Hope in the horizon.

Dear Nadia,

                

How are you, my child? Have you grown taller? I hope you have stopped biting your nails. I miss you so much, little one. I am in Turkey now, at a refugee camp, I don’t know how long I will stay here before moving to another camp. I hope you are at a safe place, and you get to eat your favourite food, you were always a picky eater, so that worries me. Do you know? That day when the bomb exploded, I was making you your favourite breakfast- Qarisheh. You were fast asleep in your room, and I was hoping that the smell of Qarisheh would wake you up, and you would come running to the kitchen, your hair in disarray, those loose curls falling on your sleepy eyes. I know I have told you a million times, but you have your mother’s eyes, Nadia. When I look into your eyes, I get reminded of the most beautiful lady whom I was fortunate to call my wife; you were growing up to be just as beautiful as her. When I see you, I see her reflection mirrored on you, and it feels like she is still around. The day she left the world, I promised her I would always protect you, and love you more than I ever loved anyone. I am sorry I couldn’t keep that promise entirely. The Qarisheh was only half done when I heard the loud rumble in the sky. I had heard it enough times before to know that it was a missile pacing through the sky. When you had seen a missile in the night- sky for the first time years ago, your eyes had lit up. You thought they were firecrackers, and I didn’t have the heart to tell you the truth. However, gradually you did come to know what they really were. You called them death-rockets, I winced at the word. You were only a six year old girl, no six year old deserved to get used to ‘death-rockets’ in the sky. That morning when I heard the death-rocket, I started praying under my breath, “Not us, not here.” It was really selfish of me to wish that the bomb explodes on some other family. I was mad at the fact that the war was making me wish for someone else’s death. I cursed myself and made a quick prayer of forgiveness. Those days, all I did was pray. A prayer to keep us safe, a prayer for food on the table, a prayer for our brethren who were dying at the hospitals, a prayer to get the strength to survive this horror, and a prayer that we wake up tomorrow to see another day. I wondered who I was praying to, because looking around it didn’t feel like anyone was listening. The bomb exploded even before I could finish my prayer. This time it was us.

               

        When I opened my eyes, all I could see was dust and rubble all around me, the ceiling had caved in, so I couldn’t stand up. I tried to crawl through the debris to get to your room, but my leg refused to move. I pushed my leg against what was left of our sofa, the pain was unimaginable, but I had to get to you somehow. I used all my strength to pave a way, but there were too many hurdles. I remember having a silly thought just before I passed out from the pain, I was sad you couldn’t taste the Qarisheh. I woke up again, this time I was on a hospital bed, there was a tube attached to the back of my hand and my leg was in a cast. All around me were men, women and children covered in blood and grime. I searched for you in every bed, I didn’t spot you. A feeling of panic began to bubble up in my stomach, I wrenched away the tube from the back of my hand and tried to get out of the bed. This time my leg didn’t pain so much. A doctor was alarmed to see I was trying to leave and he told me get back to the bed, I pushed him away. I looked for you in every bed, like a mad-man I ran through the building screaming your name. Everywhere I could see wounded people, some too shaken to cry, and some bawling their hearts out. But I was numb to all that, my eyes were only searching for you. I asked everyone I met if they had seen you, they would always point me towards some other little girl that was not you. Then I saw a board which read ‘Paediatrics ward’, there were a lot of children inside cramped in a small room. This time I was sure I would find you, I ran in and inspected all those faces, it was a right pitiful sight, seeing the kids in so much pain, but none of them was you. I asked one of the doctors there if he had seen you, I described the colour of your eyes, your hair, your nose, what colour dress you were wearing, but he answered all my questions in the negative. He put a hand on my shoulder and asked me to check the morgue. I shook that hand away and hurled abuses at him, I told him he was wrong, I told him I was sure my daughter was alive! I was saying it more to myself than to him. Some men intervened and took me away from there, they gave me false assurances and told me to calm down. How could I calm down, Nadia? Now when I think about it, I do realise I shouldn’t have treated the doctor that way, he was saving all the children there, he was doing a noble job. But I only needed to know if my daughter was okay, if I could only see my daughter once...

