February 21, 2026
It was one of those hot, sultry afternoons when the adults seemed capable only of napping, leaving the kids to monopolise the empty streets. So, under the big, orange lamp post, that cosplayed the sun at night, a seven-year-old, me played with my younger brother and my friend, Sucha.
I can't remember the game we were playing; maybe it was catch.
My brother tumbled to the ground and started crying loudly. I made him stand and dusted his knees peeking from underneath his lime-green shorts.
“Look,” I say, trying to reason with a three-year-old. (Yes, I still expect too much from people.) “Why are you crying? Look, you aren’t even hurt.”
I brushed off the stray pebbles on his knees and realised there was nary a scratch on him. What a drama queen, I think to myself. He must’ve disliked the game we were playing.
“Oye,” Sucha said. “Look up!”
From my kneeling position, I looked up and saw my brother’s forehead sprouting blood like a half-eaten Eclair. It looked quite like Ashwathama’s wound must’ve looked after Krishna pulled out the precious stone embedded in his forehead.
I rushed to call my mother, who took my brother to the nearby clinic. He has to get stitches to stop the bleeding.
Over a decade later, it occurred to me when, after a long, dry spell, I turned to the past for writing material. It was a lesson I took a long time to grasp. Sometimes, you won’t understand why someone is hurting for something that seems trivial or normal to you. At such a time, instead of accusing them of overreacting, it’s wise to ask: "Why are you hurting? Where are you hurting?”
What you cannot understand, ask, instead of assuming.
There may not always be a Sucha to tell you where to look.