The 2025 Book Review Literary Trust Short Story Contest is now accepting submissions. The contest is being held on the occasion of the 50th Anniversary celebrations of The Book Review Literary Trust.
The previous edition of this contest was held in 2020. In addition to awarding the winners, a collection of the best entries was published in the anthology, The Thief’s Funeral: The Book Review Anthology of Short Stories, edited by Sucharita Sengupta, Chandra Chari, and Uma Iyengar. It was published by the Aleph Book Company in March 2024.
Here is an excerpt from one of the winning stories, ‘Not a Day for Outings’ by Armaan
Sayma called out to Razia, to join her for an airing as she checked on the state of the flower beds. She had been pointlessly struggling to revive her pitifully weak chrysanthemums, the latest phalanx of flowers that had remained staunchly wilted and failed her. But she loved them nonetheless. Sayma envisioned her flowers shielding her from the corruption and dirt surrounding her – a fortress with petals for ramparts.
She knew that Razia, on the other hand, shared none of her fantasies; for most of the day, her hands clutched a pen and her eyes were trained on a blank page meant for an admissions essay that would perhaps propel her to foreign universities.
Razia! Sayma cried out again. This girl would drive her mad one day. She was on strike two. Sayma stopped in front of her chrysanthemums to examine the poor things once again, a fragile citadel of purity and grace amidst all the filth – a fading benediction.
Razia! When the answer was silence, Sayma abruptly stood up. Strike three. That girl has had it. Sayma had been torn from her flowers, a transgression that was reserved only for when the house might be on fire or for the sound of a terrible crash of china from inside it.
Marching into the house, Sayma repeatedly screamed her daughter’s name to no avail. She scoured the kitchen, the attic, both bedrooms, both bathrooms, everywhere. When that produced no results, she tore up the floorboards, checked behind paintings for tunnels in the wall, and inspected the piping. It was a matter of pure chance that Sayma was able to spot a strip of paper taped to the tap in the kitchen, containing a message that may well have been written by a mouse’s hand, so that one required a magnifying glass to read it.
Gone out to look for inspiration. Will be back by five.
Sayma looked at the paper strip, and then at her door, which was letting in a gentle breeze. As she stepped through the door, she began to run. The lanes between the houses had been made slippery with sewage, and her flat shoes bit her feet spitefully at the sudden demands placed upon them. As she made her way through the dreary pathways, people stopped to stare. Even groups of little urchins, who usually troubled all who dared crossed their filthy paths, ceased their gambolling and watched as Sayma trundled by. She, in turn, hissed at them. The truth was that most of the neighbourhood had known of a Sayma who had lived in the sanitized doll’s house, but its residents had all presumed that she was a witch, disguised as a middle-aged woman. Children had been told before going to bed that her disguise faded away in sunlight but she would come out at night to kidnap anyone and everyone up past their bedtime.
So, naturally, there was much consternation at the witch racing past the homes of the innocent and unsuspecting.
After getting lost twice, Sayma finally arrived at what appeared to be some sort of workshop, though it looked more like a warehouse. She read the sign above the door-less entrance – Devil’s Spare Parts. It looked promising. After all, Razia had always been keen on secretly running out and playing with similarly rustic little creatures as a child. Sayma shivered, remembering the battle of wills, the angry threats, the bedroom doors locked for protection. She had done anything necessary to free her daughter from her frightening intentions, and would do so again a thousand times over.
Upon walking in, Sayma discovered rows of child labourers wreaking havoc on great twisted masses of machinery with hammers larger than themselves, breaking down the hideous things like furious, miniature Davids. A supervisor sat in a corner, least concerned with the goings-on of the workshop, chewing tobacco while reading a newspaper. Idle hands? Sayma murmured.
Empty minds, actually, the supervisor replied, his eyes unmoved from the newspaper.
I’m looking for my daughter.
Is she a motor?
Sayma blinked. No.
The supervisor grunted in disappointment. The children, soot seeped to their bones, had by now halted all work to gaze in admiration at Sayma’s pristine dress.
Moving through the slum had left not so much as a speck of mud on it. Scanning the faces of the faceless children, Sayma remained hopeful that Razia would be among them, which would hasten her return to the refuge of her precious vases.
One of the children was bold enough to walk up to her. The little girl pulled out a strip of paper from under her rags. Sayma squinted at it as the girl held it up, cautious to not touch the polluted paper.
I said I’ll be back by five!
Silly Razia – always getting lost. She had always been Sayma’s little songbird. The poor thing did not understand the dangers of the outside world, the risks of flying carelessly through overcast skies. Sayma left the workshop without another word. The grimy girl watched on, her hands a little cleaner now from handling the smooth, white strip of paper. Sayma was uncertain where to look next. She drifted through the better and worse parts of town as her feet complained louder and louder, sending tidal waves of pain through her body with every step. As she entered a cobbled street, she encountered a prisoner, his hands bound with thick ropes. He was being prodded forward by a constable with a long wooden stake. Sayma approached the constable and enquired about Razia, but he ignored her. The prisoner looked like the kind of man Sayma would warn Razia about—the reason it was far safer to stay indoors. Nonetheless, she tried her luck with him, beginning by asking him who he was.
I’m a purveyor of aphrodisiacs myself.
Aphrodisiacs?
The illegal kind.
I’m looking for my daughter.
Armaan is a writer from nowhere in particular, although his stories have an Indian tint to them. His work has appeared in publications like Condé Nast Traveller, The Quint, HIMAL Southasian, and The Skinny. He enjoys rock climbing, psychedelic rock, and pointless arguments, and he intends to write frantically for the rest of his life.
Excerpted with permission from ‘Not a Day for Outings’ by Armaan which appeared in The Thief’s Funeral: The Book Review Anthology of Short Fiction, edited by Sucharita Sengupta, Chandra Chari, and Uma Iyengar. Reprinted by permission of Aleph Book Company and the Book Review Literary Trust.
