Parallelstories Stories

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A story about fate's play of bringing two souls together and tying them in a sacred thread of marriage, a loveless marriage. The story is based upon Indian television show "Swaragini" and revolves around my favorite couple #RagSan but is more Ragini centeric. Highest Rank as of now : #858

Karan, a handsome and popular boy falls for a shy and introvert girl, Preeti, who does not even know his name. They slowly undergo transformation from strangers to lovers...and how they change and mature together.. with parallel stories of their bestfriends for some extra twist..

Name: Prema Kaushik Age: 34 Job: Architect Single goal in life: To fall in love She's beautiful, she's outgoing, she independent, she's successful... But she's yet to find love... Being a woman in her mid-thirties, she's constantly criticized by the ever scrutinizing Indian society for not getting married and settled with a family yet... But what can she do? It's not like she doesn't want to feel the taste of love... Some people say that love is like a four leaf clover- lucky, but hard to find... But in her case, love seems to be a thousand leaf clover- maybe lucky, but never found... Will she ever find her Prince Charming?

Lúcia Eleanor Blanche Forbes,ou como ela prefere,apenas Lucy,é uma mulher de 24 anos que guarda dentro de si uma tristeza imensa por conta de uma perda,perda essa que fez com que se transformasse em uma pessoa dura,rígida e como ela mesma diz,infeliz.

"Fields of Mercy" is a slow-burning horror story about a young couple who move into a newly built home on a quiet stretch of rural land. What begins as an ordinary fresh start quickly turns unsettling as strange dreams, disturbing discoveries, and unexplained phenomena start to unravel the truth beneath the soil. Told through fragments of a recovered journal, the story weaves together the present and the past, revealing how the land remembers - and some things refuse to stay buried.

Aranya Maithili Kamble had never wanted much from life beyond the quiet pleasure of old things. She liked histories best when they were fragmented-when they asked to be pieced together slowly, patiently, with ink-stained fingers and unanswered questions. That, more than anything else, was why she had chosen archaeology. What could be more thrilling, she had once thought, than standing at the centre of every forgotten scandal, every erased devotion, every silence that history had deliberately kept? Instead, she spent her days cataloguing broken pots and arguing about ancient drainage systems. Three years into the profession, she was painfully bored. She blamed the films. The books. The romantic lies that had convinced her archaeology was anything more than slow, meticulous disappointment. There were no quests, no revelations-only sunburn, paperwork, and ruins that refused to speak. The Vaishnavata monastery in the northern foothills of the Sahyadris was no different. Old. Modest. Historically important, yes-but emotionally inert. Aranya sighed as she crouched beside what had once been a monk's sleeping alcove, absently brushing dust from the stone wall. Her brush struck something solid. She paused. and a palm-leaf slipped into her hands-almost as if the gods themselves had grown weary of her complaints about an unremarkable profession-her life, her fate, and every carefully maintained inch of her sanity would begin to unravel in that very moment, as her eyes fell upon a single name: Anurag Syamantakam.