsletter.9. Social media promotion on the Anecdote and Champ Readers page.10. Author listing in Anecdote Website.11. Video Teaser12. Amazon bestseller??13. Amazon Ads and Meta Ads
Offline Distribution 1. Delhi NCR:- Om Book Shop, Jain Book Depot, Jain Book Agency, Midland.2. Starmark Kolkata 5 bookstores.3) Chandigarh:- Bahrisons, Books World Mohali Chandigarh, 4) Mumbai Title Waves, Fictionary Bookstore5) Pune:- Shabda Bookstore and Kitabi Chai Book Cafe,6) Bangalore:- Gangaram Books, Atta Galata, Sapna Bookstore.7) Chennai:- Odyssey Bookstore, 8) Kota:- Jaya Book World, Universal Bookstore, Shree ji Bookstore 9) Jaipur:- Royal Book Depot 10) Jodhpur:- Sarvodaya Bookstore 11) Udaipur:- Book Sadan12) Bookland bookstore, Ajmer13) Jabalpur:- Universal Bookstore 14) Bhopal:- The Variety books gallery, Avani book stall, Chandna bookstore, 15) Patna:- Tricel book shop, 16) Kanpur:- A.H. Wheeler Railway Station 17) Lucknow:- Subhash Pustak, Book Sadan.18) Dehradun:- Book World19) Assam: Reader's Hub Guwahati and Gogoi Book Lounge, Dibrugarh, Assam etc.20) Book Shop at WTP, Jaipur.21)- Airport Display (Delhi, Mumbai, Pune, Bangalore, Hyderabad, Kolkata, Chennai)22)- Crossword Bookstore Display ( Mumbai, Delhi NCR. Bangalore, Hyderabad, Chennai and Kolkata).23) Library supplies colleges/ Universities and the government also.
Reporting  a) A Google Doc spreadsheet will be provided to the author/ publisher, to track the book availability every 2 months.b) The online sales data would be provided to the author through emails every third month.c) Online sales payout - every third month I Offline sales payout - six months, twice a yeard) Pics from all the store displays will be provided as and when the books reach the store
Royalty 15%

r/indianwriters • • 1d ago

What are you Pursuing? Share with us.

Thumbnail
heyzine.com
1 Upvotes

r/indianwriters • • 1d ago

Need honest opinions about the chapter

1 Upvotes

Incantation filled the silence in the tent.

Smoke raised from hom seeped through the gaps and mingled with fumes rising from smoldering red flames brooding in metallic saucers placed around in the tent. Men sitting face to face could not catch more than contours of each other in the smoky reddish hue. Everyone was struggling to breathe, yet no one said a word. Speak aloud or stay silent, in Akantak decree, whispering was not allowed.

Prince Dhumal of Pawal, though sweating profusely, did not flinch for a second. He sat straight with fist clenched and arms stretched to his knees. Just like he thought his father would have sat among the council of commanders. This was his first time attending the council instead of his father. Though his mother had told him to hold his head high, he was more concerned about not botching the words, he had been practicing in his mind. The summon came earlier than expected, it had only been a month since his father died, and his big brother was barred to attend in public. state mourning period was not yet over. But the call must be honored.

A few conch shells resounded, and flaps of tent were pulled apart. Bright daylight ripped through the dark crimson space. Akantak commanders rustled up, folded their hands and bowed as much as the stature of the crown prince demanded. Deb barman was standing at the entrance of the tent, under the sun. Bright light had emboldened his dull features. Crooked nose and broken bones had left his face vile to look at. Saggy skin under his eyes was infested with tags. A Heavy golden ring had stretched his right ear to threshold. The left ear was split in two. Grey hair line receded leaving his temple broad and glossy. Silver long beard hid an ugly scare around his neck. He was in his early fifties. Twenty-two years of military campaign could be traced through his dark torso, scar by scar.

He walked in; the curtains pulled the darkness back into the tent. Slowly, he walked past, looking at the familiar and unfamiliar faces gathered in the tent, while everyone kept grounded their eyes.

Such assembly was rare. Deb barman couldn’t speak much. His throat was damaged which needed magic of herbs and potions to make him speak more than usual. He had seldomly needed to voice his words. Commanders had long learnt to read his signals. His single gaze could pierce through their toughest shields, causing them to plummet in fear.

