Clover is a series of three part segments, our way of acknowledging longer stories that take you through a whirlwind of emotions. Each segment makes you question everyday life and brings in a different perspective that leaves you wonder-struck.

The four stories so far have dealt with a multitude of emotions like the confusion of a child as he discovers discrimination for the very first time, the hatred of a son on seeing his mother being ill treated, the guilt of a woman not knowing her self worth and the struggle of an addict that the society fails to understand.

Check out some of the latest posts in the Clover Series:

Author: Liz George

View this post on Instagram

I. Trembling fingers, quivering lips. He had to do it now, he just had to. He looked around, thousand faces, everyone seemed fine. Why was he not okay? He had to do it, somehow, somewhere. His legs shaking, he got up, running, walking, he didn’t know what, but he knew he had to do it. He stopped, leaning his back against the dirty train wall, he gasped for air. His fingers fumbled around his pocket, lighting up his cigarette, he sighed. This was what he needed. His mind hazy, he walked closer to the edge, the wind making his messy curly locks fall across his face, cutting off his sight. Holding on to the side bars, he let his head sway with the wind, his feet stumbling dangerously, an open invitation to death.

A post shared by Lit-Gig NITK (@lit.gignitk) on

View this post on Instagram

III. Dangerously close to the edge, he already had one foot out. The fast-paced train showing him no mercy, he stumbled. Barely catching his balance, he started laughing, call him crazy, but only he knew how it felt. He imagined her smile once more, with the dimpled cheeks and the shy eyes. He imagined her staring back at him, pulling him closer and that was all it took. With a mind shy of any silver lining, and a glimpse of her face imprinted in his brain, he closed his eyes and jumped. The next morning, they found his body lying around with packs of cigarettes tumbling off his pocket. Bruises on his face and legs, they closed his dark lips and pulling a white cover over him, they sighed. Smoking is what killed him, they said, a pity state surrounded by cigarette buds. Having no clue what it meant to walk a mile in the shoes of an addict, they blindly judged him. Blaming his past, addiction is what killed him, they said. They were right. Addiction is what killed him. They were just wrong about what he was addicted to.

A post shared by Lit-Gig NITK (@lit.gignitk) on

Author: Sitara Kumble

View this post on Instagram

I I remember the first time I saw him. He was dressed in all black and a gym bag was slung across his back. He jauntily walked into the cafe, picked up a coffee and bagel and settled into the table in front of mine. He was one of those people who stood out, not just because he was immensely attractive but also because he projected an aura that could put anyone at ease. I peered at him from over the book I was reading. Suddenly, he caught my looking and flashed a lopsided smile. I blushed and looked away awkwardly. Next thing I knew he was right there in front of me, seated across the table in all his gorgeousness, asking to see what I was reading. I don’t really remember what we talked about but what I do remember is laughing my heart out, the light in his eyes and the way his mouth curved up in a lopsided smile every time I laughed. And every time he flashed me that lopsided smile, my heart skipped a beat. That day, I left the cafe with his phone number and the promise of a date. That night all I could dream about was his lopsided smile and the way it lit up his eyes. I remember that day in vivid detail – the smell of coffee wafting through the air, the feel of the wooden cafe table and the sound of my laughter. In that moment, I was truly, deeply and completely happy.

A post shared by Lit-Gig NITK (@lit.gignitk) on

View this post on Instagram

II The first time he hit me, we were in the bedroom. I should have seen it coming. We had been together for three months now but he’d progressively changed. Did it start when he showed up at my house, late at night, with flowers or wine or pizza and tell me that he couldn't stop thinking about me? Did it start when he’d told me to not wear certain things because he didn’t want other men to be ‘tempted’? Did it start when he pushed me to move in with him even though I wasn’t ready, but I caved in any way? Did it start when he started to get irritated and angry with my quirks; quirks he had previously found cute? I’m not sure when it started but I do remember the first time he hit me. We were in the bedroom, arguing about something silly when all of a sudden his hand flew out and smacked me in the face. We both just stood there for a second, shocked into silence. He recovered first and began to apologize profusely. He didn’t mean it, he said; it was a mistake and it wouldn’t happen again. I didn’t trust my voice so I nodded. We slipped back into talking about what we were talking about before the argument and he’d occasionally look at me apologize and go back to prattling on. My heart that had been pounding in my chest slowed down and I rejoined the conversation. I believed him when he said it had been a mistake – when he said it wouldn’t happen again.

