Nishtha Rao
Poet · Gujarat · India
I am someone with a bleeding heart.
I am someone with a bleeding heart.
There were times when my own reflection was that of a stranger. I was caught in a deep, distinct depression; my symptoms morphed from one month to the next, leaving me disoriented, dissociated, difficult and different. And then there were the days spent in finding the broken pieces of my shattered heart.
About that time, writing became an escape of ecstasy. The pen, the mirror of my thoughts, felt unbearably heavy in my hand—weighted down by anxiety, anguish and absolute agony. I wondered if my voice was lost forever in the silence of my own suffering.
Yet, slowly, through the hardest battles fought in quiet rooms, I found the strength to keep going. I began to rise above the dark that had tried so hard to consume me. Picking the pen again wasn't just a creative choice; it was also an act of survival and reclaiming my own existence.
Today, I write with an open heart and an unbreakable spirit. The fear of being judged no longer holds veto over my words. I share my voice not because the journey was easy, but because I endured it—I carried the weight, I fought through the heaviest storms, and I did it.
Published writing
Chocolate
Just as the sun played joyfully in the embrace of sky, I too used to radiate light and shine bright while settled in my late grandfather's lap. It's only been a few days since he left us. The rituals didn't make sense to me. The house was full of people and unknowingly I kept on looking for him, every time I see someone his age. When my efforts went in vain, it felt like heart broke in a way I can't explain. Outside, the soulful echoes of a bhajan filled the air, a tribute to his life and legacy. The melodies swirled around me, wrapping me in a bittersweet cocoon of memories.
With a heart full of hope, I peeked through the door, wishing to see Grandpa sitting once again on that old rectilinear chair. My hopeful eyes wandered into the room, searching, yearning, as if expecting him to magically appear, like a forgotten tune suddenly playing on a wind chime. I stood in his room, feeling the weight of his absence pressing against my chest, yet his presence lingered in every corner. The familiar scent of his cologne, faint yet soothing, still clung to the air as if whispering that he hadn't entirely left. Every item was perfectly in its place, a reflection of his meticulous nature. Each piece seemed to tell its own story, carrying fragments of a life so profoundly lived.
With trembling hands, I reached for the closest drawer. There, nestled within the drawer, I found it. A transparent box of our favourite chocolates. I froze. It was as though time had paused, allowing me to relive those cherished moments when he'd mischievously offer me one, a sparkle of warmth in his eyes, always leaving the last for me. Tears welled up as I ran my fingers over the lid. This box wasn't just filled with chocolates; it held the echoes of his laughter, the comfort of his love, and the silent promise that no matter where he was, a part of him would always remain.
A memory of us unravelled before my eyes, warm and vivid, pulling me back to a simpler time. I was six once again, my little feet padding softly across the floor as the evening colours painted the sky in hues of amber and lilac. The house was quiet, almost magical, as if it held its breath to let the moment linger. Unable to resist the pull of his presence, I sneaked into his room and clambered onto his stomach, giggling softly to myself. He woke with a start, his eyes wide and confused for a fleeting second, but then they softened, lighting up with laughter. That laugh deep, rich, and familiar, wrapped around me like a warm hug, chasing away the day's worries I didn't even know I carried at six.
"Is there anything to eat?" I asked, my voice small but eager, my hands clutching at his shirt.
His grin grew wider, playful yet tender, as he reached over to a transparent box with a bright red lid. I followed his hand, and my eyes caught sight of it, a Dairy Milk Silk resting atop the box, its glossy wrapper shinning under the soft light. He didn't hesitate. With a gentle chuckle, he picked it up and handed it to me, the wrapper crinkling softly under his touch. His hands, so big compared to mine, tore it open carefully, the scent of chocolate filling the room.
"Here," he said, his voice full of affection, "this is for you."
That simple gesture, that shared chocolate, meant the world to me then and even now, it fills my heart with warmth. It wasn't just the chocolate; it was the way he saw me, the way he cared, the way his laughter and love made the world feel safe and whole.
"Pooja," he said, "Eat it with glee."
"But mom has said no chocolates...", I interjected.
"Then don't tell mom, see, it's easy once you think about it the right way."
I asked him, "But what if...".
But before I could finish, he put the chocolate in my mouth. As a result, he smiled and said, "Eat and enjoy and if your mother asks you, tell her that I gave it to you."
No chocolate had ever tasted sweeter.
It had been going on for years. The tradition of feasting on and feeding chocolate to each other. I smiled, the