One of the gentlemen told me that a group of rescuers had brought everyone in, and they would know where you were. I went to each one of them and asked them about you, they said they had brought in everyone they had found, and it seems they had not found you. That is when I took to the streets. My leg wouldn’t allow it, but I stumbled and limped through the dilapidated streets shouting your name as loud as I could “Nadia Nadia Nadia”, I was hoping you would call back to me, but you never did. I reached our end of the street, I almost couldn’t recognise our house because there was nothing left of it. There were two unsupported walls that were still standing, and contained within them were bits and parts of everything that had belonged to us. We never had much, but we had everything we needed, and within a few hours all that we had was brutally snatched away from us. This ruin was all that was left now, and I was searching for my daughter amidst the ruins. I looked for you under boulders and loose bricks, it was like a cruel game of hide and seek. I don’t know how much time had passed, but something inside me was beginning to break. Just then, I spotted a body right across our house. It was camouflaged beneath a pile of rubble, but the tiny feet sticking out told me it belonged to a child. I knew I had found you. Urgently, but carefully, I yanked the body out. I looked at the pale blank face, emotionless blue eyes stared back at me. This was not you, you had grey eyes. This was not you. Thank God this was not you! I hadn’t cried since the explosion, I had searched for you till dusk arrived, but not once had I shed a tear, because I knew I would find you. However, sitting at this desolate street with the body of a young girl who looked so much like you, it completely broke my resolve. I softly brushed my fingers over her face and closed her eyes. I couldn’t bear to look at those eyes. Suddenly, the world seemed to be closing in on me, there was nowhere left to run, breathing became difficult, it felt like someone had punctured my lungs. I was gasping for breath and crying aloud. I kept saying ‘Nadia Nadia Nadia’, like I was chanting a prayer bead. If I said it enough, maybe the universe would bring you to me. A passing ambulance stopped and took me in with the girl. They thought I was her father, and I didn’t bother to correct them. They took her to the morgue and I went with them. The crying had been replaced with a much worse feeling now. I felt like a pot with a gaping hole in it, no matter how much you tried to fill it with water, it would always remain empty. I felt hollow, a kind of emptiness I hadn’t felt even when your mother was taken away from me. Then I searched for you at the last place that was left to search, the morgue. I didn’t find you there either. I didn’t know whether to be relieved about it or not. Without the certainty of seeing my daughter again, I felt like an un-dead corpse. I don’t have a clear memory of what happened next, the doctors took me to the ward again and treated me there. I let them do whatever they wanted this time, but I desperately kept asking for you. Each time I asked, they would say no. Three days later, I was discharged. I was taken to a refugee camp somewhere, life kept drifting from one camp to another for months, I don’t want to bore you with the details. It has been three years now since I started searching for you. But it wasn’t until a year ago that I decided to write you letters. Every camp I go to, I write you a letter, and I give it to the refugee camp head. I tell them, “If you see a girl named Nadia Perez, with unruly curly hair, grey eyes with a tinge of yellow in them, you give this letter to her, and you tell her that her Papa was looking for her.” They always look at me with pity when they accept the letter, but I don’t need pity, I have hope. Your name, Nadia, itself means Hope. I may have lost everything, but I still have hope left that one day you will find one of my letters and you will know your Papa tried all he could to find you. However, I don’t want you to come looking for me. I don’t want you to spend your life doing what I did, it will break you. Searching for someone in every face, in every walk can get emotionally exhausting. Every time I mistake some other girl for you, I die a little inside, I don’t want that to happen to you. So, don’t search for me. I am not writing this letter so you can find me, I’m writing this letter because I want to say goodbye.

       

 Dear Nadia, always remember, bad things may have happened to you, but find the strength and the courage to be a good person. You have seen the world in its most wrecked and cruel state, and that is exactly why you can’t let it remain like this. Go to school, learn everything, I know you are a smart girl, become a doctor or a teacher or a lawyer, or whatever it is that you want to become, but don’t become like these people who have hurt us. Don’t emulate what you have seen. Spread love. Be kind. Give more. Have hope. 

I am sorry I could not give you a world where you had a happy childhood; you were robbed of everything that you loved, but that does not mean you cannot start over again. Don’t let anything stop you from achieving big things in life. You may still be a child, but you can do great things nevertheless. Stay safe, I promise you will see a peaceful dawn one day. Look towards the horizon, your life is going to be that long and that beautiful. One last thing, please don’t be so stubborn about your hair. Let it grow a little please, you will look even more beautiful. I want you to know that I love you very much, Nadia. Thank you for giving me a purpose to live. I will look for you and write letters to you until the day I die. And I hope we meet again in a world where we don’t go to sleep afraid, where people laugh often, where children play until the sun sets, where love overpowers hatred, where the sky is twinkling with stars, not missiles, where the air is filled with the sounds of birds chirping and not bombs exploding, where you can eat Qarisheh that your Papa cooked for you. Until then, stay true to your name.