A post shared by Lit-Gig NITK (@lit.gignitk) on

View this post on Instagram

III It happened again. We were in the kitchen arguing about dinner; arguments were common now. One moment I was eye-level with him and the next I was looking at him from the floor. He had smacked me so hard I had fallen on the ground. It was the beginning of a vicious cycle – fights, tears, walls being punched, glasses being shattered and me cowering trying to get away from the madness. He wasn’t always angry and hitting me. He’d still tell me those jokes that made me laugh and flash me the lopsided smile that drew me to him in the beginning. He’d hold me close and tell me that he loved me and that he’d get better, it wouldn’t happen again. Of course, it was all a lie. The beatings got worse and I began to withdraw from my family. I’d cancel plans with friends and eventually, they stopped calling. The beatings got so bad that I didn’t recognize myself anymore. One day, after a particularly bad fight, he stormed out and I forced my bleeding broken self to look in the mirror. I didn’t recognize myself anymore. My face was gaunt. My left cheek was bruised and swollen from the hit. The worst was my eyes – they were hollow and empty, and as a single tear rolled down my cheek I knew that everything was my fault.

A post shared by Lit-Gig NITK (@lit.gignitk) on

Author: Jiffina James Patrick

View this post on Instagram

I. She looked at the photo frame on my bedside table, a tear escaped her eyes. I remember that day as if it were yesterday. It was a beautiful sunny day and dad took us to the beach, we sat by the shore, made sand castles, ate freshly packed sandwiches, collected beautiful sea shells and watched the sunset. Dad’s long gone and everything had changed but we learnt to accept that, slowly. She was tired, her eyes sunk, and that smile was almost absent but like every other night, she narrated a story to me, even after I turned 10. It was a routine back then, the most exciting time of my mundane day. She would caress my forehead and dive deep into the tiny details of her story. I often wondered where she got them from, but never asked her about it. The story she told me that night stayed with me, it was about a poor little boy who was separated from his family during a war and eventually after many years they found each other. Mom said, “Adam, When you really want something, the whole universe conspires in helping you achieve it” and that stayed with me forever, because I think the universe did help me achieve what I wanted, maybe in a different context.

A post shared by Lit-Gig NITK (@lit.gignitk) on

View this post on Instagram

II. Phil was different from dad, well, not initially. When we first met, he would take time out to play with me, buy us dinner, help mom with work, I was genuinely glad he was there. Things changed later, he’d take his rage out on mom, beat her behind closed doors, insult her, but everytime I came anywhere near, he would quickly pretend like nothing ever happened. It was disturbing how Phil always hugged me afterward, like an act of reconciliation or a cheap reminder of why he was needed in our house. I guess mom thought of him as a figure to fill the void, but I didn’t want to fill it, I’d rather live with the void than stand by his madness. Over time, bruises overshadowed her freckles and anger took over me. I wanted him gone, truly, and that’s exactly when I knew that maybe, just maybe, the universe wanted it too. The next time he came home, I let my rage do everything it pleased. Nobody tells you that when you unbottle your emotions, the world becomes better, happier even, no matter what the cost. My memory of that day is still blurry but one detail stood out; His grim face in a pool of blood, I felt liberated.

A post shared by Lit-Gig NITK (@lit.gignitk) on

View this post on Instagram

III. She visited me the other day, sat on my bed and told me the story, the story from when I was 10. She told me that she would never leave and since then, every night, she would put me to sleep, just like old times. Her eyes twinkled like before and her scent was the same. The whole thing was magical and a tiny voice in my head questioned it, but everytime she came to comfort me, the fear of separation would simply suppress the voice. Soon, dad visited too and we were a happy family. I started to like the place, it was my haven, and eventually stopped hating the metal bars. We spoke about old times, heard stories and always made sure to play a game of marbles using the pills I stopped taking. I was at peace, again.

