Some losses scream. Others dissolve quietly, like salt in water. You don’t even realize they’re gone until you taste the emptiness.
I joined the Prakash Jayantilal Chauhan Foundation on 1st April 2024. Thought it would be steady. Thought it would be a start. Something I could finally hold onto. But no. Life doesn’t care. Life doesn’t wait. Life doesn’t give a damn about plans or hopes.
February 2025. My grandfather’s gold ring. Gone. In a water park. In water. Tight-fitting, always on my finger, never moving, and somehow it just slipped. I didn’t even feel it. Didn’t notice it leaving me. Just… gone. And no one understands. It wasn’t just gold. It was him. It was memory. It was the last piece of him I had. And now it’s gone. Swallowed by water, by the universe, by whatever the hell wants to take from me.
Then 14th October. ₹4500 from my wallet. Disappeared. Just like that. Gone. I had ₹5000 in total. If I’d dropped it, all of it would’ve fallen. But no. ₹500 stayed neatly tucked inside. And ₹4500? Vanished. I don’t even know what to think. How does that happen? It doesn’t make sense. And my manager… oh my manager. She says she checked the cameras for two days. Says she didn’t find anything. Right. Sure. And I’m supposed to believe her? How? She looked at me like I was the problem. Like it’s my fault. How can I trust her? I don’t. I can’t. I know something is off. Something is wrong. And I hate that I can’t prove it. I hate that I feel suspicious. I hate that people I thought were okay suddenly feel like strangers.
My husband… he’s the only thing keeping me from completely losing it. He tried to calm me down, tried to tell me it’s “just money.” He’s the loveliest human. The sweetest human. The one who never judges. The one who holds me when I cry. And I’m grateful. But he can’t shut up my mind. My stupid, self-doubting mind that keeps screaming at me: You’re careless. You’re weak. You always ruin things. You’re useless. I hate that voice more than losing the ring. More than losing the money. More than anything. And I hate myself for letting it run wild. For letting it control me. For letting it ruin me.
I feel angry. Irritated. Exhausted. Betrayed. Distrustful. Frustrated. I want to scream at everyone; at my manager, at the universe, at myself. I want to shake someone and say, How could you let this happen? Did you even try? Do I even matter?
But there’s no one to shake. No one to blame fully. Just me. And my stupid, stupid mind. That keeps reminding me of every mistake. That keeps reminding me of how I lose everything that matters. That keeps whispering that maybe I deserve it. And I want to smash something. Or scream. Or cry. Or all three at once.
And then, in the middle of this chaos, I pick up a pen. I start writing. I don’t think. I don’t plan. I just dump everything onto paper. The anger, the grief, the distrust, the self-hate, the irritation. And slowly… slowly, it eases. Not fully. Not magically. But enough to breathe. Enough to see that the words are mine. Mine to control. Mine to hold. Mine to shape into something that isn’t just pain.
…that’s when I knew I was writing again. not to heal, not to forget, but to remind myself that even in loss, I still have words that are entirely mine!!