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Blood tied yarn

  The story of a Mother And a Daughter.  She had finally left behind the frail body that had held her captive, the pain of her failing organs, the endless hospital hours, and the weight of a lifetime of worldly suffering. And now, she was running again — light as a feather, carefree as a little child, with a smile that pain could no longer take away. There was a beautiful freedom in her steps, a peace in her eyes, as though life had finally returned to her in its purest form. Every now and then, she would turn back and look at her daughter, who stood behind her, shattered by grief, her tears flowing relentlessly, her heart struggling to accept a world without her mother. The old woman would gently smile at her, with all the tenderness only a mother could hold, as if whispering, “My child, don’t cry for me. I am no longer hurting. I am free now. My body may have grown tired but my spirit is whole again. I am somewhere beautiful and peaceful where nothing hurts. So let me go wit...
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Are you Sure?


“Are you sure you want to permanently delete this folder?”

I stared at the prompt for a long time, still deciding if I was ready. In a labyrinth of folders, I hid a part of my life that I couldn’t let go of. 2,386,080 minutes since our last conversation, and here I am, staring at the screen of my work-station, trying to decide if I was ready to let go. All those Ted talks. All those Instagram quotes. All those movies. All those soundtracks. Every time I got to delete the folder, I would close my eyes for a moment, and there we were. There I was. There she was. Sitting across from each other at the coffee house talking about life and whatnot. The way she looked at me, the way she made me feel; I couldn’t describe it then, I can’t do it now.

I was in class 2 when I changed school. It was a different city, a different culture. Initially, it was hard for me to make friends because I was overweight. I never understood why being fat was something to make fun of. I was bad at sports, so naturally, I was mostly the goalkeeper, when there were fewer players. No one spoke about mental health back then, and bullying was one of the few modes of entertainment at disposal of students at that time. There are two kind of fat kids – one who knew they can beat the shit out of anyone, and the ones who think it’s a disability.

I was the second kind. For a long part of my school life, I thought being overweight was a disability. I was made to realise that it was. I usually sat in the corner, listening to everyone laughing at me. It was a difficult concept to explain why a bunch of kids hated me for being fat. So, I never spoke about it to anyone. I never hung out with anyone, never spoke to anyone about how bad it felt when all your school life you are just looking for acceptance, and how I overate because of all the things happening around me. I sat on my bench day after day for 365 weeks keeping myself together, trying not to crack. Boys don’t cry still prevailed during those times.

I evolved into a weird adult, the non-social, non-conversationalist human who had social anxiety and trouble speaking to anyone. College was a great time. So, when finally, someone accepted me for who I was, it was a first. I couldn’t let go. I still cannot. And maybe, the folder still exists as a reminder of acceptance, or maybe it’s just a void space that I do not want to vacate.

I’ll let you know the day when I finally click on “Yes”.

“Are you sure you want to permanently delete this folder?”

“No”.

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