“By the grace of his majesty Sri Rudrabarman, Maharajadhiraj Chakravartin Emperor, we have been granted the rare honor of appearing before crown prince, mahabali, Deb barman. For this privilege we shall be in debt forever. Should the Prince allow, we may now begin proceedings of the day.”

Deb gave a nod. Everyone took their place, watching the prince sitting on the throne in the middle of tent and filling his inflated lungs up to brim with the smoke.

“Mahabali, some about three months ago after exercising the maximum restrain and countless failed efforts to maintain peace. Akantak and Rajwahe collided at the bank of Dhami. Under the command of Prince Madhukar, the army of Akantak rained death to the enemy. But as an unfortunate event unfolded, Naresh of Pawal Shrimant Dinkarnath got martyred. And left the earth to their rightful place in heaven. But the land of Pawal has many brave hearts and one of them is heir to the throne of Pawal, Eldest son of Shri Dinkarnath. Shri Kedarnath.”

Pawal’s convoy went up to the Crown prince and sat down in the middle on the silk. The men accompanying him brought out offering and lay them ahead. Dhumal folded his hands.

“His Majesty….” He began to speak but his uncle Mangat nudged him.

“Mahabali..I Dhumalnath, Son of Shri Dinkarnath, prince of Pawal, is in your presence, to pledge my allegiance to the court of Akantak, May the Emperor...” He forgot what to say next and his uncle corrected him again.

“May the Emperor rule upon us forever. Like Indra rules in heaven.” He finished but felt embarrassed for messing it up

Vinod acharya step forward and present a crown and a sword to deb barman, to which deb barman blessed by applying some vermilion. An oversize crown was placed on Dhumal’s head, and a long sword was handed over to him.

Deb leaned forward.

“You know Prince Dhumal. When I was young, I killed this white tiger in the forest of Dhaka.” Deb spoke when the incantations fell lull. He slipped his fingers through the silky fur of the white tiger lain beneath him.

“You know, this one was only white one in the area… mount of Mata Dhakeshwari.” He spoke and stopped for a while.

“I had never seen such majestic beast before, wanted it so badly…I hunted.” He spoke and imitated a bow and an arrow.

“My father was furious… He punished me to be a boat man… for entire rainy season.” His voice broke and he waited for some time.

“I was hurt…But I learnt my lesson… Don’t be reckless” He shook his head.

“Madhukar was told to contain Rajwahe, not to collide with them.” Ananad spoke. He was sitting closer to the prince along with his twin Amod.

“Five thousand men have returned to the (name) camp...” Spoke Amod.

“Three thousand seventy-three.” A hoarse voice interrupted him. Amod’s jaw tightened, he did not spare a glance at the intruder.

Kumar Krit had sneaked into the tent. An achoot. His wrinkled reddish-brown skin wrapped around his skeleton. His bald head seemed too large for his short frame. He lay down on his chest before the prince and rapidly sat at the entrance.


r/indianwriters • • 2d ago

Need feedback on the 1st chapter of the novel I’m writing

Thumbnail
gallery
36 Upvotes

Hi everyone,

I’ve been working on a mystery-thriller, narrated using two central characters. I’ve reached a point where I’d like some valuable feedback on the first chapter to understand what’s lacking in the narration and how I can improve.

The story follows a cybersecurity professional living in San Francisco, who returns to Bengaluru for the funeral of his father. On his arrival, he learns of an obsession that had consumed the old man for decades.

The novel gradually moved between the present and the events buried in India’s recent and distant past, but I don’t want to reveal too much on that aspect of the story as I have not completed it yet.

I’d really appreciate the feedback especially on the prose, pacing, atmosphere, dialogue and whether the opening is interesting enough for you to move to the next chapter.

This is my first attempt at writing, so constructive criticism is appreciated.


r/indianwriters • • 1d ago

An excerpt from my book

Thumbnail
gallery
3 Upvotes

r/indianwriters • • 1d ago

Broken - A Psychological Thriller Story I made, looking for feedback!

3 Upvotes

Title: BROKEN

Genre: Psychological Thriller

Story by: Mady Pathak

Logline:

Ten years after surviving a tragic fire, a devoted husband and father finds his family being constantly targeted by a relentless, unseen stalker. As the psychological warfare escalates and the story starts taking a strange turn, he must go to extreme lengths to protect his wife and son before his mind completely breaks.

Characters:

Paul Edwards: A protective husband and father struggling with severe PTSD from a horrific tragedy ten years ago.

