The Shoes I Left Behind

I left my shoes under a bench at the Delhi station. It wasn’t poetic — just a moment of forgetfulness in the middle of too much movement.

But I never stopped thinking about them.

They were old leather, cracked at the toes, stitched by a cobbler named Rahman who blessed them when he finished. “May they walk you toward the right paths,” he’d said.

I was sixteen then, running from home, trying to be someone else.

Those shoes saw the mountains of Himachal, the sands of Jaipur, the smoky alleys of Calcutta. I loved them more than I loved myself.

When I stepped onto that train barefoot, I told myself they were just shoes.

But some things are never just what they are.

Years later, I returned. The bench was gone, of course. But the feeling remained — that I had left a version of myself behind.

Now, I walk in silence. Soft shoes, quiet steps. But sometimes I hear the echo of soles against stone. I turn quickly.

No one there.

Maybe it’s the ghost of my younger self, still searching.

Light in the Laundry Room

God sometimes hides His miracles in the hum of a washing machine.

It was a Tuesday when I saw the light.

Not the celestial kind — not lightning, or fire, or holy visions. Just a sliver of sunlight breaking through the small, grimy window of the laundry room.

I stood barefoot on the tile floor, a warm sock in one hand, the sound of tumbling clothes filling the room. And then it hit me:

This is it.

Not heaven. Not some far-off promise of joy.

Just… this. Warmth. Routine. The holiness of the ordinary.

I remembered my father saying grace over folded towels. My mother humming while she poured bleach like holy water. As a child, I thought it was all dull. Unworthy.

But now, alone in a small apartment, I saw what they knew.

That love often arrives wearing plain clothes. That eternity might begin in fluorescent light. I finished folding. Took a deep breath.

And smiled.