I didn’t even have the strength left in my knees...
I just dropped.
And now I wonder—how did I even make it home?
Maybe I walked on autopilot.
Maybe heartbreak has GPS. Who knows?
Tears had been falling for over an hour.
Usually, I’m not this dramatic, I swear.
I cry for a bit, sniffle, wipe, and move on.
But today… it just wouldn’t stop.
Eyes… burning.
Back… aching.
Legs… numb.
Hands… cold.
Everything in my body was screaming — like it was mourning something I hadn’t admitted yet.
And just when I thought the worst was done…
a sudden gust of wind came in through my window.
That window beside the old cupboard, the one no one opens anymore.
With it came a soft scent—
Sweet, stubborn, familiar.
The flower.
The first bloom of that tree.
Surya’s favorite.
I planted it secretly in that narrow balcony alley just beside my window.
Grandma doesn’t know—it was my little rebellion.
I was actually excited about the first bloom,
like a child counting down to a festival.
But I never expected that the first time I’d smell it...
would be like this—broken, curled up, barely breathing.
That scent—God—
it stabbed me gently.
Like a memory dipped in sugar and regret.
I didn’t want to remember.
I had been trying so hard not to.
But flowers are cruel sometimes.
They bloom for themselves, not for your healing.
And in that moment, I realised...
the worst kind of memories don’t shout.
They smell like something you loved once
and now can't even bear to touch.
~~~
That memory…
Second class.
New school. Everything new.
Even the teachers were new.
I was just another admission. Quiet. Not very bright.
Never stood out in my previous school.
But that year… I don’t know why…
Something inside me wanted to change.
Maybe I was tired of being invisible.
Maybe I just wanted… someone to be proud of me.
One Usual day… when the teacher screamed his name…
When whole class looked in his direction including me,
And he looked at me.
Which was the first time our eyes met.The story didn't end there,
One second.
That’s all it took for my heart to go into panic mode.
I told myself, “Don’t look at him again.”
“Just stay away from that guy.”
Because every period… every teacher…
His name echoed like a school bell.
“Surya… Surya… Surya…”
I was too scared to even glance in his direction after our eye-contact.
But fate is cruel.
You try so hard to avoid someone… and suddenly, they’re everywhere.
Because I topped the class…Because I was quiet and obedient…They made me the class leader.
And for a class leader, guess who becomes your uninvited soulmate?
The noisiest guy in class.
Yes. Surya again.
Every time I turned around to write names on the board,
his name was already there — Surya.
With bold strokes, with tally marks —As if the board itself was mocking me.
And he…
He and his Benchmate would laugh.
Make fun of me. Mimic my voice when I tried to keep the class quiet.
“Madam Anveshna… please don’t shout too much,”
they’d say with fake sweetness.
But I never showed I was hurt.
Not once.
I acted like I didn’t care.
Even when I was crying inside.
~~~
Why am I remembering all this now?
It’s been a week soaked in this memory
A week since I locked myself in this room and lost all track of time.
I haven’t stepped out.
Haven’t talked.
Haven’t eaten properly.
Just lying under the blanket…
Trying to shut off everything.
I thought if I ignored the world long enough, it would forget me too.
I don’t remember when I crawled into bed...
Maybe under the blanket... maybe under a mountain of thoughts.
Did I bathe? I think so?
But wait... did I really?
I looked around... wrappers. So many chocolate wrappers.
Why are they lying like fallen soldiers of a sweet war I don't remember fighting?
And grandma… I vaguely remember grandma shouting…
Every day. Same time. Same pitch.Banging my room door,
May be the door couldn’t take it anymore — it might have been on the verge of falling off.
Her fists, her voice, her stubbornness…
Everything echoed, like clockwork.
And then…
Silence.
A silence so loud, I thought I’d gone deaf.
But maybe it didn’t stop.
Maybe the banging, the yelling, the crying…
—all of it—Continued the whole week, and I just wasn’t there to hear it.And after when I was back to my senses after a week there was Silence.
No banging.
No shouting.
Just silence.
But Why does silence hurt more than screaming?
And how did days pass like minutes…
While I was stuck chasing a single memory…
A memory that shouldn’t take more than 5 minutes...
But took an entire week from me.
Time played hide and seek.
And I was always the seeker… never the finder.
And then—
Growl.
That sound.
The anthem of my stomach.
Louder than regrets. More persistent than people.
I think it has its own brain.
Seriously. Even if I die tomorrow,
my stomach will probably stand up at my funeral and ask,
“Where’s lunch?”