Yours always,

Papa.

Image source- The Guardian.

Maid with love.

It was the first day of my new job and as always, I was a little nervous. It was a Friday, so Memsaab was at work, but she had told me her daughter would be home. I said a quick prayer and rang the doorbell, the girl opened the door indifferently, but the minute her eyes fell on me they grew a little wider, her mouth opened a little with a gasp that she nipped in the bud before it was completely let out. Then she quickly recovered and gave me a tight-lipped smile, presuming that I hadn’t noticed her reaction. This was what I was nervous about, and I was glad to see it had gone fairly well. Years had passed, but I never failed to register how people reacted when they saw me, the only thing that had changed was, it affected me less. Now, I understood what they must feel. Anything unusual gets a little extra attention. Sometimes it is the kind of attention I can overlook, but sometimes, it’s the kind of attention that makes me uncomfortable, and those are the bad days. Six years ago, I used to cry over my pillow every night because I could not erase the image of people staring at me and laughing behind my back, and sometimes on my face even. They scrutinised me like I was a circus freak, and there’s only so much an eighteen year old can tolerate. However, times had changed. Today I could try to forget about it with a shrug and a smirk, it took time for me to accept myself, and I was ready to give more time to others so they can accept me too.

             Being a house help was hard, being a house help with PCOS was even harder. They were always a little harsher with me because I was disgusting to their eyes. I had acne all over my face, and where my face ended, I had two chins. The extra weight didn’t really add to the beauty. But mainly, people had difficulty accepting me because of the hair issue; nobody liked women with more hair on the face than the head. Well, ‘Damn you hormones!’ I thought, and got to my work. It was a new job and I didn’t want to make a poor first impression, even if it was a teenager that I had to impress. I was done sweeping all three rooms and was just going to start with the dishes, when the girl who had opened the door earlier entered the kitchen. She gave me a tight-lipped smile again. I gave her a brighter-than-usual smile, it was a new job and you had to do these things to make them like you.

“What’s your name?” she enquired.

‘Ugh! The compensatory polite conversation’ I groaned inwardly.

This is a classic form of human defence. When humans know they have offended someone, they try to make deliberate small-talk with them. This is done not to mend or pacify the offended person, but merely to calm their own pricking conscience. I had been prey to this several times, and could immediately figure when this defence was being used on me.

‘New job!’ I reiterated to myself and politely answered, “I’m Savitri.”

She perched herself on to the kitchen platform.

“Oh wow! I love authentic Indian names.”

Okay! Firstly, I had no idea what she meant by ‘Authentic Indian names’ and secondly, why was she continuing the conversation?

“Thank you”, I replied so faintly that I was sure she didn’t hear me over the clanging of vessels.

“Where do you stay? You see, we just shifted here and I know nothing about this place. I don’t even have any friends who can take me around. I love going out, even if it is for a walk on the street outside. I also love sketching. Do you know any place where I can go just to while away some time? It’s so boring sitting at home during vacations. Daddy says once school starts I’ll make some friends. It’s a new school so I’m a little nervous, but I really hope daddy’s right.”

I was a little dazed, because that’s the maximum any of my employers had ever spoken to me, let alone in one stretch.

“Well, there’s a garden only two blocks away, people usually go there for a walk in the mornings. I have been there only twice, you can try that”, I said a little louder this time.

“Thanks, that helps! I’ll go have a look soon.”

She didn’t speak after that, and I was kind of glad about it. She jumped down from the kitchen platform and headed towards the living room. I was soon done with the dishes and started cleaning up. Just before going home, I took her leave.

 ‘Bye, thank you’, she smiled.

“Mention not”, I said, confused.

I shut the door and hurried down the steps. Too many things had happened, and it took me some time to register everything. Not only did she have a genuine conversation with me without staring at my oddities, but she also thanked me for my work! What was going on? Had the world changed in a day when I wasn’t looking? I almost pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. However, the world had made me a cynic, and I told myself that this was a farce and it would end soon.

