Tiny Light on a Long Dark Road

2026 has just begun. As always, my optimisim levels are high this month, most likely to last till mid Feb. The same optimism in Jan 2025 made me resolve to submit a lot more last year. I did. And then rolled in the rejections. So many rejections. 😅😅

Rejections suck. And sure, they are a part of the writing journey, blah, blah, but that doesn’t make them suck any less.

The upside, I got two acceptances. ^😎

Both of them were a result of this Substack.

HUNGER

The memory of the day my dad keeled over and dropped dead stays like shattered glass. As a whole, it is distorted, but the fragments remain sharp and cruel. I was three years old. He was tapping away on his laptop one moment, and the next moment, he was on the ground. The room was locked. We lived alone.

His eyes. They looked like porcelain. His jaw lay open, and his tongue had fallen all the way to the back of his throat. I pressed against his face, which was still soft and smelled of his aftershave lotion. I climbed on him, waiting for him to hold me tight and give me a kiss as always. But he didn’t move.

The silence made me nervous. The familiar warmth of his chest felt alien without the wheezing sound of his breath. He wasn’t making the clicking sound with his tongue. I called out to him several times. He had never ignored me before, not even when he was rushing around trying to look for his keys or tie or something else. This was wrong.

I retreated to the corner of his desk, where I enjoyed mauling the chipped leg. It felt safe there. I curled up into a ball and kept crying out for him till I fell into an exhausted slumber.

When I woke up, it was almost morning. A metallic twang hung in the air. I started crawling to him and stopped midway, suddenly scared of going any nearer. He hadn’t moved at all. I called out to him louder now. I put my face in his upturned palm and recoiled. It was like ice. I turned to my usual trick for getting his attention – biting his finger. Nothing.

After that, the days blurred. I started to avoid him because he was beginning to get weird. He was passing gas – lots of it. But he never got up. Never spoke. He started smelling different.

I remember hunger. Oh, the hunger! First came the hollowness in the abdomen, and then came the pangs. It hurt so much. I rummaged through piles of old magazines and diaries and found nothing. Once, I chewed on some paper but couldn’t swallow it. I slept a lot.

My water was dwindling fast. The pillow that had been used as my toilet turned brown. Strands of my hair stuck to the mosaic tiles as I crawled around the room. My ears tuned into every sound coming from outside, but none of them turned to rescue.

I avoided Dad as much as possible. He looked scary. He started swelling in some areas, stuff was coming out of him, and he smelled like a week-old fish.

A cockroach. My body just went for it. Legs tickling my gums, a crunch that tasted like burnt paper, an earthy bitterness, and then something oozing from it. It slithered down my throat, cloaking my entire tongue. I threw up. And finished off the last of my water.

I don’t know when it happened, but the liquid coming out of his body started confusing me. The stench was putrid, yet inviting. I crawled to him. His eyes looked huge, and his skin had dark patches all over. His cheeks seemed so soft. I couldn’t help it. I took a small bite. And then another and another. I ate and ate till his lips and eyes were also gone. I was so hungry.

That night was agony. I threw up several times, and every movement sent shockwaves through my stomach. And then, I believe I passed out.

The stench was discovered a few days after that, or on that same day – time held no meaning for me. The door had banged open, making me recoil into a wall. People rushed in, covering their noses. Two hands – rough, but gentle, grabbed me. I found myself in a very bright clinic with a lot of activity and a strong smell that made my nose itch. A lot of people pointed at me and took my picture. Sometimes they would put needles in my limbs, and sometimes they would feed me bitter pills. I hated it and I scratched with all my might, but I didn’t have any might left. During the nights, they kept me in a cage that vaguely smelled of old straw and previous occupants. Two dogs, one rabbit, and even a ferret came and went before I was given a clean bill of health. And then I came to this shelter. And have been here ever since. No one wants to adopt me, but I don’t mind. My coat is shiny; I get treats for getting my claws clipped, and my belly is always full. But I do miss Dad sometimes. No one really cared for me the way he did.

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