The Sunshining Heart

Childhoods define who we will be. When a childhood is destroyed, a part of our Earth dies. A part of the happiness disappears. A part of the innocence is lost. Imagine that happening to billions.


Children are like wet cement. Whatever falls on them makes an impression.

Haim Ginott


He was woken up by her absence. It was three in the morning. She lied still on the chesterfield alongside the French windows which illuminated the bedroom with an allegorical shade of silver. “Tara.” said his weary voice. Still still. She was approached and met by perplexed eyes. “What is it that’s bothering you, Tara?” She withdrew her face from the silvery, snowy scene and faced him. She had been crying.

“Oh, dear. Your tears hurt me more than Hatred itself.” He hugged her. “Please tell me what is disturbing you.” “You know it very well.” came a cold response. “It is alright, Tara. The miscarriage was not your fault. Don’t blame yourself.” “I know, I know. It’s just that” The thoughts perished in their journey to form words.

“Alright. Cuddle up with me. I will make sure you sleep.” And he kissed her forehead, and lulled her to sleep.


April 3, 2015

Dear diary,


                It’s been ten months since the incident. And I continue to die inside. Day after day. Night after night. Moment after moment. People tell me that I think too much. That I worry too much. But how do I explain it to them by mere words, about this inwardly quasar my soul feels. That I had a life to protect and it was taken away from me. Today, I received the reports from Doctor Garner. Endometriosis. It feels like the world is punishing me for some unprecedented reason. I can’t hold myself from breaking down. Or maybe, I have already shattered. Thirty three years of nothingness.


Just then, the doorbell rang. It was Rakesh. “Good evening, dear.” He kissed her. “Good evening, Rakesh.” “I require your calmness, now. Please have a seat.”

“Owing to the experiences I have gathered with you, all these years, it is atrociously painful for me to see you in such a contemptible form. It hurts me to not see you smile anymore. It hurts me to see you so secluded, so cold, and so inert. I knew that in your heart of hearts, no material could revive the life in you, so I decided to honor you with an extremely special gift.” “Maya.” he called out.

Entered the house, a small girl. She was probably about seven years old. As she approached them, Tara observed her. She had blisters all over her body, and had an artificial right limb. Her skin was burnt and her hair, gone. Rakesh held her. “This is Maya. I met her today at the hospital. She and her parents were admitted, as they were the victims of a vehicular accident. Her parents succumbed to their injuries, but astonishingly, she survived. With no insurance, or any form of stable security for her, the options were either foster care or orphanage. When I heard about her, you invaded my mind.”

Tears streamed from Tara’s eyes. “Oh Rakesh, she is the most beautiful gift.” Tara bent down to and hugged Maya. “You are the most beautiful girl I have ever met.” Just then, Maya kissed her cheek and she felt her resurrecting soul.


This novelette showcases the thought of equality of all children. All children are born innocent, fragile, and full of happiness. It is our responsibility to ensure that their childhoods are not lost. India has always maintained a poor adoption record. In a country whose population mark has reached a staggering 1.252 billion, the number governing the amount of adoptions taken place annually is a mere 3000.

And there are about 30 million orphans out there.

According to one estimate, only about 2,500 were adopted last year – down from 5,700 four years ago – as prospective parents are stymied by complicated rules, endless delays, overcautious bureaucracy and illegal trafficking. The most bothering thought of all is that Indians don’t like to adopt them. They ask for healthy babies that are about six months old or so. Even a minor disability is a no-no for Indian parents.

A large number of children go missing every year in India, and the number of infants is huge,” said Bhuwan Ribhu, a child rights activist with the Bachpan Bachao Andolan, which teamed up with police in Delhi last year to bust illegal children’s homes. “It shows that there is a big illegal adoption market.” Thus, as stated above, it is imperative to perform our duties as responsible citizens. And by duties, I do not intend to state that the least we can do for those invisible, negligible souls, is improving their childhoods in any significant way possible.

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