            The next day, I left my home and started walking towards Flat number 203 again, but this time I was a little more curious to know how my second day would end. I rang the doorbell, and it was her mother who opened the door. I have to say I was a little disappointed. No matter how much I told myself not to expect anything from the girl, I did look forward to meeting her again. A tight-lipped smile was better than no smile after all. Nevertheless, I got busy with my chores and pretended to not notice the mother nonchalantly checking if I was doing everything right.

“Look at Jenny’s bed! She has left it so messy again!” I heard a man shout from one of the bedrooms.

He came into the living room and it was very clear that he was the girl’s father, she had the same nose and jaw structure as him.

“I had told her a million times to clean it. The girl never listens.” said the mother in a resigned tone.

“Where is she anyway?”

“She has gone to some garden down the street. She told me she will be back before it is dark.”

I will not deny that I was a little too happy to hear that she had been to the garden. I felt a sense of pride, as if the garden belonged to my ancestors and I was the sole proprietor of it now. Maybe it was the fact that I was just her servant, but yet she had taken my opinion seriously and even acted on it. After a while, I got done with my work and took their leave. This time nobody said thank you to me, but it was the second time I was leaving the house happily.

The next day I was back again, and this time Jenny opened the door. I felt a little warm inside when she beamed at me the minute she saw me.  My eyes were immediately drawn to her teeth. She had a pretty face, but her teeth were the most crooked set of teeth I had ever seen, they looked like they were fighting for space inside a jaw that was too small for teeth too large. Aaaaaah, that explains the tight-lipped smile! I immediately looked away, feeling guilty about staring at them.

“Savitri, thank you so much! I had been to the garden yesterday and it was awesome, it was just the kind of place I was looking for. I even sketched something. You wanna see? Wait, I’ll get it.’

Well, she clearly didn’t need an answer. She was back in a jiffy with a book, and a gleam in her eyes. When she had told me she loved sketching, I’d assumed she would be good at it. But here I was, presented with a real sloppy sketch of a fountain, which I’m not entirely sure was a fountain or just a pedestal with a bird sitting on it. I didn’t quite know how to react, then I looked at her face and realised, she did not care whether the sketch looked perfect or not. She enjoyed sketching, and so she did it, without caring about whether it looked acceptable or not. Maybe that is why she could look past my acne, my obesity, my baldness, and accept me as a fellow human. She knew I wasn’t perfect either, but she looked beyond all my imperfections and accepted me for who I was.

“It is lovely”, I smiled.

       Seasons passed, and my relation with Jenny grew warmer. Every day she would blabber on about things that happened in school and I would silently listen, giving acknowledgements wherever needed.  She needed a listener and I needed someone who would talk to me, and we built our bond on this foundation. One day, I was trying to scrub a particularly stubborn stain on the floor when Jenny asked me, “Savitri, why do you have hair on your face?”

I looked at her poker-faced. Usually, a question like this would offend or hurt me, I was very sensitive about the issue. But the way she asked it, I didn’t feel a thing. She wasn’t trying to make a jest out of me, she merely wanted to know. In fact, she was the only person who had made it sound like a normal thing.

“I have something called Polycystic Ovary Syndrome. It causes several disorders, including excessive facial hair growth, weight gain and acne.”

“Ohh, well it doesn’t matter. I have really crooked teeth, and it is because I sucked my thumb until an embarrassingly-old age. You are so lucky! You can at least blame it on something, it is just a syndrome after all.”

That was the point where I burst out laughing. It had been roughly a year since I started working here, but I had never spoken freely or laughed out loud at anything. No matter how cordial Jenny was, I was just her servant and I knew my place. However, today I forgot all that and clutched my stomach and laughed until tears ran out of my eyes, this conduct even managed to silence Jenny. I couldn’t help it. This kid had told me I was ‘lucky’ that I had PCOS, when everyone else had told me I’m ugly, and nagged me about my weight, my hair, my skin, my existence. Even my own mother had always been very vocal about how she will never find a guy who would want to marry me. And this kid here, out of innocence had told me I was, in fact, lucky. I felt like a huge weight had been lifted off my chest. You know that feeling when a small stone enters your shoe and you can’t walk comfortably, and then the stone finally comes out and you feel a gush of relief? This felt like that. For years, I had been walking with that stone stuck inside my shoe, and today I had finally found sweet release. It didn’t matter anymore that people thought I was abnormal, it was not my fault and I would stop badgering myself about it, because it was just a syndrome after all!

