soru dee

soru dee. 21. i write historical and fantasy genres with traumatic scenarios but overall happy endings. lapslock for aesthethics. pfp by @glidiaxoxo

[souriru-u]

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hi! i'm soru dee, but you can also call me sol! i'm from 🇮🇳 and i like writing historical fantasies or romance, but also really like diving into what it means to be human (aka existentialism and the concepts of religion, mythos, life, and death <3) i also play most hoyoverse games bc lore >>>>> and i try to write as often as possible. nanowrimo is my greatest enemy. currently pursuing a degree in heritage management!

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#soru's musings! -> my writing about my life and experiences <3

#the lies we speak -> my YA historical romance :)

#the whispers of the hills -> my adult historical romance :)

#to love is to consume -> my adult thriller-horror novel :)

#the storyteller's blend -> a YA cozy fantasy novel :)

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all of my novels except to love is to consume feature queernormative worlds, where queer people are accepted worldwide. i also, like a normal adult, firmly believe that smut should be kept outside of YA novels, and so, my YA novels will never feature them.

[souriru-u]

whispers between the bamboo

hello! this is my submission for the january 2025 vgen challenge, which was based off of the prompt 'serpent' for lunar new year! happy new year, everyone <3

[souriru-u]

sonder

sonder. a neologism noun that refers to the feeling of realising that everyone, including random strangers, lives complex lives just like your own, and that somehow, we are hardwired to not think about it at all.

when i was little, not even seven years old that year in 2010, my parents decided to relocate our family from dubai to chennai- a risk, because none of us spoke tamil (not that it was really relevant for a 7 year old and a 4 year old to know it). my mother lept at the opportunity to introduce india to us, but i, firmly entrenched in dubai, refused to come ‘home’, talking about how i had friends here and i’d be able to manage all on my own, but regardless of how much i insisted, i was unceremoniously flown back to india, staying with my grandparents in hyderabad for a while before making my way down south to chennai, a land so completely different from the one i spent my early childhood in.

many years later, in that same vein, the bus ride from college back home is an interesting one, especially when i get a seat, free to look around at everyone outside on the streets and standing with exhaustion sagging off of their bones, wondering what they did today and whether they had a good day. now completely desensitised to the various sounds and colours of chennai- finally starting to call it home before i leave, once again, to pursue my master’s degree- i like watching people go about their lives before the higher seat of a bus, filled with a sonder that runs deep- no judgement, no thoughts, only appreciation for the vivid and complicated lives that people lead. i have met you only once, and i will likely never meet you again.

in my opinion, sonder is the most complicated feeling to feel, and it arises at the most random times of day- when i see a couple standing in the shadiest spot of the crowded saidapet bus stand as i wait for my own bus, or a group of young schoolgirls buying each other lemonade or paani puri with promises of repayment or a favour to be carried ahead. or when an old man glares at his nokia trying to see who’s calling him (maybe his kids? grandkids? his wife or colony friends?), and when a reckless driver slows down when his co-passenger, perhaps his wife, girlfriend, or sister, hits him over the helmet to scold him.

it’s interesting to see so many complicated lives pass by in the blink of an eye- you barely get to observe the person who catches your eye the most, and other times, you’re forced to watch tired college students or office workers wearily drag themselves with heavy bags to the bus stop, occasionally knocking at the closed doors of the bus for entry or chatting with a small group of friends and colleagues about weekend plans or tomorrow. i don’t have a particular favourite segment of people to watch- i think even thinking about something like that makes me sound like a stalker- but i enjoy observing people during sunset, when the birds and the squirrels settle for the night, and the skies are silent, save for firecrackers (wedding season, anyone?) and the occasional bat that decides to invade my balcony.

to you, reader, i have a question- when is it that you feel sonder?

written in early 2024 for my college magazine. not sure if it was published, really, so i'm also posting it here :)

[souriru-u]

the storyteller's blend - a preview

war was a good thing, yes, according to the many tribes enna had once documented at the height of the crimson war. war is conquest and pain, but also an opportunity to sow new seeds into barren land, with new techniques brought to the lowly people around them, was something almost all the elders said, and like sheep, gentle and foolish and utterly unknowing, their next generation followed them into battle, hailing the brutishly mutilated bodies of their brothers and sisters and friends as keepers of the souls of the brave.

but enna knew better than that. enna always knew better than that.

she was content with her little shop near the mountain range that divided their lands into the north and south, tending to the blends she created specifically for her ailing customers. enna had seen much pain, but pain often brought with it contentment, and she was content.

