Short Story: Sometimes We All Need A Lift

In this short story, Kanwar P. S. Plaha gives a tiny glimpse of a life-altering moment, only for us to forget it quickly and move on.

Editor’s Pick of the Week

(As the Editor’s Pick, this piece will be available for free reading this week)

Mr. Gupta’s shoe stopped the rickety metal cage door. He ignored the house-help lady and the schoolgirl, jabbed at the ‘G’ button, and stood facing the door of the lift. He checked his phone and sighed, staring at the ceiling.

Meena glanced at him while adjusting the pleats of her sari, tucking it tight like a uniform. Preeti was oblivious to both of them. She picked a playlist, dug the AirPods in her ears, and leaned against the handrail; thirteen floors to go.

“C’mon, c’mon…” Mr. Gupta muttered. “Bloody slow lift!”

Between the seventh and eighth floors, the elevator stopped with a thump, the cabin went dark, and the emergency light came on.

Preeti grabbed the handrail and, for the first time, looked at her fellow riders. “Why has the lift stopped?”

Mr. Gupta didn’t reply, worried about his own impending deadline. He was late for his meeting with the client. The current hiccup had made things worse.

Meena pulled her mobile out from somewhere in her sari.

“O Deva,” she prayed, “I have to be at 307 soon. They want a special cleaning today, for extra money!”

Preeti turned to her. “Bai, is your cleaning more valuable than our lives right now?”

Meena clucked and replied. “Look, this happens all the time. I work in many high-rise societies.”

Preeti wasn’t convinced. “How long will the air last before we suffocate? I’m scared of small spaces–”

Their banter was too much for Mr. Gupta. “No, no, you won’t die,” he snapped. “You might miss a day of school, at most.” Realising his voice was edgy when Preeti started sobbing, he softened and said. “Just … try and breathe normally.”

Meena placed a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, this won’t last. I’ve been stuck many times. Trust me.”

Preeti wanted to recoil from Meena’s calloused hands, but then melted under their warmth. “But what if we aren’t as lucky today? Even the phone isn’t working. I barely have one bar–”

Mr. Gupta sighed and set his briefcase down. He took a deep breath and spoke as calmly as he could. “First, the phones won’t work because this is an old lift and just a big metal cage, really.” He assured her. “So, no signal can come in or get out.” He paused and then said. “Lifts don’t just fall. Sure, there are accidents, but we have multiple fail-safes. So, they stick … like this!” He pressed his hand to the wall. “Look, I’m an engineer, and if this lift had to fall, it would’ve already!” Then he smiled, and so did Preeti.

Meena butted in too. “That’s what I’ve been saying–”

As if on cue, something whirred to life, and the lift resumed its descent. The three passengers composed themselves and took their positions.

Mr. Gupta checked the time on his phone and stared at the ceiling. Meena fidgeted with her sari, and Preeti went back to her playlist. When the doors pinged on the third floor, they were strangers again.

Author’s Bio

Kanwar lives in Sydney and does the “write” thing, at least what’s left-to-right. Along with fiction, he also writes poetry (always rhyming, or verse). He aspires to end his pieces with an aha moment, just like his own last name.

Kanwar also shoots and hangs things, as in photography and painting. He taps a keyboard and pushes a mouse for his “day job”.