The Last Orange Balloon

 

In a hushed town between hills and memory lived an old balloon vendor called Ravi. Every morning he would sit beside the iron gate of the park with his wooden chest of colorful balloons attached to delicate strings. Children loved him, but it was not just the balloons that won their hearts, it was the tales he murmured with each hue.

A small girl called Tara rushed to him one windy afternoon with wide-opened eyes and flushed cheeks.

"Can I have the orange one, please?" she requested.

Ravi smiled. "Why orange?"

"Because it resembles the sun. today, the sun is being kind to us."

He gave it to her carefully. "Grasp it firmly. It could try to take flight."

She skipped away with a chuckle, the balloon trailing behind her like a tiny sunset on a string.

That night, Ravi failed to turn up at his customary location. Nor the following day. Or the following one.

Word traveled quietly throughout the town. Ravi, the balloon man, had died in his sleep — peacefully, like a balloon finally released.

A week later, Tara stood beside the park gate with the crumpled remains of her orange balloon in hand. Her father knelt beside her.

"Why are you feeling sad, sweetheart?"

She didn't raise her head. "I didn't say thank you."

He nodded, brushing her hair back. “Sometimes, we think we have forever to say the little things.”

In the evening, Tara requested a notebook and penned in large, deliberate handwriting

Thank you, Ravi. I will never forget to say that again. From that moment onward, each time she encountered someone kind, she'd halt and smile. When her mother cooked breakfast, when the school guard opened the gate to let her in, when rain surprised her with its smell — she'd mutter a thank you to the world.

Years later, having matured and transformed, Tara stood by a window in a hospital. She was now a nurse. She had learned from life that breath could be transitory.

She opened her phone and scrolled to an old photo of herself with Ravi and the orange balloon.

"Life is very delicate," she whispered to herself.

And suddenly there was the sound of a child's laughter in the hallway — so pure it was like stitching past to present with a ribbon of sound.

She smiled. She didn't hurry to the next step. She slowed it out, allowing that moment to expand like sunshine.

She had discovered the secret.

To stay alive, today.

Before it floats out of your hand.