The Gold Story Contest: The Weight of Gold

⚖️ ✨ The Weight of Gold

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A Story of Survival, stillness, and the Burden Behind the Beauty.

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“ True gold is n’t worn. It’s carried.
In silence, in strength, in immolation. ”
— Roshni

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They called her Roshni the Rich.

Not because she was born into wealth, but because she wore gold the way others wore shame — bravely, intimately, and without reason.

Her arms were piled with lavalieres from wrist to elbow. Her cognizance lustered with circles heavy enough to pull her head over. Her sari was threaded with golden silk. Indeed her ankles sang with gold ghungroos, their chime more commanding than any voice.

But what no one knew was that every single piece she wore had a story.
And every story carried a weight.

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🎗 The First Bangle

The first lavaliere came from her mom.

She was only nine when her mom placed it on her wrist after her father failed.

“ You’re the woman of the house now, ” she had said.
“ And gold remembers responsibility. ”

From that day, she brought water, managed the accounts, and grew up too presto.

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💍 The Earrings

The earrings were a gift from her man on their marriage night.

They were large and beautiful the kind a bridegroom dreams of.

But on the third night, when he returned drunk and angry, one of them was torn from her observance. The crack noway healed duly.
She continued wearing the set anyway.

“ Gold remembers scars, ” she frequently muttered.

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💎 The Necklace

The necklace was her own purchase — made from secret acclimatizing jobs done while her man was down.

Every sew was sutured in silence. Every coin earned in caution.

It was n’t for beauty.
It was her independence l.

Her quiet protestation that she was, indeed if no one noticed.

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🔥 The Day She Burned

Times reached. Her man stalled. No one grieved him — not verily her.

But Roshni did n’t cry.
She appended another caste of gold.
Another ** weight **.

“ Each piece I wear reminds me of integer I rode in my life spending, ”

she formerly told a neighbor.

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👧 The Girl at the Bazar

One day, while buying turmeric, a little girl goggled at her from behind her mom’s dupatta.

“ Are you a queen? ” the child asked.

Roshni smiled for the first time in months after a long time.

“ No, ” she said, “ but I’ve lived like one — through storms. ”

“ Start with this. But flash back gold does n’t make you rich.
It only reminds you of what you’ve paid. ”

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🌕 The Final Evening

That night, Roshni opened her casket of gold for the first time in years.

Piece by piece, she placed the lavalieres , earrings, necklace, and kneesocks on the bottom — not as immolations, but as recollections.

She wrote a letter.
No heirs at law. No fortune. Just stories.

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🌬 The Air Hold Her Name

The nearing morn, the gold was forged.
Not stolen — blessed.

To women in harbors.
To girls starting academy.
To widows with no dowries for their daughters.

Roshni dissolved from the megacity.

Some say she failed in peace.
Others say she walked into the desert with nothing but the wind on her skin.

Weeks latterly, a tempera appeared on the megacity wall

A woman in gold, eyes closed, arms raised.
Beneath her

“ True gold is n’t worn.
It’s carried.
In silence, in strength, in immolation. ”

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In this story, gold represents survival, memory, and quality.

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🧑‍🤝‍🧑 I Invite These Friends to Join!

@mohammad1076
@taaher1
@rmj

Let your hearts and pens shine with stories of gold! 💛

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Thank you for reading.
May your story carry gold — not in your hands, but in your heart.

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