Last night I was checking my old diary, and I found one story "Azal", that I have written it in 2009. I would like to share it here.. I have shortened the story to fit in the forum... Actual story contains all detailed screenplay type script..!!
Azal
In the first year of Fine Arts college, fate played a small but curious joke.
Two girls shared the same name—Khevna.
To avoid confusion, the class found an easy solution. The elder one, two years senior, was lovingly called Badi. The younger, who joined the course midway through the first year, became Chhoti.
From the very first meeting, Badi felt a strange happiness in seeing someone who carried her own name. She welcomed Chhoti warmly, and that warmth soon grew into a bond that felt less like friendship and more like sisterhood.
They were different in many ways.
Badi came from a wealthy family. Her world was spacious—big rooms, comfort, and the ease of never counting money twice. Chhoti belonged to a lower middle-class family, where dreams were carefully protected and expenses were always measured.
Yet art erased those differences.
Every year, on Chhoti’s birthday, Badi threw lavish parties for their entire group of friends. Chhoti protested every time.
“Don’t do this for me,” she would say softly. “I can never repay you.”
Badi would smile and brush it away.
“You are my little sister. I don’t do accounts with family.”
Over five years of college, their friendship deepened—through late-night painting sessions, failed experiments, shared critiques, laughter, and quiet dreams of the future. Even after graduation, they continued to meet, plan, and imagine life as certified artists.
Four years after college, six friends decided to organize a painting exhibition together.
The group consisted of:
Badi, generous and emotionally intense.
Chhoti, grounded and sincere.
Krish, married, admired by Badi, and secretly attached to her.
Sath, Krish’s best friend, who harbored an unreturned crush on Chhoti.
Santosh, cheerful and creative, son of a well-known cartoonist.
Hiral, quiet, focused, and deeply committed to her work.
They chose a well-known gallery in the city. All expenses were divided equally among the six.
Since Badi’s house was large, the group stored all the paintings there. One entire room was dedicated to their collective dreams—canvases leaning against walls, the smell of paint lingering in the air.
They needed a name for their group.
One evening, when Badi wasn’t present, Chhoti suggested a word:
“Azal.”
An Arabic word meaning eternity without a beginning.
The others felt an instant connection. The name was finalized. When Badi heard it later, she loved it too.
Santosh took charge of printing invitations and brochures, using his connections in print media. His father designed the logo for Azal—a symbol that felt timeless, just like the name.
Everything was falling into place.
On the day of inauguration, Badi surprised everyone by arranging an extravagant dinner for the guests. The group hadn’t planned for something so grand, but they let it pass.
They had also invited their old teachers and made a collective decision: if any teacher liked a painting, it would be gifted, and the cost would be shared among all six.
The exhibition was scheduled for seven days.
The first five days were joyful. Visitors came, paintings sold, appreciation flowed, and Azal felt alive.
On the sixth day, tragedy struck the city.
A hotel collapsed, killing many people.
The hotel belonged to Badi’s father.
That same day, her father and uncle were taken into police custody.
The news shattered Badi.
Chhoti and the others rushed to her home. Badi was broken, silent, unwilling to attend the exhibition. The weight of family, guilt, fear, and public shame crushed her.
For the final two days, the exhibition was managed by Chhoti, Hiral, and Santosh. Krish and Sath were barely present.
Chhoti called Badi every day, checking on her, but Badi’s responses were distant and cold.
Despite everything, the remaining three completed all responsibilities—gallery payments, handing over sold paintings, safely returning unsold works to Badi’s home, and settling accounts.
One of their teachers admired Chhoti’s painting. As decided, the group gifted it.
The remaining five were supposed to contribute their shares to Chhoti.
But no one pushed Badi for money. Everyone knew she was drowning.
Three to four days after the exhibition ended, Badi’s father and uncle were released.
Chhoti called to wish her strength.
What followed was unexpected.
Badi exploded.
“You’re selfish,” she said bitterly. “I did everything for you, and you did nothing for me. You are a bad person in my life.”
Chhoti was stunned.
“What did I do wrong?” she asked.
Badi accused her of abandoning her during the crisis.
“You didn’t even come to stay at my house.”
Chhoti explained calmly:
“Krish and Sath were also not there. Someone had to finish the exhibition work.”
Badi screamed:
“So the exhibition mattered more than me? What did you even do? The group name was Krish’s idea. Santosh handled the printing. After the exhibition, Krish and Sath did everything. They are here with me.”
Chhoti felt the ground shift beneath her.
“The name was mine,” she said quietly. “After the exhibition, it was Hiral, Santosh, and me. Krish and Sath weren’t around.”
Badi refused to believe her.
She insisted she had already given all the money to Krish—for the gallery and for Chhoti’s gifted painting.
Chhoti replied softly:
“I didn’t receive anything from you, Krish, or Sath. And I’m not asking for it. We paid the gallery ourselves.”
Badi chose belief over truth.
“Don’t ever contact me again,” she said.
The line went dead.
Chhoti cried that night—not from loss of money, but from the fracture of a bond she had treated as sacred.
She never called again.
Her self-respect wouldn’t allow it.
A year passed.
Chhoti moved to another city. She found a new circle of friends and organized another exhibition. Slowly, her life regained balance.
Badi, meanwhile, remained restless—still searching for a friendship that felt real.
That year, Krish’s wife discovered his affair with Badi and filed for divorce. Society turned its back on Badi. Her family was disappointed, believing she had broken another home.
Three to four months after the exhibition, the truth finally surfaced.
Krish and Sath had taken the money Badi gave them and never shared it with the group.
Badi understood—too late.
She tried to reach Chhoti.
But Chhoti was gone.
Unreachable.
Living in another city, surrounded by people who knew her not as Chhoti, not as someone’s shadow—but simply as Khevna.