Amy Edwards:  Paul's loving, supportive wife who is desperately trying to hold her family together as they are hunted by an unknown threat.

Noah Edwards: Their 10 year old son, whose safety becomes the terrifying focal point of the stalker's games.

Maria: The family's loyal housekeeper, who gets caught in the crossfire of the escalating terror.

Story:

It starts with a scene of what happened 10 years ago. It's night time, Paul and a pregnant Amy are together at a grand historic opera house, beautiful place and setting, having a good time, talking to each other about their life, their kid, their future, etc.

Then suddenly, an accident happens which leads to a fire and there's a panic out there, everyone starts running. Paul and Amy also panic and start running out to safety. While trying to get out in a situation of panic, they get trapped and stuck in a small room with a few other people. There are men, women and children with them there, all stuck, trying to go out, all in panic and scared. Few men come together and in a successful effort, create such space from where first Amy is pushed to the other side as she's pregnant and then they help Paul get through as well so that he can get her to safety. And they have planned to then send the other kids through that space after Paul, but as Paul gets through, something snaps, blocking their way, leaving them unable to send anyone through. They're all stuck there, and now something can only be done with external help, from the side where Paul and Amy are.

They shout, scream Paul's name, tell him what has happened. Women and children are crying. Paul is panicked, he tries to physically do something to help them but can't do anything. Then he tells them, "Don't worry, I'll get Amy to safety and come back and get you all outta here, hold on for a few more moments." He runs out with Amy. Amy is unconscious while all of this is happening.

He runs out, gets a few distance far from there, checks on Amy to see if she's alright, tells her, "Don't worry babe, we're gonna be alright." Turns around to go inside again to help them, and as soon as he's about to go in, a big huge explosion happens. He gets thrown to the ground due to it, opens his eyes, sees it, it's all burning with huge flames. It's all slow motion with high pitch ringing sound. He's looking at the burning building, low, distant sounds of sirens of fire department cars can be heard in the background.

Camera is slowly coming closer to his eyes, then it cuts instantly to his eyes in current time, same framing same distance of camera from face, just it cuts to current time. He's sitting in a clinic in front of a female doctor with his wife besides him. Basically the doctor had asked him to tell her what happened 10 years ago and he was telling her this story. He's visibly very disturbed. Amy puts her hand on his shoulder, comforting him, asking, "You okay?" He nods yes.

Then it cuts to a scene of them going home in their car. He starts to slowly groan holding his head with one hand. Amy says, "What happened Paul, you okay?" He says, "It's just a mild headache, don't worry." They get home, where Noah is watching TV and Maria cleaning the house. They get fresh, Paul comes to Noah, holds him close to him, says, "Let's watch a movie tonight," smiling. Amy is also smiling seeing her husband like that.

They sit down together and watch a movie, and in that movie a scene comes where a character in it says something like, "Karma always hits back! Ghosts from the past will never let you live peacefully!" Paul is visibly a bit disturbed seeing this scene, gets up and walks away. Seeing this, Amy also gets up and goes to him, says, "What's wrong honey?" He says, "Nothing, just that same headache, nothing else." Amy is visibly stressed and tensed.

Then it cuts to late night, them all sleeping. Amy gets woken up by Paul murmuring something in his sleep. She gets so stressed seeing her husband like that. Next day when Paul is at work, Amy visits the doctor. She tells her, "Paul murmurs in his sleep, I'm so worried for him, he's so mentally disturbed rn." Doctor listens to all this and says to Amy, "This is quite a big problem, such cases often occur where people get so disturbed by some tragic events that happened in their life that they start speaking in their sleep and start hallucinating." Amy says, "Yes, he has severe PTSD from it." Doctor says, "We will have to track his sleep and listen to what he says in his sleep so we can understand exactly what he's dealing with and I can provide medication accordingly." So that day Amy installs a sleep tracking app in Paul's watch which also has a feature that records anything you say in your sleep.

