Malachite: Thirteen Years of Silence

Malachite: A true tale

Once, there was nothing in the world. From this nothingness, chaos was born, and from chaos came night. On a chilly night, August 14th, at 3:00 AM, Malachite entered the world. His birth was more than just an event—it was the beginning of a life filled with turmoil, a life that would prove to be as complex as the universe that birthed him. The moment he escaped his mother's wrath, it was clear that Malachite had a difficult path ahead.

The first person to hold him was his grandmother, Mrs. Myrtle. A well-respected Urdu professor at BNHC College of Arts and Language, she was known not only for her intellect but also for her strength—a strength that defied her age. Her bracelets clinked together as she cradled him in her arms, and the scent of her perfume lingered in the air, a scent that Malachite would never forget. Even four years after her death, her voice echoed in his mind. She had passed at a relatively young age, in her late 60s, but she remained the most caring person Malachite had ever known, despite her busy life right until her last breath on August 1st.

On Malachite’s first day of life, his other grandmother, who was not particularly fond of Granny Myrtle, tried to outdo her by bringing ten pounds of sweets. She was also a woman of power—a perfectionist and a brutally honest housewife. Her face was always stern, but her love for Malachite knew no bounds. She would have moved mountains for him.

The last person to hold Malachite that day was his own mother, Mrs. Yana. Her embrace was cold yet welcoming, much like the woman herself. From the beginning, she and Malachite held a shared grudge against the doctor who, upon his birth, called her beloved son “tanned.” Racist remarks would follow Malachite throughout his life—from classmates, teachers, and even his own parents.

Malachite vividly remembers his first day of kindergarten, feeling like a dog trying to play chess. Every other child seemed twice as smart as he was. They all saw him as an outcast—a role he would inhabit throughout his life. Yet there was one exception: Ms. Banu, a kind-hearted teacher who took a special interest in him. She was one of the few people who actually liked Malachite and treated him with kindness. Even after his kindergarten days, she remained in touch, offering him guidance for the next five years. Six years later, she still remembered his birthday.

Then came the birth of his younger brother, and with it, Malachite was pushed to the side. A boy who was once the sun of his family was now relegated to the status of Pluto—barely orbiting at the edges. The pain of that demotion still haunts him, especially the memory of his father openly declaring in front of a room full of people that his younger brother was his favorite. Malachite was shattered, but he masked his despair with a forced smile.

Malachite was never popular, and that included his best friend, Aadia. A sweet yet sassy girl, she shared all of his interests, from Harry Potter to literature. Their friendship lasted for seven years, but it ended abruptly when Aadia transferred schools. After that, things fell apart for Malachite.

Seventh grade was no less cruel. Malachite endured relentless bullying for his soft voice and his love of literature—things that should have made him unique but instead made him a target. The world seemed determined to push him aside, but Malachite had learned to endure.

I am Malachite. I don’t need you to relate to me, and I don’t need your pity. I don’t need you to be inspired by me because, trust me, I’m nothing great. I just wanted to share my 13 years of being in the grasp of this inhuman world.