The Boy Who Learned To Forgive
He typed hastily into the body of the e-mail, with the subject that read “Uncle Gupta harassed me when I was all of seven.” He typed and retyped into the subject line, while his eyes were fixated upon the picture of the lady who had considered cooking for him; her sole ambition in life. She placed the stuffed paranthas on his table and said “Eat them before they get cold and stale.”
He closed the lid of the laptop and went over to the seating area, holding the stuffed brown paranthas his mom had made for him.
He stared at the tiny scratch on his left forearm. And remembered the kiss she had planted on it, the last time they met. He had forgiven him.
He typed hastily into the body of the e-mail, with the subject that read “Uncle Gupta harassed me when I was all of seven.” He typed and retyped into the subject line, while his eyes were fixated upon the picture of the lady who had considered cooking for him; her sole ambition in life. She placed the stuffed paranthas on his table and said “Eat them before they get cold and stale.”
He closed the lid of the laptop and went over to the seating area, holding the stuffed brown paranthas his mom had made for him.
He stared at the tiny scratch on his left forearm. And remembered the kiss she had planted on it, the last time they met. He had forgiven him.
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