He was enchanted with the place since the day he read about it.
He spent his childhood dreaming of the place. He fancied living with the people there. He learned their language. He learned to cook their food. He even learned to dress like them. Then, one day, he got a job, and moved to the place of his dreams.
It was more beautiful than he had ever imagined. The people were friendly - they asked him about his place, his culture, and his people. He made many friends.
Soon after, he met a nice local girl. He fell in love, and they married. Now, he knew that he belonged to this place. This was his home.
Months passed. Then years passed. His kids grew up, and moved away. His wife died. Then, just like that, he too was no more.
People gathered at his house. Everyone was sad. There was silence.
Someone said "The foreigner was a good person. Almost one of us."
Everyone nodded.
Image: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Pointillist-Self-Portrait.jpg
Thank you for writing “Almost.” The story’s simplicity, quiet tone, and powerful irony make it deeply moving. In just a few lines, you capture the lifelong immigrant experience of striving to belong yet still being seen as “almost” one of them.
ReplyDeleteThe final sentence is especially impactful — understated, honest, and unforgettable. Your writing speaks a truth many people feel but rarely see expressed so clearly. Arpita Dhigdra