A Life Half-Lived

That red bag in our storage held immense emotional significance. A few years back, we carefully stored it away, dreading the surge of feelings it might unleash. Most of us prefer to steer clear of emotional upheaval. When I embarked on my writing journey, I felt it was time to finally open it. It was my way of reaching out to the writer who once lived in our home. I wanted to immerse myself in the pages of his life’s work. I finally unzipped it today, and with every book and article I uncovered, a deep sense of melancholy washed over me. The collection of written words, meticulously folded within the aging confines of the bag, serves as a lasting testament to a life that only saw partial fulfillment—a constant reminder of the inner struggles he grappled with throughout his journey.

He was born in a family with very modest means, where love and affection were the most cherished treasures. Survival meant trading only in these emotional currencies. Material needs somehow took care of themselves. Conscious parenting was not a practice in their household. It was often the children who looked out for one another. He faced the world with fragile steps. He was a very delicate soul. His early years were far from kind. The trials he endured throughout his formative years only seemed to add weight to his tiny shoulders.

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