“Bless you, Jenny” I managed to say, a little choked up now.

     She smiled as if she understood what I felt. The society had not managed to taint her mind yet, and I would pray every day that they spare her. She was a pure soul in a contaminated world, and Lord knows we needed more of those! I squeezed her hand and told her, “Your teeth may be crooked, but your smile always reaches your eyes, and that makes it the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.” She blushed furiously at that and turned pink, and I knew it was because nobody had ever complimented her smile before. What she did for me, I did for her, so she could love herself more. 

From that forwards, Jenny gave fewer tight-lipped smiles, and I basked more in self-love. Two misfits had found solace in each other, and acceptance within themselves.

Let there be light.

I have had my heart broken several times, have you?

Oh don’t get me wrong, no guy has left me for another girl, or dumped me as I hopelessly continued to fall in love with him every single day (unrequited, one-sided love, uff!)

But I have had my heart broken, oh yes!

I was in a local train, on my way to meet friends; we were going to celebrate something insignificant which wouldn’t matter in a few months by spending an unnecessary amount of money on food and a movie. I was fidgeting on my seat when I saw a man in his seventies, waddling towards my bogie. He had soiled clothes, wrinkled skin, and bags under his eyes which spoke of his struggle. He was selling ball point pens worth Rupees Ten. You could see that he was a strong, well-built man in his youth, but old age had withered him and there was a resignation in his eyes, which showed his reluctance to carry on. He had given up on life, but life was not ready to give up on him yet. He was supposed to be in a cozy home, where he could put up his feet, lay his head to take short naps on a lazy afternoon, while his grand children played in the veranda and periodically played juvenile pranks on him, which never offended him but only made his eyes crinkle as he playfully scoffed at them. But here he was on a local train, holding a shivering hand full of pens, looking pleadingly at people who averted their eyes when they saw him. I paid him for the pen, and he continued ahead with his burdened shoulders and varicose legs. That was the first time my heart broke.

I was in an auto-rickshaw and we had halted at a traffic signal. I saw a little girl fluttering from vehicle to vehicle with her hand outstretched, a bored expression on her face. It was clear she did not care whether her hands were filled with pennies or not, this was just something she had to do, and so she did it with mechanical obedience. When she reached my vehicle she beamed with excitement, I realised her eyes were on my bag. There was a badge pinned to it which somehow caught her eye, she told me she loved it and continued to tread on. I traced my eyes along her steps and took in what I saw. This was not a six year old girl with pigtails who could giggle with her friends, and play house. This was a girl who walked barefoot on concrete roads every day, with an empty stomach, but yet complimenting strangers on things she knew she could never have. Her brown eyes had seen pain, but they did not reflect pain. They were eager eyes, hungry for life. That was the second time my heart broke.

I was in the hospital OPD and a lady who was in her early thirties came for an examination, she had a cancerous lesion in her mouth, and to confirm, I called the senior doctor to examine it. The doctor told me in words she wouldn’t understand that it looks like it is cancer, but make sure you do tests to confirm it and do not let her know before we have the test results. However, patients are not half as ignorant as we think they are, she knew something was wrong. She kept searching my eyes for clues, and told me she has a kid and there’s nobody else who can take care of him. She told me how she did not even have enough money to pay this visit, and she would never be able to make enough money for an expensive treatment. She kept giving me reasons for why I should tell her she’s perfectly okay, and that she can go home without worrying about a thing. As if I could change her fate, and take back the inevitable. With whatever words I had to offer, I tried to comfort her, but the blank look on her face told me she was not even listening. She was only thinking about her toddler back home, about whether she will be able to make ends meet. But we just sent her away for further examinations, and started tending to another patient. This was a job for us after all, and how she was devastated and grief-stricken was not going to stand in the way of anything. That was the third time my heart broke.

