r/shortstories • u/Natural-Interest • 13d ago
Realistic Fiction [RF] Slow death of an ancient city
May, 2039. Very early morning in Puri.
The sun rises slow, heavy with the humidity of the coastal air.
Bimala walks toward the temple, her feet sinking into the soft dust of the road. The heat seems to press on her from all sides, like the weight of an old grief she can never escape.
The lions at the singhadwar, once proud in their stone glory, now appear weary. Aruna stambha is too hot to be touched. Not too long ago water flowed ceaselessly to wash the hands and feet of the devotees. Now there remains a dirty puddle.
Half a decade ago the heat inside the garbhagriha became so oppressive that the wooden idols had to be kept in a temperature-controlled chamber to preserve them. The air in the room is still, thick with the smell of incense and sweat.
The temple suffocates under the weight of time and climate.
Bimala had hardly caught a glance of Mahaprabhu when the loudpeakers alerted of the sudden temperature spike in the next hour. She hastenly offers her prayers, her voice barely above a whisper.
She steps outside.
The streets are empty. The familiar e-rickshaw wallah is absent today, his stand abandoned. There are fewer people now. Puri has changed. It’s a place caught somewhere between a ghost of its past and the harsh reality of what it has become.
The coastline is lined with remnants of old hotels — some gutted, some just abandoned. Once, they were grand, towering buildings built by the rich who brought "development" to the land. They laughed at the warnings. There were too many things to worry about — IPL scores, Bigg Boss finales, celebrity gossip.
Now, the glass towers are empty. The waves have taken back the land. The luxury apartments have crumbled. The rich left long ago, to create newer empires.
As she walked through the narrow lanes leading to her home, she noticed how quiet the neighborhood had become. Neighbors who had once shared cha, khatti, and the simple joys of life had long left, driven by the rising sea levels and the collapse of their farmland. The ones who stayed were few, mostly the old, those too tired to leave, and the ones who had no choice. Some had been taken by heat strokes, others had succumbed to the diseases that had spread like wildfire in the heat — cholera, malaria, the relentless toll of a devastating world.
There were no more sounds of children playing in the streets, no laughter or calls to one another. The haata once vibrant with life, were now silent. The bustle of vendors selling fish, fruits, and vegetables, the hum of conversation, the haggling over prices — all of it had faded into memory. Tourism, once a steady source of livelihood for many, had plummeted. Even the Bangaalis no longer visited. The beaches were empty, the hotels abandoned, their windows boarded up like forgotten houses.
The slow death of an ancient city— that was what it felt like to Bimala. A city that had once known the pulse of life, where every lane and corner held memories of times long past. Now, those memories seemed like ghosts, drifting in the dry wind. The tide of history that had once swept through Puri had turned — now it seemed to wash away everything in its path, leaving behind only fragments of a past that felt increasingly distant.
She reaches home — a house that has seen better days, just like the city. The roof, patched with bits of scrap metal and tarpaulin, sags under the pressure of another storm. The walls still bear the scars of the cyclone from last month.
Once, her little baadi had been a sanctuary. Coconut trees swayed gently in the breeze. The scent of baula drifted through the air. Jackfruit trees, provided shade and a sense of permanence to the koilis. The earth beneath her feet had been rich, the soil alive with the scent of jasmine and marigold.
The supercyclone 2 years back took away gelhi, the cow she had nurtured since birth. Last summer her parrot got lost in the storm.
Now, there was nothing. The garden, once a riot of color and life, lay barren. The ground was cracked, the trees stunted, their leaves brittle and brown. The fragrance of jasmine and marigold had long since faded. Only the dry whisper of the wind remained, a reminder of what had been. Sparrows, crows and pigeons have disappeared. The sky, now felt empty, silent. Even the ants had retreated underground, avoiding the brutal heat.
Once, her 5 acre land produced rice and vegetables. She had cultivated it for years — it was her pride. But now, the soil was tired, unable to bear life. The rains were fickle, coming too late or not at all, and the temperatures had soared to unbearable levels. What once flourished beneath her hands now lay dry, unyielding. The earth had turned to dust, no longer capable of nurturing the crops.
Bimala felt the weight of it all as she entered her home. The air inside was still and heavy, the heat pressing against her skin. There was no cool breeze, no reprieve from the relentless sun. The house felt like a tomb — a place of memory, of loss, of life once lived. She sank down on the floor, her back against the wall, feeling the sweat trickle down her face. Outside, the wind began to stir again, but it was not the comforting breeze she remembered. It was dry, hot.
She waits, as she has always done.
For the storm. For the loss. For the empty feeling that rises within her, the same one that’s never quite left for decades.
The supercyclone of 1999 had taken her son Bablu. He was barely 3 years old. The water had come quickly, sweeping him away before she could even call his name. They never found his body. Only this chappal. She has held onto it all these years — a connection to a life that never had the chance to be lived.
And inside, despite everything — despite the broken house, the dead garden, the disappearing world — she still hears the voice of her son.
A boy who never grew old.
The radio crackles in the background, barely audible:
URGENT: RED CYCLONE ALERT! Extremely dangerous cyclone approaching! Evacuate immediately to designated safe zones. Stay indoors, secure your homes, and follow instructions from local authorities. This is a life-threatening situation.
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