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Threads of Pain

by Srivalli Chilakamarri
(Puducherry, India)

It was a fine morning.

The sun rose gently over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and rose. A breeze carried the scent of blooming flowers, rustling the leaves of the ancient banyan tree that stood watch over a small, quiet world below. Birds chirped from branch to branch, their songs mingling with the soft murmur of life waking up. Beneath that shade, in a humble cocoon-like home, lived a family, whole, happy, untouched by the cruel outside world.

Kalyani and Madhusudhan, once strangers, had met by chance but bonded by soul. They had no riches, no ornaments, no grand house. But they had love. Their days were filled with stolen glances, shared burdens, and laughter that echoed between them like temple bells at dawn. From their union blossomed three little beings, the living proof of their love.

Krishna, the eldest, was a spirited toddler, always moving, always curious. He had his father’s spark in his eyes and his mother’s stubborn will. The younger two had barely begun to walk, their soft feet patted behind Kalyani as she moved around the house, feeding, cuddling, guiding. Their eyes were wide, round, filled with wonder and spoke of a world still magical and safe.
Their life was modest, yet it was everything.
Madhusudhan would leave each morning with a warm goodbye, bringing home enough to keep hunger away. Kalyani poured her soul into her children, singing lullabies, feeding them with care and rocking them to sleep when nightmares tried to steal their peace.

That morning, too, was no different.
Krishna was full of energy, and the two little ones giggled, clutching their mother’s fingers as she tried to feed them mouthfuls of love. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows that danced on the floor like blessings from above.

And then suddenly, in a single moment, everything shattered. A monstrous roar filled the air.
The ground trembled. Some unknown men came there with some weapons.

Before Kalyani could comprehend, Krishna was taken away, just like that. Her scream tore through the silence.

She ran. Madhusudhan ran. But fate was faster. The younger two were snatched next, their cries cut short as they disappeared. Kalyani clawed at the earth, at the wind, at the silence that now mocked her pain. She and Madhusudhan were also held and dragged, locked inside a cold, iron chamber. No windows, no warmth, only tears.

Time lost its meaning inside that prison. Minutes bled into hours. Hours into days. There was no light, only shadows and unanswered questions. Their bodies trembled, their minds unravelled.
“What is happening?”
“Where are our children?”
“Why us?”
Eventually, they were moved.

Dragged across a corridor lined with the eyes of the lost and terrified mothers, limp fathers, and countless children, all silenced by despair.

And then, the truth showed its face. They were inside a factory. Giant machines groaned. Steam hissed. Screams echoed. And hundreds of cages held families like theirs, broken and waiting for something they are completely unaware.

Kalyani clung to Madhusudhan like a lifeline. He held her close and whispered, “I will do something. Don’t worry. I’ll get us out.”
Hope that was fragile and flickering returned to her heart. But hope is a cruel thing. One night, Madhusudhan tried to escape. He broke free and ran, calling for his children. And then a flash, a scream, a silence that screamed louder than anything she had ever heard.

Some men noticed him and tried to stop him and eventually killed him.

Right in front of her. Her anchor, her partner, her world just disappeared from this world in a blink of an second. They dragged his body like waste and threw Kalyani into another cage. She didn’t scream anymore. She had no voice left. Only grief, and the unbearable silence of being left behind.

Days passed. Maybe weeks. She stopped eating. Stopped sleeping. She was only thinking about her children. It is not hope now, but a mother’s will to find them and save them from all the odds.

One night, she found a crack in the wall, just wide enough for desperation to slip through.
She escaped. Crawling on bruised limbs, hiding behind broken machines and crates, she crept through the factory searching every corner for a piece of her heart.

And then she found it. A giant steel tank loomed in the corner. It hissed. Steam poured from it while screams were heard from inside. Not just cries, not just whimpers but bloodcurdling, soul-ripping screams.

She approached slowly and her world stopped again. A group of men stood around the tank laughing, chatting about cricket, the weather, their weekend plans as they casually tossed living children into the boiling vat. No hesitation. No mercy. Flesh sizzled. Tiny bodies thrashed. The smell of death rose with the steam. And then she saw him, her krishna.

His hands were tied, his face covered, and he was terrified screaming, “Amma!” She ran. Screamed his name and threw herself toward him. But they didn’t stop and tossed him inside. She heard the splash, the scream that followed a silence.

And then her younger two, following, crying, calling for her. Their souls departed in seconds when their bodies suffered unimaginable, being boiled alive.

Kalyani collapsed beside the tank, her fingers digging into the floor, her screams silent now. Her heart bled, but her body could no longer cry. Her children, her soul, her everything had been burned into nothing.

And yet, around her, the men still talked, still laughed as if nothing had happened.
From that tank, delicate golden threads were gently pulled from the corpses of the innocent. Thread by thread, her children’s suffering was spun, washed, dyed and woven. She turned around and noticed a thousand more tanks. A thousand more children. A thousand more screams.

Kalyani followed the journey, though her body felt like a ghost. She had nothing left to lose. She just wanted to find answers for “Why? And for what?”

The woven cloth made from their despair reached a temple. A grand wedding was taking place. The air pulsed with the rhythm of celebratory drums, the scent of jasmine and sandalwood drifting-like whispers through the temple halls. Garlands hung in cascades, marigold and rose petals carpeting the ground, while incense smoke curled skyward, carrying silent prayers into the heavens. Laughter echoed, anklets chimed, and every corner shimmered with joy as if the world itself had paused to bless the union of a young couple who stood before God’s idol. Their eyes beaming with love and their bodies were draped in the very cloth that had been born of screams and misery.

Silk, described as pure, auspicious and divine.
Kalyani sat in the same temple as no one noticed her sunken eyes, her hollow cheeks, her hands that still trembled with the memory of steam.
She looked up at the deity and whispered:
“Why?”
“Aren’t we your children too?”
“Why does our death bring their celebration?”
“Why must our suffering clothe their prayers?”
The bride smiled.
The groom tied the knot.
The family rejoiced.

Kalyani wept one final time, not just for her babies, not only for her beloved Madhusudhan, but for the countless voiceless lives that were boiled, and bled into threads, only to be worn in celebration. With eyes clouded in grief and a heart too shattered to go on, her breath stilled in that very temple. Amid the echoes of mantras and the scent of incense, her soul slipped quietly from her body unnoticed and unacknowledged, becoming yet another silent offering at the altar of human indifference.

Every thread was once a life. Every shimmer was a scream. Every drape is a mother’s misery. And yet we call it auspicious.