– Stop, think, reclaim…
The café was unusually quiet that evening. Outside, the city pulsed with neon lights and hurried footsteps, but within these walls, time seemed to stand still. Aditya stirred his tea absentmindedly, the silver spoon tracing small circles in the amber liquid. Across the table sat his friend, Labanya, animatedly scrolling through her phone, punctuating the silence with half-hearted remarks.
“Did you hear about the new gallery opening?” Labanya asked, without looking up.
Aditya nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. Lately, conversations like these felt more like empty rituals than genuine exchanges. Despite the endless texts, updates, and video calls, he couldn’t shake the gnawing sense of isolation. Connection, they called it. But what was he really connected to?
That night, as Aditya lay in bed, a memory surfaced. A small, radiant face, gleefully blowing bubbles into the wind. His younger self, a boy with unkempt hair and laughter that rang like chimes. He remembered how he had once marveled at the world—the dancing shadows on his bedroom wall, the rustle of leaves in the afternoon breeze, the warmth of his grandmother’s hands. Back then, connection had been effortless. It wasn’t about words exchanged or validation sought; it was about simply being.
The next morning, Aditya woke with a resolve. He would find his way back to that child. With hesitant fingers, he unearthed a dusty box from beneath his bed—old sketches, notes from school, stories scrawled in uneven handwriting. There it was, the essence of a boy who painted worlds with his imagination. He remembered the dreams he had tucked away, the wild ambitions he had muted in the name of practicality and acceptance.
He spent the day drawing, his fingers stained with charcoal, laughter bubbling up as he lost himself in the swirls of forgotten joy. In those moments, he wasn’t the responsible adult expected to meet deadlines and nod in polite conversations. He was simply Aditya—playful, curious, alive.
But the journey inward wasn’t without its shadows. With every rediscovery came echoes of the fears he had buried. The moments when he had felt unseen, unheard. The fragile child within him bore the weight of rejection, loneliness, and the desperate need to belong. And yet, acknowledging that pain didn’t break him. It freed him. He wept, not from sorrow, but from relief—for he had finally allowed himself to listen.
Days turned into weeks, and Aditya’s reflection in the mirror began to change. The timid gaze gave way to something steadier, kinder. The connections he once chased now seemed secondary. For in finding himself, he realized he could meet others without the armor of expectation.
The next time Aditya met Labanya, he listened—truly listened. Not with the need to respond, but to understand. And as they laughed over old memories, Aditya felt something stir within him. It wasn’t the curated connection of endless networks but the tender pulse of genuine presence.
The art of connection, he learned, was not found in reaching outward. It was the brave act of turning inward—to meet the child who had waited patiently, all along.
About Author: Stop, think, contemplate- who is more important to you? Is it the idea or the author? No matter who says what or writes what- if you like it then let the author be anonymous- trust me, it will accentuate your liking. If you disliked it- why do you care about the author?