I was home, sprawled on the sofa watching a movie, when my door bell rang. I opened the door to see that my dad had come back from work. I turned my back and went back to watching the movie. I did not notice the droopy eyes, or the tired stride. My father has this habit of going for a walk every evening; it has always been a part of his schedule. When he didn’t leave for his walk at the self-designated time, I asked him why so? He told me he’s too tired today. It was a casual statement, spoken in a matter of fact way, but it made me leave everything and ponder on what he had just said. That is when I noticed the crow’s feet around his eyes, how he sometimes winced when arching his back, how he didn’t lift anything heavy from his left hand because his elbow ached. Life warns and prepares you for a lot of things, but it never prepares you to watch your parents grow old; it only leaves you in denial. That is the fourth time my heart broke.

I know I’m going to get my heart broken aplenty. I even know it will get worse and some incidents I may never even recover from. But what is life really, if you don’t feel deeply? You can cover yourself in armour, you can go hide inside a hole, but these heartbreaks will find you, and they will wreck you, but it will also toughen you up with compassion for others. And if there is compassion, one day there will be peace. If there is peace, there will be more love to nurse these heartbreaks. Rumi said, “The wound is the place where the light enters you”. I hope we have enough light in us to fill these wounds of others. 

An apology letter to the nice guy.

Dear Nice Guy,

            Hi! Before you begin, if you are a nice guy, you should read the entire thing. If you’re a girl who has met a nice guy before, you should read this too (Maybe you’ve made the same mistakes I did.) And if you’re not a nice guy, you should DEFINITELY read this. This apology extends to every guy out there who has been snubbed by a girl for absolutely no fault of theirs. If you said a hello, offered a seat in transit, tried to help out or be pleasant in any way, and the girl acted like you did something abominable, I’m sorry you had to go through that; that your chivalry was misunderstood. I am guilty too, of being one of those girls with high airs, who acted aloof when a guy was genuinely being a good person.  I am sorry. There are a few of you left, and I acted like a brat and drove you away. The thing is, a lot of things have led me to acting the way I did. I am not saying I can make excuses; I’m just trying to tell you why I did what I did, so maybe you can pardon me then.

            When I was five, I held on to a stranger’s hand when I got lost on the railway station, he told me he’ll take me to my mother. It’s a good thing I realised what he was trying to do, before it was too late. When I was twelve, I was going to my tuition which was three buildings away. On the way, I met men who catcalled and said nasty words to me. I fastened my pace and got away from there. I started to feel unsafe even three buildings away from home. Then I reached teenage. I can’t talk about every time I felt unsafe or was eve teased because that would be a huge list and this would just become a sob story. But let’s just say, I started feeling unsafe inside my very home too. The doodh-waala who delivered milk to our house every morning, was fired by my mother because of certain reasons I don’t want to dwell into. I kept turning older and the number of such incidents kept increasing, then one day I found my voice and started retaliating and stopped a few of them from happening. But I’ll admit it, I ignored quite a few of them, because ignoring seemed like a better option back then. Basically what I’m trying to say is, at every walk of my life, men made me lose all hope in them. I started growing cynical, and started turning a blind eye towards the goodness left in the world. I told myself, “All men are the same, I can never trust them.” So I started generalising every ‘nice guy’ I met and judged him even though he had done nothing to receive such harsh judgements from me. Then a few years ago, I decided to gauge my perspectives and put myself in the shoes of a ‘nice guy’, and I realised it is difficult for him too. In  a world where every day the newspapers talk about  a minimum of five abuse cases, this nice guy is constantly trying to prove his worth. He’s going out of his way to tell us that not all men are bad. There are a few gems out there who respect women and will even protect them if they can’t do it themselves. Several times I’ve acted like I’m royalty in front of these guys and I’ve misinterpreted every gesture to be one with ulterior motives. And I am ashamed of every time I did that. I cannot overlook the beauty of a person just because in the past I have been walked over. You ‘nice guys’ are the reason I still believe the world is a good place, that our society has a lot to offer, no matter how messed up it is. So if you are reading this, and if any girl has acted this particular way with you, maybe it is because the world repeatedly told them that men are vicious. I am sure she did not do that out of contempt (Some girls are actually rude though, because high horse and all that, you know, but most are not.) I hope you can forgive us. And more than that, I hope you can find it in you to let it go and never stop being a nice guy. The world needs more of you; we girls need more of you. Thank you for being who you are, give us another chance and we will turn around. One day the society will only have nice guys and we can all feel so much safer. I’m still pinning my hopes on humanity. Not all nice guys finish last.