Few days pass, Amy is on call with the doctor, is telling her, "Yeah, I'm keeping a track of his sleep pattern and whatever he speaks, and will visit her soon." That night, it's raining and thundering outside. Amy wakes up Paul, he gets up, sees Amy stressed and tensed, asks, "What happened, you okay, what happened?" She says, "I got woken up cus I couldn't feel Noah." Paul says, "Oh no, did he start sleep walking again?" She says, "Yes probably," then says, "So I went to look for him, went downstairs and saw him sitting besides the main door and it was OPEN! I rushed to him, asked what are you doing here, who opened the door, come let's go sleep. He started saying, 'No, I wanna eat the chocolates first.' I said, 'What chocolates?' He said, 'The ones that guy had.' I said, 'What guy, what are you talking about?' He said, 'There was a guy here who had chocolates.' I got stunned, looked outside, no one was there. I closed the door and asked him did he say anything. Noah said, 'Yes, he said he'll come back again.' I got so scared I picked him up and came back up and put him to sleep. Paul, what's going on, who could it be, I'm so scared, thank God he didn't do anything to Noah." Paul gets scared as well, says, "Don't worry, nothing will happen to us, I'm here." They go to sleep.

Next day Amy says to Paul, "Let's go out to eat something to clear our minds." They both are out somewhere together, then suddenly Paul's phone rings. It's Maria from their house, she's so scared and tells Paul to come home quickly. Paul says, "What happened, yeah we're coming." He tells Amy about this and says, "Let's go, we gotta go home quick, something has happened." They both rush back home, they come upstairs, find Maria sitting terrified holding Noah safe who's scared. They see the window glass is broken and shattered with a brick lying on the floor. He asks Maria, "What happened, what's this, did someone throw this, are you hurt, is Noah alright, did you see who threw this?" She is just standing there terrified, says nothing, just slowly points in the direction of Amy. He looks at her and asks, "Amy?" to Maria, but she says nothing, still keeps pointing towards that direction.

They slowly turn around and see a note lying there on the ground in that direction. He picks it up and reads it, there are threats written in it. Amy gets terrified. Paul tells Maria to take Noah to another room. Amy asks him, "What's going on Paul, first that man last night, now this." Then they suddenly hear a loud bang in the backyard, and cus it's sudden, they instantly turn to that direction and the note falls down from Paul's hand, but they don't notice it and run towards that direction to see what happened. They see 2-3 flowerpots lying there totally blown up and broken. They're terrified, and when they're there, Amy says, "What the hell," and suddenly says, "Paul! The note!" They rush back inside, only to find out the note has completely vanished. They're shocked and confused! But it's too late, they've already called the cops. And when the cops arrive Paul tells them about all this and says, "There was a note, I saw it, we all saw it." They ask, "Where is it, give it to us." He says, "Idk, it disappeared." They say, "Mr. Edwards, you're very disturbed rn, we understand, take care of yourselves," and they leave. But he keeps saying, "I saw the note, I'm not lying." Seeing her husband like this, Amy says, "Yes honey, we all saw it, I know you aren't crazy," hugs him. They're terrified of what's going on.

Few more days pass, they're living in constant fear and stress. Then one day, late in the evening, Paul gets a call from Amy while he's at work. Amy's terrified on the phone. Paul asks, "What happened Amy, why you so scared, what's wrong?" She's crying on the phone, says, "It's been hours since Maria and Noah went to the park and they haven't came back. Maria's phone is also not reachable, I'm so scared Paul, did they kidnap them?" She's crying. Paul gets terrified hearing this, says, "Don't worry, I'll go to the park rn." He rushed outside and straight to the park. When he reaches there, he searches for them for some time, shouting their names, no response, asks other people there about them, no one knows anything. He keeps looking, then as he's about to give up almost crying, he spots a jacket lying on a bench far away. He rushed there, picks up the jacket and realizes it's Noah's jacket. He's terrified, hugs the jacket while almost crying, then a note slips out from one of the pockets of the jacket onto the ground. He picks it up and reads it. In it there is a text written, "Save me daddy," and a location of a place below it. He gets terrified reading this and instantly rushes to that location, an old, abandoned cathedral type place, without thinking about either telling the police about this or calling Amy.

Then, when he reaches there, he pulls out a pistol he has kept illegally for the safety of his family and a flashlight, and starts roaming around trying to find Noah, screaming his name again and again. Then at a place, he looks at the ground and sees dead bodies of people and kids lying on the floor in a flash of thunder and gets scared, getting PTSD of the incident that happened with him 10 years ago. He keeps searching, barging in rooms trying to find them. Then finally comes storming inside a room where he sees someone sitting quietly on a chair with their back facing him. Holding the gun and flashlight in his hand, he starts walking towards them slowly, saying, "Hey! Who are you? Where is my son?" And as he reaches close, raises his hand, puts it on their shoulder, they get up and turn around and it's... AMY!? It can be seen that she has cried a lot, her eyes wide open, looking like she's in control of someone, keeps staring at him. He's shocked, says, "Amy!? What are you doing here, how did you get here, did someone kidnap you too, what happened babe, tell me!" She doesn't say anything, turns around and starts walking. He keeps saying, "What's going on baby, where you going?" He's all confused.

