Sweety

“So, when is my time, Elango?” Sweety asked, as many Sweety too gave up her fight.

“It depends,” Elango said  

“Depends upon?”

“Your sin, your identity” Arivuchelvi intervened and answered

“My identity. What’s my identity”

“My name, where do I come from?”

“What do I do?”

“What do I like?”

“What do I dislike?”

 “Who are my parents? My family lineage. Are these my identity?”

“If these things were my identity, how much was my participation in creating one? ”

“Who am I? Who am I?” Sweety repeated twice.

“A simple question isn’t it, but it’s so difficult to answer,” Sweety said and waited for a few seconds. Everyone around listened silently, no one interrupted as she expected. So, she continued,

“If you stop a stranger passing by my home and ask them to guess, pointing out to me,

Am sure their response would be ‘A rich woman’

If you ask a guest who has stayed in my home for a day, they would reply

‘Privileged lucky Woman’

If you ask my house help, their reply would be

‘A poor girl

If you ask my friends, Sweety paused for a while. and said now I don’t have one, leave it she said swallowing all her pain

“I am sweety, they say” That’s it, that’s it, she said with a heavy heart.

Have you used that fancy geometry box with the pinball game on the top? It’s a dual-purpose box, isn’t it? A box to carry tools like pens, pencils, scales, etc., for learning purposes and a game that can be played when you are bored by your teacher’s teaching. A fond childhood memory for many but contrastingly I can only relate to those balls.

 The tiny balls within a closed environment moved as per the direction of their owner. A ball that can travel only in a predesigned path. It’s just a ball, right? A ball with a purpose and the purpose is the game, and it fulfils it. Back then I wondered how it would react if it was a living being. Would it be happy to be in that position, would it ever think out of the box?

I am similar to that tiny ball; back then when I was in school, I related to it, and still the same.

A girl who was born somewhere twenty-eight years ago and was brought into a colossal building by a stranger nearly four years after her birth. And was told This is your home, it’s your family and I am your dad. And she was named Sweety. That’s me, Sweety.

From where did they bring me? The limited memories of that place have never helped me to find the answer. All I did remember was I was brought from somewhere.

Somewhere, where I can’t go back, somewhere is always a secret, hidden from me. It’s one of the secrets in my life that I will never unwrap or be allowed to unwrap.

Original Copyright © Sukanya Pon