Maybe its automatic battery died after a week.
That growl… was not hunger.
It was a knock. A reminder.
“Come back, girl. Cry later. First feed me.”
Cue stomach growling sound again
I was hungry again...
Then I heard Grandma's voice.
“I’m leaving your favourite — bendakaya(okra/lady's finger) tamata(tomato) curry and chapati — outside the door.”
“We're going out. We'll be late. Lunch is on the table. Dinner's in the fridge.”
“Your Mom bought you chocolates, eat them, they are on the table near sofa.”
But I didn’t move.
Not even when the smell made my stomach growl.
I waited.
Ten minutes passed.
Then I heard the main door open.
Another ten.
Silence again.
Maybe they really left?
I opened the door.
Checked the hall.
Kitchen.
Bedrooms.
Nobody.
I grabbed the plate.
Sat on the sofa.
Ready to eat.
But then I saw the chocolates.
And suddenly I wasn’t hungry anymore.
~~~
Flash.
Third class.
School food fest.
Everyone walked in like their lunch boxes were award-winning treasure chests.
All those “homemade with love by amma” dishes — sparkly, shiny, full of stories.
And there I was... with a small steel dabba(Box).
Lotus-shaped laddoo's(sweet Indian balls) inside. Not glowing, not glamorous — just… mine.
Homemade chocolates were the star of the show — the most praised, most passed-around dish.
So I thought, okay fine, let me try too. Let me belong.
I Walked up to my classmate, acting casual,
and she said,
“Anveshna, you know, Chocolates are best when they’re homemade with love. My mom stayed up late just to make these for me. That’s why they taste special — full of her touch.
Then she tilted her head and asked,
“What did you bring?”
I said, “Laddoos.”
She laughed. Not the cute kind. The kind that bruises.
“ laddoos?”
"Oh sorry… forgot your mom left, right? Didn’t she send you some fancy foreign chocolates instead? At least then we could taste your foreign mother’s love. Because these laddoos? These look more like leftover prasadam(sacred food, blessed food, or a religious offering) than lunchbox royalty.”
I didn’t say anything. Just gave her a look.
One glare. One promise.
Let’s meet in the FA Exam Results, dear.
I picked up my untouched box, walked out of that noisy celebration,
and sat in the empty classroom. Ate every single ladoo, one after the other.
Not because I loved them.
But because grandma made them —
even when she was sick, she packed that box like it was holy.
Of course, what followed was a poetic twist.
Constipation.
And a full-volume scolding from the same grandma for whom I completed them, so that she won't feel bad.
If you want to cry in corners and eat laddoos like some mythological warrior,
make sure you have a Bheem-level stomach first.
But I wasn’t Bheem(indian cartoon character).
And these stupid chocolates on the table now?
They’ve shut down my impossible hunger too.
Congratulations, imported cocoa — your win is complete.
That memory just killed my appetite.
I put the plate aside.
Opened the drawer.
Searched for my piggy bank.
Maybe I could buy something from the shop, so that I can refill my emergency stock(Food) which I don't remember how I completed.
But my piggy bank was Empty.
Just one note inside.
From grandma.
"I knew you’d try to do this.
So I took your money.
I kept it safe.
Eat the food, your mother made it.
She made it with love.
Please have it, my child."
I couldn’t.
I just couldn’t.
I dragged that 20-liter water can into my room like it was some sacred offering.
Thought to myself — if not food, at least let me survive like those poor souls in movies…
fill my stomach with water, just like them.
Dramatic, no?
Except here, there’s no sad violin music.
Just a girl, a locked door, and a water can heavy enough to match her mood.
~~~
At night, I heard them come back.
May be they saw the untouched food.
Except one small bite torn from the chapati.
May be She sat to eat it herself, coz i heard grandma yelling, like she was trying to stop her.
“Why are you like this?”
“Throw it to the crows if you don't want to waste it!”
“Why you and your daughter never listen to me, why don't you just kill me at once?”
She cried.
I heard it all.
I thought they were acting… trying to make me feel guilty.
But grandma doesn’t act like that.
Not when she cries like that.
~~~
I hugged the water can and lay down.
Closed my eyes.
And slowly whispered to myself grandma's favourite-old-song,
“ఎవరు చేసిన కర్మ వారనుభవించక ఎప్పుడైనా తప్పదన్నా...”(everyone should pay for their karma(their actions) and there is no escape from it...) And here I was — paying someone else’s karma tax... with a 20-liter water can.
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