Woven where Aegean winds kiss cotton fields, I was stitched with stories only hands can tell.
Then I was sent to Sri Lanka, where I sat in a carton for two days straight only to be shipped off to India next.
On reaching India, I was ironed, folded, pressed almost instantly hung on a black hanger in the front of the store.
Many people passed by me, then a lady with grey hair stopped her young girl and pointed at me. "Not the right shade of white" She remarked, taking a close look at me, and moved to the next shelf.
A few hours later a boy took me to the cash counter where they put me in a paper bag and sealed me in plastic.
The next moment the boy held me high up and a girl beside him admired me. Even though I was a size too big for her, she posted a picture wearing me with the caption OOTD.
I was thrown to the back of the closet. By week three, I was old.
I was tossed again, not into a bin, but a collection point labelled "Aquaterra Clothes Collection Drive".
I again met a boy, but this one was different. His house was not big, it didn't even have a proper roof. His hair was tangled and his feet were dusty. For the five whole minutes, he stood still, appreciating my beauty. Next he waved me around, showing his newfound treasure to his mother. He treasured the tone and softness of the fabric and cherished me not for how I looked, but for what I meant.
I became his favourite shirt. He wore me to school, came back home, washed me, dried me up under the sun and wore me again. He wore me to his cricket matches, while he went out to get vegetables in the rain and to every festival that came . He made me feel special.
To him, I was comfort. Dignity. Something new.
In the hands of kindness, even a plain old t-shirt can carry joy across the world.