Fear : a micro fiction

Daddy’s shoes 👞

 

As a kid, I loved wearing Dad’s tan Oxford boots that were part of his Indian Police Service uniform and walking around the front verandah, where the shoe rack lived—outside shoes are not allowed indoors in my culture.

Growing up, I’ve realized it is not easy to be a father.

Those boots weren’t just leather and polish every day. They were long hours, quiet authority, and the weight of decisions he carried home without words. They were standing straight even when tired, choosing duty over comfort, and love expressed more through presence than praise.

Back then, I only felt their heaviness on my feet.

Now I understand the heaviness he carried every day—so I could walk freely, pretending to be him, not knowing how much of him was already walking ahead of me.

Why Pride Slips When Love Arrives

Pride is a spine—

Straight, deliberate, practiced.

It teaches you how to stand alone,

How to keep your name intact

Even when the wind insists otherwise.

Love asks you to bend.

Not in surrender,

But in offering—

Your throat exposed to the truth,

Your carefully folded dignity

Left on the chair like a coat

You forgot to pick up.

In love,

You want to be chosen

More than you want to be right.

You rehearse silence.

You forgive early.

You shrink the ache so it fits

Inside a smile.

Pride wants symmetry—

Equal effort, equal ground,

A ledger that balances at night.

Love is terrible at accounting.

It overpays.

It tips too much.

It stays even when

The music has already stopped.

You say you’ll walk away.

You don’t.

You say you deserve better.

You wait.

Because love teaches a dangerous math:

That being seen

Is worth being unarmored,

That losing face

Is sometimes the price

Of keeping a heart.

And maybe that’s why it’s hard—

Not because pride is weak,

But because love is a brave,

Reckless act

That asks you to choose connection

Over control.

Pride keeps you whole.

Love risks breaking you open.

And still—

You lean in.

গাছ বাবা - ছোট গল্প

বাকি গল্পটা আপনি পাবেন "ধ্বনি" তে।

দিশারী পাবলিক লাইব্রেরির সাহিত্য সংকলন "ধ্বনি" --

জানুয়ারি ২৮ কলকাতা বইমেলায় মোড়ক উন্মোচন। 

প্রাপ্তিস্থান : 

কলকাতা বইমেলায় - কমলিনী স্টলে। 

এছাড়া : 

কলকাতা, কলেজ স্ট্রিটে - দে'জ পাবলিশিং

বাংলাদেশ - বাতিঘর 

মার্কিন যুক্তরাষ্ট্র - www.bookmaniac.com 

পাওয়া যাবে সানফ্রান্সিস্কো, কলকাতা এবং ঢাকায়। ধ্বনির মোড়ক উন্মোচনের দিনক্ষণ জানার জন্য ফলো করুন দিশারী পাবলিক লাইব্রেরির পেইজ। 

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The Neon Rain

 

Nyra stood on the skybridge, purple hair darkened by the drizzle. Below her, traffic streamed like veins of light, autonomous cars gliding in obedient lines. Holographic billboards flickered faces and promises she had learned to ignore. 

She held the shard—thin, translucent, alive with scrolling glyphs. Not glass. Not quite data either. Memory.

The shard pulsed once, recognizing her biometrics, then unfolded a truth the city had buried.

Nyra Vale had been designed to forget.

***

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In memories of Spring

Spring is not a miracle; it is a certainty. It arrives because life moves in cycles. Because endings are never absolute. 

No hardship is final, no darkness permanent. What feels like an endless winter is only a passage, and growth is already on its way. Even when the world is bare, and breath feels heavy, the earth is preparing to bloom again.

The day I was proven wrong. Again.

The day I was proven wrong. Again.

Years ago, I wrote a post about how my faith in humanity was restored when a couple found my wallet and returned it to me when I was in Noida.

(Old Post here)

History repeats itself.

I lost my wallet on December 31, 2025.

But I didn’t realize it until I needed to go out today and couldn’t find it anywhere in my house.

The first thing I did was check my security cameras to check if I was wearing it on my shoulder like I usually do.

It wasn’t there. I thought that there was a likelihood of me putting it in a grocery bag because I had too much to carry.

Sangram went dumpster diving, in case I had put it in one of the brown grocery bags and forgotten about it. Nada.

I had called the last Uber driver I made a trip with, using the “Find a lost item” option. First, he didn’t pick up. Probably busy with a ride. Second time, he picked and said that he had my wallet with me and had been trying to find my contact number but he couldn’t reach me because Uber said No contact policy.

He found it and kept it safe. That is all that mattered. I promised him a reward if he got it back for me. He said to text me the address and that he could reach me in 10 mins.

Those 10 mins were the longest wait of my life.

I am not who I used to be twenty years ago. I don’t feel things the same way. I have seen people act too selfishly and do petty things driven by their own interests.

But this instance of getting back what is valuable to me— not just in terms of money but what it signifies— my id cards, the wallet itself — which is a gift from my husband— means I can have my faith back for a little while more.

And it doesn’t matter how lost and distracted I feel, someone might find it in their heart to keep it safe and return what was lost.