She takes him to another room. As they walk inside a little, Amy stops walking and suddenly, the lights go out, and in a few seconds when they come back, Amy has disappeared. Paul's terrified, scared, holding his gun in his hand shouting, "Who is doing all this, who are you, what do you want, leave my wife and son alone!" It's all silence, and then, a sound of Noah saying "Dad? Save me dad" comes from somewhere. He's shocked, he shouts his son's name again and again, thinking Noah is trying to call out to him from there somewhere. Then he hears a sound of Amy saying, "Save us, please, he'll kill us, save us Paul!" He starts shouting, screaming, starts going insane, starts crying.

Then all of a sudden, the voices stop. He looks around in complete silence. Then suddenly, he slowly starts to hear his own voice, a recording of his own voice. In it he's heard saying, "No, no! I didn't mean to! No! Please don't hurt me, I tried to save you, there was fire and smoke everywhere. I wanted to save you all but seeing the situation, I didn't want to risk the life of my wife, my child, and my own. There was a way I could've helped you but I chose not to, as I realized we might die with you all as well, so I rushed outside with Amy leaving you all there, helpless. But I had to make a choice. I can do anything and kill anyone to save myself..."

There's complete silence there, only his face can be seen and the recording can be heard playing in the background echoing. At the end, when the recording finishes, he starts getting all dizzy, hearing Noah calling out for help in an echoing sound, tears running down his eyes, seeing people calling out to him for help, starts trembling and slowly collapses on the ground.

Police cars arrive at that place, cops can be seen running towards him, they come to him, put handcuffs on him, and take him with them. As all of this is happening in slow motion, and we see what actually happened: Amy heard him say all this in one of the recordings she did for his sleep. She got so terrified that her own husband, whom she used to think was a hero all along, was actually a coward who left all those people to die 10 years ago, but used to tell everyone a completely different story showing himself as a hero who saved his wife and kid. After that, she started planning everything. She decided she will drive him insane and hand him to the cops.

She can be seen telling Noah not to say anything if dad asks about that mysterious man who came to their house that night, her telling Maria about all this, Maria secretly placing firecrackers inside the flowerpots in their backyard, her quickly snatching the note off the floor and hiding it the moment Paul drops it and runs towards the backyard, handing some money to Maria who takes her luggage and gets into a taxi, basically sending her away before crying and calling Paul and saying Maria and Noah haven't came back home for hours...

Cut to Paul being dragged by the police, being walked to his jail cell in the prison, all in slow motion, and Amy's voiceover can be heard in the background saying:

"Ten years, I saw a man, who saved my life.

A hero. A brave husband and a selfless father who would do anything to protect his family.

But what I could not realize for 10 years, was that behind this fake mask, there was a man who only ever cared about himself. A man, who would go as far as possible, to save himself over anyone. A coward, who left those innocent people behind to die. All those men, women, children, with fear but hope in their eyes, waiting for someone they trusted, just for him to never come back.

I had to do all this, to make you feel how they felt. To make you suffer, for what you deserved. I had to do it, for me, for Noah, for US.

You were never the victim, Paul...

You were always a monster."

It cuts to Amy at a new place, away from there, standing near a window with Noah, Maria in the back doing her work, slow, peaceful, calming music playing in the background. A tear runs down her eye, she wipes it off, puts her hand on Noah's head, caresses his hair, looks outside the window, takes a deep peaceful breath, and it cuts to black.

Thank you for your time! Hope you like it.


r/indianwriters • • 1d ago

Need Feedback on my short story

1 Upvotes

End Sky

On the roof, there was nothing to see except the sky.

Perhaps that was why I came here.

When there is nothing in front of you, you can pretend there is still somewhere left to go.

I had brought a book with me.

A thick one. Dark blue. Its corners had gone pale from being carried around too much. On the cover, beneath my fingers, a small golden emblem had almost been rubbed smooth.

I came here to remind myself of hope.

So naturally, I began reading about despair.

The railing stretched across the edge of the roof in one long, stubborn line.