A post shared by Lit-Gig NITK (@lit.gignitk) on

Author: Anshuman Sinha

View this post on Instagram

I. Rubina mashi (mashi: aunt) was our housemaid. We lived in the heart of Kolkata, in a moderate apartment building or so I liked to believe. In the middle of the crowd, the smoke, the dirt and the city, there lived hundreds of Rubinas who worked in thousands of apartments like ours. She referred to Ma as her didi though she was younger than Ma just because she had a grandson and I was still in school. Maybe, for some people, age just is a qualitative factor. After a point, Ma got used to it too. Rubina’s daily chores were sweeping the floor with a broom, scrubbing it with an old piece of cloth soaked in phenyl and cleaning some of the utensils that Ma would have used for cooking by the time she had cleaned the house. I don’t know what it was between the two of them but Rubina and my Ma always had a lot to talk about though she never talked to my Baba, except when she was cleaning under the table and would have to ask him to shift his feet while he was seated at it. Just like Rubina worked in our apartment, she used to work in two other apartments in the same building and in some apartments in the neighbouring buildings as well. Sometimes she used to have breakfast with us while at other times, somewhere else. Sometimes she would be so late that by the time she arrived, I’d have returned from school and we would have lunch together. She didn’t like too much sweetness in her food, just like my mom. My dad mocked them by saying that such ‘across-the-border’ attitude would not be tolerated in his house. It took Ma a few weeks in the beginning to convince Rubina that Baba was only joking.

A post shared by Lit-Gig NITK (@lit.gignitk) on

View this post on Instagram

II. One Saturday, Rubina was accused of having stolen 500 rupees from Mrs. Banerjee’s purse. The Banerjees lived in the building right next to us. Although we did not know them, I could recognise them. We were a lot of people living in a small locality and it was so small that we passed by almost everyone everyday. It was a common thing in such localities to hear that someone’s housemaid had stolen money from them. To be honest, it wasn’t that common but they used to be a topic of conversation and gossip for so long among certain circles, it seemed like every alternate day that such an incident was brought to light. It also seemed at that time that it had been ages since Rubina was a part of our household but it had been only 2 years. I was on the floor above them, playing cricket in the narrow corridor with some of my friends from around there with a plastic bat and a plastic ball. Many housewives gathered in front of the Banerjees’ apartment that day. Some wearing housecoats, some holding long spoons they were cooking with, some carried their babies against their hip, some with the tv remote in their hands, came to watch. They didn’t know what they were doing there but they were interested; they were curious to know what happened next, just like I was, from the floor above. As Mrs. Banerjee put it, she found that afternoon that a 500 rupee note was notoriously missing from her purse and since nobody had visited the house all day, it could not have been anyone but Rubina. She added that Rubina had been asking her for a raise for a few days but she did not have the chance to bring it up with Mr. Banerjee, who as she claimed, was a busy man. Following that, the usual ritual of our social defamation took place. Everyone started insulting her one by one, then all at once. Someone claimed to have seen her lurking around houses she didn’t work in, some others agreed. They blamed her upbringing, her morals, her looks. Later that evening, I heard the men say that it must have been due to her maligned character that her husband left her and her kids for another woman. A few families other than the Banerjees stopped her from working for them from that day onwards.

A post shared by Lit-Gig NITK (@lit.gignitk) on

View this post on Instagram

III. I asked Baba that day whether Rubina mashi had really stolen money. He told me that it was none of my business to know and that I should concentrate on my studies instead of asking questions that did not concern me. I went to Ma in the kitchen, by the stove and asked her if Rubina mashi would still be allowed to visit our home. She told me, “Yes babu, Rubina will still come to work at our home. You like Rubina, don’t you?” “Yes, Ma, I like her. I don’t want her to leave.” She patted on my head and told me to go and study. Rubina continued to visit us regularly. That didn’t change and I was glad but Rubina changed. She didn’t tell Ma that the food was too sweet and Baba didn’t poke fun at her either. She did as much as she was asked to and spoke when she was spoken to. Ma often consoled her, saying that Baba had talked to Mr. Banerjee and that she had nothing to worry about. Baba told her that from now on she was to have breakfast at our house only and when she was done working in all the houses, she would come back and have her lunch here too. I never got to know what had actually happened that day. I didn’t know if Ma and Baba knew but if they did, they wouldn’t tell me. Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months and it was a Saturday again. I got promoted from class 4 to class 5 but I still played cricket with the same friends. As I was on my way to our playground, the narrow corridor in the adjacent building carrying the new plastic ball Baba had bought me the previous day, I spotted Mrs. Banerjee talking to Rubina. Mrs. Banerjee had put her hands on her waist and looked like she was taunting Rubina mashi. On hearing closely, I heard her say, “Just because that Mr. Sen from the adjacent building came and handed us a 500 rupee note that day, doesn’t mean that you are forgiven. Lowlifes like you have no right to stay in our midst. Tell that to your didi, Mrs. Sen and get lost to where you came from, across the border.” Rubina mashi never came to our house after that day. We looked for her but some said that she had gone back to her village far away, across the border, where she came from.

A post shared by Lit-Gig NITK (@lit.gignitk) on