Can We Digest The Loss of a 3 Letter Word?
Evolving shadows die sooner in the near future, when not realized in the past!
If you limit your vocab list to just include a 3 letter word, what would be the first word in your erupting mind?
Was it FUN, or was your horny mind taking a trail of the word SEX? Did DAD himself showed up in your word aisle? Did anyone bother to include the word, MOM?
This 3 letter word does say the essence of your existence.
What if I draft your emotions to be packed in a box, such that they would themselves empathize with a girl who lost these 3 letters of her life?
What happened to a girl who was just 8 years old, short enough to see the giant monster taking away her 3 letters?
What passed by that girl, who opened her eyes only to watch out the deadly forest, all alone, crying for the last 3 letters, alone in the dark, where the dying light is not even noticeable in that eerie darkness?
You could visit all those alphabets constituting the golden light in that forest of death, “MOM” or “MAA”.
What I saw in one of my blinking eyes of grief, was the girl strolling blank, having that dreadful shadow lying in front of her.
What was that shadow referring to? Was it the motherhood, or was it the last shadow of love, that little angel could only achieve?
It was a dark day of the summer morning when I visited my neighbor in the hospital. She was admitted to one of the drowning beds, feeling void in herself, shrinking in the concerns for her family.
That neighbor was Shanaya, as her name meant to nourish the rough walls of the street, with the first rays of the sun.
A brief diagnosis to Shanaya’s living would spot the picture of a working lady, always on the first in the queue to keep the family ready for the day.
She had an 8-year angel, Zara, a princess born after the bright virtues of Shanaya.
Zara came to the hospital, with her uncle and aunt in that muddy taxi, the screens of which were smoky enough to visualize the soil, burying the girl’s thoughts to void.
That day, my visit to the hospital was a story, unheard on our media. I was the victim to the scenic beauty, nature had played with our consciousness. Shanaya laid on the rough sheets, with pipes going into and around her aura, trying to speak the last breath to her only daughter.
I stood unattended, viewing the stupid blankness in that 8-year old girl, trying to slurp the thoughts of why her mother could not speak or feather her body.
She would see her uncle, doing payments, completing harmless yet hurting formalities in the time when one of the relatives was lying close to the pillow of death.
But why was Zara’s father out of the picture? Was he not a part of this drenching family? Where was he? Was he a portion of Zara’s first loss, shaking her and her mother completely off ground?
Spitting the words solemnly in grief, her father died when Zara was just 2. Hard times grabbed her mother’s wrist to pamper her alone and surrounded her mother by long days with deserted nights.
Nevertheless, Zara and her mother used to sing their loneliness away, to remain connected like a beehive.
Coming back to the ill-lit hours, Zara was facing, she prayed in the hospital, to traumatize the egoistic HE from within.
What she got in return was a quake, when the buzzing red light, above the operation door, turned translucent. It was such a shivering shock, that the footsteps of the doctor could be heard inside the liver of sadness.
That doctor spelled out of the operation theatre, weaving the 3 words of grief.
She is DEAD
Dead. Hearts Broken. Rest In Peace. Last Breath Gone.
Could you also hear the broken esteem of that girl? Or the shut noises all around her?
A short silence awaited this spell.
Many visitors arrived by her, consoling her soul.
She could not understand what could actually go wrong in her always-dubious life. She was a kid, unable to realize the loss of her mother.
This was her second loss, but this one shuffled the events of her revolving orbit. She was dumb enough to view the future lighting up her leafy moments, burning them to pitch-black lava.
Her thoughts were blank as if the tulip broke off to the ground making way for the silent wind to flow by it.
I stared at her and noticed a soul flying around Zara, spitting the last words,
“Be The You,
You will Win at every point of this Journey,
I will always be with you, Don’t ever feel disheartened”.
These words dived into her hearing device, making a small yet comforting room in her heart. That soul resumed her motivating emotions,
“I am always with you, my little angel. You are my other half”.
Those words were sharp enough to hit the cracked surfaces of the walls within, swaying the corridors of that infirmary.
I just stared at those clouds of sorrow, who were turning their tails to uncover the beauty of comforting sunrays.
But I could also notice the rope slipping off the little hands of that girl, losing the soul of her mother on the other tip.
She felt depressed for her loss, as she felt guilty for why she took her mom for granted. Her outlook looked like a broken branch of that last tree in the ecosystem.
She felt drained in the river of reddish attitude, she used to treat her mother with.
Her philosophies used to stream down that river. Her reasoning would showcase some disagreements, shuffling her voice to go against her mother’s beliefs.
Her 3 letter word was always her well-wisher, the fact she came to comprehend after its loss.
We take most things for granted, but what we don’t value is the other person’s feelings.
These emotions flew with the other leaves of the tree, trying to attach to the branches but torn in such a way that it is impossible to bind back.
We objectify others and think of them as suppressors of our actions to nullify our paths.
A mentor may disprove your wrongdoing to govern your conscience to a peaceful trip.
Zara had the same guilt. Nonetheless, she managed to return home in the same taxi as before, but what changed was the framework of visualizing the same taxi.
The clay in that muddy taxi was the fault she had done, and the smoke in the window screens felt like burnt ash in her self-esteem.
After all the rituals were observed, I saw Zara, feeling quite lost, trying to quest that missing bubble. She knew that her bubble had burst 14 days ago, but that essence remained inside her.
She was taken care of by her uncle, who would help her with school assignments. Her over-dramatic aunt would moist her mind, pacing up her self-confidence.
But now she learned the practice to thank every helping hand, the thanks she wanted to grant her only 3-letter word, M A A with. She is recovering from her denied fate to believe the missing dot of her milestones.
Some say, “You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone!”
The bitter reality seems,
“You knew exactly what you had, you just rejected nature’s definition, to realize that you were going to lose it.”
Even the thinnest layer of ozone depletes faster when taken for granted.