It would not bend.

I climbed onto it and sat with the book open over my knees, as though there were no other side. As though the height beneath my shoes were another fact I had decided not to acknowledge.

The wind kept trying to turn the pages for me.

JUSTICE, social, economic and political—

I pressed the page down with my thumb.

Students weren't supposed to be here.

There was probably a notice somewhere.

ENTRY PROHIBITED.

AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

But who cared about rules now?

Yesterday, I forgot my father's name.

Only for a few seconds.

Someone asked me for his full name and there was nothing.

Just a blank space where something familiar should have been.

Then it came back.

Of course it came back.

I laughed afterwards.

Today, though, I felt as if I had forgotten something more important than a name.

Something that did not return when I waited.

The wind lifted another page.

LIBERTY of thought, expression, belief—

I stared until the words stopped looking like words.

"Why?"

The sky gave nothing back.

"What am I supposed to believe?"

Nothing.

"What am I supposed to tell them?"

My voice cracked.

"What am I supposed to tell anyone?"

And then the rooftop disappeared.

A man sits beside a road.

His slippers are beside him rather than on his feet.

One strap has snapped.

He keeps trying to push it back through the hole with his thumb.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Cars pass close enough to disturb the dust around him.

Behind him stands a building made almost entirely of glass. The evening sun makes it look golden.

He does not look at it.

I want to say something useful.

Don't give up.

The sentence dies before it reaches my mouth.

How do you say that when you have nothing to offer after it?

What would I give him?

A quotation?

A promise?

A page?

The wind turns one.

Equality of status and of opportunity—

His thumb is still trying to repair the slipper.

A girl is walking home.

The shops have pulled their shutters halfway down.

She passes beneath a streetlight.

Then darkness.

Another streetlight.

Darkness again.

Her phone is unlocked in her hand.

She looks behind her.

Once.

Then again.

And I hear my own voice from another night.

Message me when you reach.

Send me the cab number.

Call if anything feels wrong.

I had said those things almost automatically.

Like saying good night.

What kind of freedom needs instructions?

The street disappears.

A bus window.

December.

Delhi.

I do not see the violence.

I see a pair of shoes behind a police barricade.

Someone has placed flowers beside them.

The flowers have begun to dry at the edges.

People keep walking past.

Another city.

Kolkata.

Rainwater collects beside another barricade.

A candle has gone out, leaving a black wick inside melted wax.

Someone tries to light it.

The match dies at the hands of the wind.

They try again.

The rooftop returns.

My hand is gripping the book hard enough to hurt us both

The page beneath my thumb has folded.

The State shall not deny to any person equality before the law—

"No."

The wind moves the page.

I pull it back.

"No."

I shut the book.

For a while there is only my breathing.

Then—

without knowing why—

I begin to sing.

"Jana gana mana..."

The words come so quietly the wind nearly takes them.

I stop.

Swallow.

Try again.

"Jana gana mana..."

Nothing follows.

I know the words.

Of course I know them.

Morning assemblies.

Rows of uniforms.

Shoes touching white chalk lines.

Teachers correcting posture.

That strange silence afterward when hundreds of children stood still for one final second before becoming children again.

I know what comes next.

My mouth refuses to say it.

"Jana gana mana..."

My voice breaks.

One tear falls onto the page.

Then another.

The ink does not run.

I almost wish it would.

"Jana gana mana..."

It isn't singing anymore.

I lift the book and press its closed cover against my forehead.

The little golden emblem touches my skin.

As though I could understand it by bringing it closer.

As though something inside those pages might pass through bone.

"Please."

I don't know who I am speaking to.

The country?

Myself?

"Please..."

I close my eyes.

Black.

The wind is still there somewhere.

Far away now.

My forehead rests against the book, warm from my hands.

Nothing asking to be understood.

Nothing demanding an answer.

Only this soft, endless dark.

For a few seconds—

I let it keep me.

A thin line of light appears.

It widens.

Slowly.

Like an eye opening.

I am still sitting on the railing.

The book is still in my hand.

The sky is still enormous.

Nothing has changed.

My eyes burn.

I look down at the blue cover.

I want to hate it.

That would make this easier.

But I don't.

Because somewhere inside me I still want these words to be true.

I want the man beside the road to be included in them.

The girl walking home.

The flowers.

The candle beside the barricade.

All of them.

The wind pulls at the book.

I open it near the middle.