Love,

That rude girl who is not really rude and is sorry about acting like that.

An ode to my city.

Out there in the busy streets of Colaba causeway, amidst the frenzy of shoppers and tourists, sits Abdul Rafeeq in his kiosk. Displaying a variety of antiques ranging from gramaphones to a compass with a Robert Frost poem etched on it, he seems just like the others. Only, he is not. He beckons me and asks if he can tell me a story, I gladly oblige. He tells me about the places he has travelled, the poems he has written, and the friendships he has built and lost. His job is exchanging stories, he says. And I tell him, that's the best job in the world! He then bids me good bye with a blessing, and I leave with a smile on my face because of a chance meeting with an amazing stranger. He is MUMBAI.

Clueless but resolute, I begin to rush with countless other commuters at the railway station, hoping to not miss my train. I stop midway confused, and to myself I mumble in Hindi, "Arey ye kaunsa train hai?" One lady stops, enquires about my destination, and then guides me to the right platform. I thank her for the help and proceed to become a part of the peak hour circus that unfolds at every platform. She is MUMBAI.

I wade through knee-deep waters wearing slippery shoes, and hope to reach home without any mishaps. The street which was bone-dry hours ago is now drenched and flooded. However, it somehow radiates a peculiar warmth when I see people going out of their way making sure everyone gets home safely. The nearby residents in raincoats,  providing food and hospitality, some directing pedestrians through meandering paths, some offering biscuits to people stuck in traffic since hours. A man guides me towards a rope, and with it's support, I manage to make it home unharmed. Each person out there on the street helping, is MUMBAI.

I go to my favourite book-stall and the man there greets me and starts suggesting books that I'd like to read. He doesn't know my name, but he almost nails my 'to-read list'. When I apologetically tell him I'm too broke to buy books, and I came only to look at his collection, he smiles at me warmly and welcomes me anyway into his crowded book store. He passes no judgement as I wander and sniff the yellowed, frayed pages. When I leave, he tells me I can visit any time, even if I don't want to buy any books. He is MUMBAI.

    You will not find Mumbai in the heritage buildings of CST where the British left intricate carvings, or in the slums of Dharavi. Neither in the sky scrapers of BKC, nor in the tiny cramped flats of Mahim. You will only find Mumbai in the hearts of its people. The undying spirit, the relentless determination to brush off the previous day's terror, and continue the next day with a new beginning. The audacity to look at every terror attack, every natural calamity in the eye, and pick up the broken pieces and mend them with each other's help. That's what defines Mumbai for me. It is less of a city, and more of an emotion.

    We complain about the climate, the crowd, the traffic, the constant government glitches, but the fact is, once you live in Mumbai, you become a part of it no matter how flawed it is. The city that never sleeps, permits people to dream. And with open arms it welcomes anyone who wants to be a part of it, no matter how much it is running out of space. There are a thousand things I can mention which Mumbai needs to change. This is not me being pompous and declaring Mumbai the best city, this is me accepting those flaws and admitting that we could do so much better, but yet, embracing this imperfect city that I call my home. Where the rich businessman stands under the same Tapri to smoke a cigarette with a labourer. Where someone who owns a Mercedes has no qualms about travelling in a local train. Where people lose hope everyday, but a chat with a train-friend, over a journey from Thane to Parel, gets them back on track. This is a city which nurtures you and also wrecks you enough to survive anywhere else in the world, which passes no judgement and lets you build your life no matter how skewed it is. This is a city which shatters dreams, but also makes them come true.

This is my city. We call ourselves Mumbaikars. We can leave you happy and content with whatever little we have, just like our Vada Pav. 😉

Painting by- Mr. Mukhtar Kazi

A hearty conundrum.

Immediately after graduating, when I took a voluntary jump into the shit-hole of entrance exams, my mind and heart were seen to be placed in juxtaposition. My heart had one key word: LIVE. My mind had another: TIME. These two words have only one thing in common. They are four-lettered. As a pragmatic human running a race called 'The faster you run, the closer your destination', I joined the herd of medical students who study until they reach a marriageable age and then don responsibilities too heavy for the shoulders which are bending with pressure of heavy books already.

