Skip to main content

Whom does the heart choose?

When I was just six months old, life quietly shifted around me.

My mother, fragile with illness, made a heartbreaking decision — to send me to my aunt’s home.Not far away, but far enough that I couldn’t feel my mother’s gentle touch.

My parents visited me every other day, their faces full of love and worry. But I was growing up in the arms of my aunt, my favorite aunt — a young woman of only nineteen, who embraced the heavy burden of raising me. For three years, she became my world,my comfort, my guide, my guardian. She gave up dreams, studies, and time, to care for a little girl she had grown to love fiercely.

Then came the day my parents came to take me home.

I was just learning to speak, to run, to explore — but that night, feverish and frightened, I cried for my aunt. I couldn’t bring myself to call my mother mummy or my father papa. The warmth I had known was suddenly torn away, and my small heart was confused and aching.

So whom should we feel for?

  • The mother, whose illness stole precious time and moments, yet whose love never wavered?

  • The young aunt, who gave up so much, who loved without limits, only to lose what she held most dear?

  • Or the child, lost between two worlds, caught in the quiet confusion of love divided and hearts stretched thin?

Perhaps the truth is this: life is hard for everyone.
Pain wears many faces, and love wears many forms. 

In this silent struggle, all three hearts carry a quiet sorrow —
a mother’s pain of absence,
an aunt’s heartbreak of loss,
and a child’s lonely ache for belonging. 

Maybe the greatest kindness we can offer is to step into each other’s shoes — to feel the weight of every heart, and to understand that sometimes, there are no easy answers. May we all find the grace to understand every heart’s silent story. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Silence Is Not Weakness

Today evening, I went to Maa Samlei Mandir in Balangir to witness the Navratri celebrations. The temple was glowing with lights, the air filled with the chants of “Jai Maa Samlei, Jai Maa Durga”, and hundreds of devotees stood in long queues with folded hands, waiting for their turn to bow before the goddess. The idol looked majestic. Her eyes fierce, posture divine, radiating power. But just outside the temple, I saw something that shook me more than anything else today.  A group of men leaned casually near the entrance. Each time a woman or group of girls walked by, their eyes followed shamelessly. Some smirked, some whispered, and a few threw words that were too filthy to repeat. I saw one young woman, dressed in a simple salwar, clutch her dupatta tightly and hurry past, her face turning pale with discomfort. The men laughed louder at her silence, as if her unease was their triumph. Another girl, with her father (maybe a student returning from tuition), froze for a moment, star...
1 comment
Read more

Unspoken, Yet Seen...

I have always felt that I am not good with words. Whenever emotions rise in my heart, they often get stuck in my throat. By the time I find the right sentence, the moment has already passed. But I believe eyes never lie. They hold a language of their own-silent, deep, and impossible to fake. I once heard a story of a boy named Ayu. He too struggled with words. Whenever he was happy, his eyes lit up like morning sunlight. Whenever he was hurt, they carried storms no one else noticed. And when he cared for someone, his eyes softened in a way that silence itself felt warmer. Most people didn’t notice. They were too busy listening for voices, not gazes. Ayu often wondered if he would always remain unseen. But one day, someone looked into his eyes long enough. She didn’t ask for words. She simply understood the quiet messages he carried—the shy laughter, the hidden fears, the unspoken affection. For the first time, Ayu realized he wasn’t bad at expressing. He had just been speaking a differ...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Market's Unintended Hearth

The sun rose over Balangir, but it brought no warmth. The winter air, already heavy with the December chill, was now thick with the bitter, coppery smell of yesterday’s ruin. The fruit market, once a vibrant riot of color, argument, and sweetness where mangoes were bartered and guavas stacked high was gone. All that remained was a landscape of charred wood, buckled tin, and sodden ash. It was a monument to loss, wrapped in the cold, sorrowful mist of the morning. Humans came and went wringing their hands, arguing with officials, mourning their livelihood. For them, the fire was the end of prosperity. But for the animals of the street, the destruction was, paradoxically, a kind of beginning. Motii, the street dog, moved cautiously across the black, slippery ground. She was thin and weary, but her focus was absolute. She had a litter of four blind, tumbling puppies who had spent the night shivering beneath a defunct vegetable cart near the railway tracks. They needed three things: shelte...
Post a Comment
Read more