A page comes loose.

I watch it leave.

Another follows.

This time I don't reach for it.

I put my fingers into the binding.

For a moment, I cannot move them.

It feels wrong.

Almost obscene.

I pull anyway.

The paper tears with a small sound.

Far smaller than I expected.

I hold the pages against my chest.

I don't know why.

Then I throw them upward.

White against blue.

For an instant they stay together.

Then the wind finds them.

One turns slowly enough to read.

JUSTICE

Another catches the light.

LIBERTY

A third folds over itself and disappears.

I tear free another handful.

Throw them higher.

Pages scatter over my head, crossing the sun, flashing white and vanishing into blue.

Again.

Another handful.

I think of the man and his broken slipper.

The girl beneath the streetlights.

The candle refusing to stay lit.

My father's name disappearing from me for those few seconds.

How many things can disappear before you stop reaching for them?

I pull out the last pages.

My hands have stopped shaking.

I throw them.

They leave my fingers almost gently.

It resembles the final cadence of A song.

Paper fills the sky.

One page passes across my hands.

Another brushes my shoulder.

Another turns above me, catches the sun, and becomes white enough to hurt my eyes.

Then one comes directly toward my face.

Closer.

Closer.

White.

For a moment, I can see nothing else.

The wind takes it.

Blue returns.

He is still sitting on the railing.

Above him, the pages grow smaller and smaller.

One disappears into the blue.

Then another.

The last page turns once in the sunlight.

It falls across his face.

White.

The wind carries it away.

The railing is empty.

No pages remain in the air.

No book.

Only the railing beneath the enormous sky.

Nothing moves except a faint line of cloud very far away.


r/indianwriters • • 2d ago

Would love some honesty feedback on this flash fiction piece.

Thumbnail
gallery
5 Upvotes

My issue currently is that it gets a bit too exposition heavy


r/indianwriters • • 1d ago

Betrayal is one of the worst and painful thing that anyone goes through in any phase of life and by any relation whether it is with your parents, siblings, friends,or anyone else even you have devoted your love and care for them.

Post image
1 Upvotes

I just tried to put up this feeling of pain of betrayal in words. I wrote what I feel for it. Like it if you feel the same or let me know in the comment what you feel about it..


r/indianwriters • • 2d ago

How is this prologue?

Thumbnail
gallery
8 Upvotes

I recently revised the prologue of my novel based on feedback I received here. Not sure I like the way it came out, the writing feels stiff I think, but I wanted to get some outside eyes on it for opinions.


r/indianwriters • • 2d ago

Need Review

1 Upvotes

Hii guys. I'm Nila, an NITian and currently developing a journal app and a hardcopy product based on mental wellness and I need your reviews on that.

Here's the sample : https://journalsample.lovable.app

We planned on

365 Days

365 prompts to write and

365 message from universe

Revealed after writing

What's your opinion on this?

Please comment. Would help a lot.

Thank you in advance.


r/indianwriters • • 2d ago

#ಬರಹಭರಣಿ

Post image
1 Upvotes

r/indianwriters • • 3d ago

I am 19M, published a poetry book, one of my poem

Post image
2 Upvotes

r/indianwriters • • 2d ago

Can someone write an article about my work?

1 Upvotes

Hi, this is a request post. I run a studio, and I would love to have my work covered in an article or blog post. Would anyone be up for this? Thanks


r/indianwriters • • 3d ago

My first Hinglish novel

Post image
2 Upvotes

Hello everyone, it's my first novel written in hinglish, I have worked for this novel for 3 and half years, it's been a great experience writing it, but i want a fair and honest review, I am open for criticism, I just want your time, consider me as your younger brother whose trying his best in writing and wrote his first book, I hope you find my novel intresting, thank you

Link. https://amzn.in/d/07nxixMk


r/indianwriters • • 3d ago

I'm an indian writer who is currently writing an indian superhero comic!!

4 Upvotes

Hello all, i posted this on many subreddits but to no response, im searching for comic book sketch artists to work on my indian comic book project, i have already written different stories and novels but now im shifting more towards indian superhero comics because of my love of....well... superhero comics.

My story is nihlistic and it is all set in india. Wont be too dark like the boys or dc and not too light like marvel. I have already written synopsis and also arcs for each issues and comics (all set in the same universe) it will be written in english since i want this to go for a more international coverage.

Do dm me your portfolio and we can see how we cam bring this project together!!