Tears on my loom

Knowing well what I did, knowing it is all part of living, it still comes back—quiet but persistent—like somebody is knocking inside my chest.

I walked again through Kotwali Bazaar road, down Dharamshala’s winding stretch where the mountains press close, where even the air feels like it listens. The narrow lanes were alive with vendors—fruit sellers arguing over small change, momo steam rising in the cold, Himachali shawls swaying gently outside dim shops. Moving through those familiar streets, memories returned in small, piercing flashes. My past walked beside me until, somehow, I made peace with it enough to reach home. Just before stepping in, a sudden urge rose: gather yourself. Clean up. Don’t drown in everything you just remembered. Move ahead.

Inside, I washed my face first then, I shaved slowly. Then I fixed the water geyser, tightening its stubborn joints until it finally breathed warmth again. Only after that did I wash my head and clean my body. The heat loosened something in me that had been locked for days. The room remained cluttered with new and old clothes—my work, my chaos, my only sense of continuity. I told myself I wouldn’t eat; nothing outside appealed, and cooking felt heavier than hunger.

Still lacking the courage to step out again, I turned to the loom. I sat before it, gave it a familiar punch, and moved the shuttle to the left—only to realise the fabric needed stretching. As I adjusted the warp, my face grew heavy under the weight of the day. I pressed my improvised lever—a metal rod tied into the warp—and wedged the small wooden stick that held the woven edge tight. In that moment, it struck me: my life is exactly like this loom, held together by improvised bits, tension keeping everything from falling apart.

Then, unexpectedly, those moments with my daughter surfaced—her voice, her words, her small efforts to teach me gentleness, patience, presence. They made sudden sense. A clarity so sharp it hurt. My whole apartment was a mess—clothes, threads, tools scattered in every direction—and for the first time I felt utterly unable to fix anything. All I could do was let the truth pass through me the only way it knew how: through tears.

As the loom clicked on, tears began to fall. I didn’t stop the shuttle. Left, right, left. Threads moving, tears moving, everything moving except the ache inside me. I didn’t wipe them away. In the same house where I asked her to leave, where I deserted her with half-truths and weak games, everything was returning—thread by thread—as I wove. The weft slipped into the warp like the stories of my life: deceit, longing, regret, tenderness buried under fear. All of it turning into fabric, into something painfully real.

Everything makes sense now—why I did what I did, why I pushed, why I broke what I should have held. Looking back, I see her departing, the surreal scene of losing something irreplaceable. Like fabric on the loom that will one day be cut, separated, transformed into something else—given a new meaning that the maker never fully controls.

My inner voice guides me now, faint but steady, as I continue with the loom. Each shuttle I move makes me persistent… then failing… then trying again. Stretching, tightening, releasing.
I am finally coming home—to myself, however damaged that home might be. From here, I will have to work with whatever remains, whatever outcome waits.

Tears on.
Threads on.
And the loom keeps moving.