The Truth That Smolders Within Me
By N.E. Zuvan
Yesterday, I wrote a story. Its backdrop was a sorrow that had quietly settled in a forgotten corner of my heart. Though I couldn’t express the depth of that pain directly, I felt an urge to give it words—however incomplete they might be.
Interestingly, I didn’t write it in my mother tongue, Malayalam. I chose English instead.
Why? Because in my hometown, even though many people are educated—some having completed their 10th grade, others their higher secondary—most still struggle to fully grasp the essence of written English. Their comfort zone lies in their native language.
They haven’t needed to embrace English in daily life. They rarely leave town, and at their jobs, they use only basic English—just enough to survive. In Kerala, Malayalam is the official language of administration, so English is mostly limited to academics, exams, or official documentation.
Aware of this, I decided to translate and publish my stories in English. Even if the audience is small, it brings me peace knowing that there are still a few—especially those working abroad—who take time to read what I write. For that, I am truly grateful.
---
This morning...
At exactly 5:45 AM, I received a message on WhatsApp. It was from one of my brothers. The message contained just a name, followed by a question:
“What’s going on?”
Since I had only gone to bed at 4 AM, I didn’t wake up until afternoon. Once I’d completed my usual routine, I picked up my phone to check for calls or messages. That’s when his message caught my attention.
And in that moment, a realization struck me like lightning:
He had read the story I posted yesterday.
A story I had written with such subtlety, such emotional caution, thinking no one would connect it to me.
I hadn’t posted it on any trending platform—just my modest Facebook page and personal Blogger site, both barely noticed by most.
Yet, he read it.
He understood.
He knew I was the one behind it.
He’s someone who follows my writing regularly. He reads silently, observes quietly. And now, he had messaged—not to argue, not to accuse, but with a simple question that carried a weight of unspoken meaning.
How strange... and yet how true.
In that story, I hadn’t named anyone.
No locations, no identifiers.
Not even a hint that I was the central character.
And yet—he knew.
He pieced it all together.
He saw through the veil of emotion and recognized the people involved—people from my real life.
Hours have passed since I read that message.
But the silence it triggered still lingers.
That realization lit a quiet fire within me—
a fire that now smolders deep, refusing to be extinguished.
---
Later that evening...
Around 4 PM, I sent him a message in response. I tried to explain everything—carefully, word by word, thoughtfully composed. I thought it would bring closure.
But no.
It was only the beginning of more questions.
He began to dissect the story, part by part, asking questions I wasn’t prepared to answer.
I sat there, lost.
Not knowing what to say.
Each question tightened the knot in my chest.
He wasn’t questioning me like a curious sibling.
He was challenging my freedom—
the freedom every writer holds dear:
to speak one’s truth.
To write without fear.
But now, that very freedom felt like it was slipping through my fingers.
My mind became a maze—each corner whispering doubt, confusion, fear.
All I’ve ever tried to do is remain honest—
to present the truth without masking it in convenient lies.
And now, that honesty has turned into an unbearable weight.
Then came another question—so small, yet so heavy:
“Was there a commotion at the hospital?”
I didn’t know how to answer.
Even if I did, I wasn’t sure I could.
So, I did the only thing I know—
I turned that moment into a story.
Yes, the events I described had happened just the day before.
Yes, I wrote them that very night.
And yes, I published them without hesitation—
not out of revenge, but to ease my own tension,
to reclaim my own dignity from those who tried to humiliate me.
---
This has been my battle...
For the past few years, this has been one of the deepest wounds I carry:
People—sometimes even family—trying to crush my small victories.
Humiliating me in public.
Treating me like I don’t belong.
Mocking me in front of others.
This isn’t fiction.
This is my truth.
This is what my own brother has done to me.
A calculated, cold attempt to erase my worth—
to paint me as a problem, an enemy, an outcast.
But this story isn’t just about me.
It’s about something larger.
Something real, something universal.
Because this happens in many families.
Talented people, strong people, sensitive people—
are often emotionally attacked by their own blood.
Why?
Because when someone feels overshadowed—
when they realize they cannot match someone else’s light—
they try to put out that light completely.
They mock you.
Mentally break you.
Make you hate your own life.
Or worse—
Make you appear like a madman to society.
---
I’ve seen it.
I’ve lived it.
I’ve stayed silent for too long.
But now I write.
Not just for myself.
But for the countless others who endure the same.
Your truth matters.
This chapter ends here.
But there are more stories to tell.
And I will keep telling them—
because silence is no longer an option.