  Right now, I'm split against the war raging between my mind and heart. They both have valid points. My heart tells me to take a break and find time for myself and breathe, travel, read more books, write, take out that guitar from its stand and strum a few strings. My heart basically wants me to defy social parameters and live life on my own terms. Such a darling this heart is! However, I have a particularly hasslesome organ called the Brain, who is a bossy, dominant, pain-in-the-neck dictator and tells me what is advisable and what is not; and like every dictator, there's a threat which the Brain employs to make me dance to his tunes-Time. And according to this threat, I'm supposed to ignore my heart’s voice and venture into the world of MCQ books and exam forms, and reduce my life into something similar- A test with limited options, which I'm supposed to finish within a stipulated period.

 Time is merely a resultant effect of the positioning of earth in the orbit, which creates an illusion of the sun rising and setting. Now you take something as simple as that, and you give it to a human, and he/she will be sure to blow it out of proportion and make it a claustrophobic constraint, holding you at gun point, and commanding you to run faster, or else threatening to leave you behind in this race. I think life would be easier if we were like fishes in the sea, they have no concept of time. They just swim and go with the flow (pun very much intended).

    We all have charted out a plan for our life, where a certain age is imparted a certain task, and all these deadlines are to be matched in order to lead a wholesome, satisfied life, where your future comprises of having a stable job, a three bedroom flat with balconies, and enough bank balance to spend on luxurious whims and fancies. Why?! You have one life, you have stayed on this planet for only a little more than two decades. The first decade you barely have any memory of, the second decade you spent crafted around societal parameters. So this beginning of the third decade is where your life begins, where you take the remote and navigate your life into the path YOU want to walk on. If you let time decide everything, you will only be running until the arthritis kicks in and you end up in some old age home with buckling knees and fake teeth.

Listen to that heart sometimes. Live for yourself. I know the future is nebulous, but not everything has to be planned and executed. While you are busy planning, life will catch you off guard. Let your impulse decide at times, but don't be stupid. It is not a bollywood movie, you will have to work hard to build a secure future at the same time. You want to crack that entrance exam? You need that promotion? Well you are going to earn it, you just have to show them you deserve it. But don't skip dinner with your family, it is the only time you really get to spend with them. Don't bail out on that road trip you planned with your friends two months ago. Don't forsake that screenwriting workshop you enrolled yourself for. Your passion needs to soar.

     Let your mind do the ruling, but take your heart along with you. The latter knows better. Money and stability comes complimentary with hard work, and work hard you will! However you shall enjoy this process only if you let your heart experience that adrenaline rush once in a while. Keeping your talents and desires locked away is like having a treasure trove and never using it. Don't clip your own wings. No matter how fast you run, your ultimate destination is that niche dug inside earth. Might as well live a little before that happens, won't you?

WILLOW.

An ode to the puppy who came into my life unexpectedly and left my life way too soon. I miss you, Willow. I'm sorry I couldn't do much to relieve you from your pain, but I loved you. And if you could feel that love as you lay there fighting, I can let you go in peace. I hope you have fun in Dog heaven, I've heard it's full of treats and toys. Sleep tight, little boy ❤
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Body envisaging the constellation of bones within,
Breaths consuming a little life away,
Eyes wanting to open, but too scared to see the reaper looming greedily.
This is how you came into my life.

Clueless, scared, and maternal, I welcomed you with open arms.
For hours we fought together, you were valiant and strong inspite of the frail body you possessed.
I saw the reaper retreating and almost becoming indiscernible.
I held your tiny paw, dreaming of the life we are going to paint together.

That's when you loosened your grip on hope. You moaned in pain as I scarpered around trying to find any means of relieving you from the malicious grip of morbidity.
You tried and you tried, but all in vain.
And it dawned upon me that I have to let go, I knew the time had come.

We said a silent goodbye as you opened your tiny eyes just enough for me to look into them and tell you I love you.
And then you put back your head and surrendered to destiny.
Holding your limp body, with emotions flowing out of my eyes, I walked towards your final resting place.

Life was unfair to you, but life was generous to me, for I had met you.
You taught me love.
You taught me compassion.
You taught me how to show courage in the face of adversity.
You also taught me it is okay to let go.
It was heartbreaking to watch you leave, but it was serendipity that you came into my life, even if it was for a few hours.
I wrapped up all my love in those hours and I sent you away to sleep a sound sleep.
I will meet you at the other end, and we will continue our story which was wrenched away by the claws of death.
Until then, Zendagi Migzara.