"enna! hello!" she hears as the door jingles open, and a young orc walks in, coin pouch on the ready for sweets or a specific blend his mother might've forced him to get. yes, she was content. there was nothing about this life that she hated at all. except the weird one-off customer, but that was customer service for you. "my mom asked me to get her the same blend as last time, if you can make it!"

"ah, ah, duma." enna murmurs gentle, and for a minute, she worries if her age shows through, though the boy doesn't acknowledge it. "no receipt, no blend. every blend is unique to the customer, and this lady's too old to remember all the blends she's ever made."

"i know, i know, auntie." he sulks, passing the coin pouch to her. "it's in here, along with the money for last time. can i go look at the sweets?"

some of my mutuals wanted to see this, so im releasing this a bit early hehe :) but basically, this is a cosy fantasy that revolves around my fmc enna, a witch who mysteriously managed to get younger as the years passed by. however, instead of obsessing about her looks, enna has only one goal in mind- find the perfect blend of spices and herbs to create the perfect storyteller, all while writing down whatever she's seen and heard her whole life in order to preseve the stories of tribes that no longer exist.

[souriru-u]

the mind is a fickle place, and mine, even fickler

recently, i had the chance to speak to my mother about my paternal grandfather. he passed away when i was too young to remember him as a person, though not so young that i did not remember him at all. you wash glasses like he does, my mother commented idlly while i washed my mug in my dorm room's small bathroom sink under a clogged pipe that i would have to get fixed sooner or later. you also mix your chass (yogurt, salt, a little masala, and water) the way he used to.

i think i hurt my mother with my blank expression.

she didn't say anything else about him, simply moving the conversation gracefully towards my studies and my roommate, but i am not as good as her of letting go of things like that, and so that night, i stayed up to stare up at the sky, looking for this mysterious man who did the same things i do now, clunky and clumsy, and i wonder who he used to be, back in the 1930s and 40s all the way to the 2010s when he passed away.

the mind is a fickle place, the most reliable and the most unreliable companion you'll have your entire life. it is you, and not, at the same time- it is your freedom, and your prison, trapping you in the past and filling you with anxiety for the future, and i have hated the person my mind has wanted me to be since i was little- but no longer. there is a peace to find in my lack of memories, and i will carry on what i know and what i see till i join my ancestors at the ghats, near the riverbanks, and eventually, into the stars.

i remember a silent man, who's hands were much larger than my own, and with a face so wrinkled and aged you would not know if he was ever young. i remember a man who was silently religious, a man who knew his wife deserved choices, though small. i am the granddaughter of a man who was a well-loved translator in his community, and the firstborn daughter of his youngest son.

his home will always smell like dirt and trees and the wind, and that is my memory. his chair will have his dusty but well-kept sweater on it, and though the home no longer exists, i will appreciate what he built with his own two hands forever. he gave my father hard-earned and tough love, but saw me small and quiet, but with eyes full of knowledge.

you walk the way he does, loud and knowing you take up space. never change, soru. never change.

[souriru-u]

leave something here, leave something for me

sometimes, when i tend to make a to-do list, i highlight important assignments in a way a friend from fifth grade used to. i haven't spoken to her since i moved away from that city, despite going back to visit often. sometimes, only sometimes, when i'm bored, i move my hands like a friend who decided to spread rumours about me. i draw exclaimation points like another friend with whom i just drifted apart, and some days, when i read fanfiction or look at fanart, i remember thinking that an ex-mutual would really like it.

leave something behind, leave something for me.

when i tell people that most times, when i argue with friends and we aren't friends any more, i feel no anger, they look at me like i have grown a second head overnight. a broken friendship is a like a divorce, soru. they told me. why wouldn't there be hurt and rage and sadness? why wouldn't there be a need to be mean to them? i don't particularly care, because i choose to save what they've left behind in my little house.

sometimes, when i'm lonely, in my dorm room, i laugh at the walls like a friend from amritsar i made on vacation used to. i gave her a novel i'd bought that i no longer remember the name of, and she gave me a shoddy ring with the logo of the monster drink on it, and though i've lost the ring (it gave me an infection), i remember these small pieces of her.

leave something behind, leave something for me.

these days, i usually spend time with friends who enjoy my writing. they always seem to praise everything, no matter how bad i think my writing is, and that makes me want to try harder. one day, in the future, maybe we'll be in touch, or maybe we won't. maybe it'll end in a fight, or maybe we'll just drift apart, going our seperate ways like two ships in the night over the distant sea. but regardless...

leave something behind. leave something for me to see and cherish.