Wayne started beating me five months into our marriage. Initially, it was simply an unexpected slap or a punch to the kidney. It was so unpredictable and out of character that I deemed it my fault. I reasoned that I must have brought it on myself, and that I deserved it. That naïve perspective changed when the abuse became far more regular and intense. After two further months of humiliating, soul-wrecking beatings, I finally walked out. I left with only the clothes on my back and firm resolve burning in my heart. I moved in with a friend, but I knew I needed help. “Speak to Mr. Eden,” Sinead advised me. “You know he's always been kind-hearted to us and helps everybody without hesitation,” she added persuasively. And that's how I ended up outside his office the next morning, clutching my college bag and courage firmly to my breast. Mr. Eden was the College Counselor, and one of the most unselfish men I had ever met. Not a single student had ever been turned away by this gentle, unassuming man. And I was about to ask him to not just go the extra mile, but to also go out on a limb for me. How classically clichéd. “Marina, come inside,” Mr. Eden invited me the minute he saw me. “Have a seat. How's life been treating you?” he asked innocently, but his tone and the innocuous question triggered a flood of sobs. I was embarrassed; I chastised myself for making such a spectacle of myself. Mr. Eden instantly took charge, soothing me with encouraging words and a soft tone. He offered me a bottle of water, which I gratefully accepted. I confided completely in him. I was surprised by the first words he said, but I shouldn't have been. “We need to get you into a women's shelter today. I know a place near the college. I will take you there after I've called them to give them a heads up, all right?” As if that wasn't enough, this amazing man then spread the word – with my permission – on the college WhatsApp group that a student needed donations of clothes, toiletries, food; the works. The response was overwhelming! Mr. Eden took me to the Saartje Baartman Women's Shelter, and they agreed to house me as well as try to resolve the problems Wayne and I were having by giving us marriage counselling. All absolutely free of charge! I received so many donations of barely-worn clothes, brand new underwear, toiletries and even money that I could give some of the things to Sinead to thank her for having granted me a safe haven when I had needed it. And the best thing of all? Wayne is a changed man. The couples therapy had opened his eyes, even bringing him to the point where he apologized tearfully to me for ever having lifted a hand to me. “You are a treasure, Marina,” Wayne said to me on the first night I returned home. He was holding me gently in his arms while he spoke in a voice shaking with emotion. “I nearly lost the most precious gift I had ever received, but I will never again be this careless.” “If not for Mr. Eden, both of us would have lost each other,” I said and smiled, feeling the heavy burdens lift off my shoulders like fog burned off by the warmth of a rising sun.
"There is no such joy in the tavern as upon the road there to." - Cormac McCarthy BRAZIL He stood alone in the middle of the sea; the current immersing every man, animal, being with the same indifference. The waves resonated with a cunning vehemence, as if they were the messenger of the core of the earth itself, trying desperately to erode the drapery of the surface set in stone to become their own independent being. They were tumultuous, as was his heart. The sea flooded his iris with the same clear opacity, the same pure innocence that vehiculed their acts with such instinctive insouciance. In his eyes were a lifetime of emotions. He had no kin, nor felt any sense of belonging. He traveled the country like a nameless clandestin, devoid of any origin. The boy was fourteen years old. It was dusk. The evening sun embosomed the night like a mother would her child, engulfing the sky in a warm shade of orange. His horse trotted towards him and the kid caressed his muzzle. The horse exhaled, a stream of warm air going down the boy's cheeks and into the very ends of his soul. They were at peace, man and animal; Two beings caught at the crossroads of some agent of fate, made of dust, lost in the vastness of the sky. In those stars was the boy; atoms in fusion at his innermost core, burning; an anonymous spark maintained by a nameless ideal and a vague sentiment of yearning. The morning he rode on. The sun stood ubiquitous over a cordillera of mountains, a landscape molded by an intemperate but controlled erosion from the hands of an impulsive god. At a distance he saw a small village, melting in the paysage because of its precipitous attire. The houses, made of clay, seemed to have come from the soil of the earth itself, inconspicuous amidst the caatinga floor. He spent the day there. The darkness of the sky swallowed the night with a precarious indifference, the only remaining source of light being the few torches placed in front of the houses with a natural symmetry, as if a ceremonial hallway, leading its subjects to a precarious hermitage, distant and devoid of any order, perjuring them to eternity. Towards the back of the village there was a solitary fire; a nomadic fire in a peregrine cycle that no longitude or latitude could encompass. It stood there, a light amongst others, a spot on the troposphere of the earth, consuming its remains and transporting them, ember by ember, particle by particle, into the atmosphere, tying them into a transactional bind that could go on perpetually. As we cut to the face of the boy, we see nothing but the fire in his iris, submerging the blue of his eyes. As he approaches the fire, he hears a voice. A distant voice, yet with an acute proximity. “Do you see the light?” It was as if all laws of gravity succumbed to his every word; a black hole luring him into the darkness. “Do you see the light, Jorge?” For a moment, all is silent. The fire is no longer there. We hear a slow respiratory cadence, an imperceptible fiber amidst the daunting landscape. There is suddenly a light at a distance. An ember of fire, descending from the atmosphere, a messenger of microscopic proportions. It takes fire, spreading its indelible roots across the plain with furious anger. He could do nothing but bear witness. “A man cannot dictate his own fate, for it was set in stone from the moment he escaped his mother's bosom, and made his way, fragile and unwelcome, a frail passenger, into the hands of the earth.” There were about twenty men sitting around the man. He was bald, and had a scar that was obliquely engraved to the very ends of his face, and a crystal eye with no iris. “Had you not been a result of a certain circumstance you would not find yourself sitting here, at this crossing.” The gaze of the boy circles around them as the bald man gives his sermon. We hear a tribal drum, setting a raw and animalistic cadence. They were listening to him, hypnotized, drawn by the soothing intonation of his voice. “Until now you have been nothing but a witness to your own actions. A mere pilgrim, stumbling upon the ends of the earth, submissive to hazard. And yet you find yourself here, confronted by a reflection of yourselves, in that very fire. You ask yourselves, isn't every man born equal? For what is a man other than his luck? No, all a man can seek for is his freedom. True freedom, not in the form of economical entitlement, but by immersing oneself in the riches of our landscape. For nature is the purest form of beauty that no man can replicate, the truest form of power that no man can overcome.”
Resilience was not a word I thought about a lot until a few days ago. Waves upon waves of bad news have been storming our homes for months now and my conservative South- Asian upbringing didn't include swimming lessons of any kind. But the more I think about this word, and let it roll over my tongue, the more I realize that I'm quite familiar with it. In fact, it's been growing wild in my warm apartment kitchen. About a year ago, on a sunny Monday morning, I married a wonderful man. Typical arranged marriage situation, except of course, for the very atypical global pandemic we are in. We first met at a generic coffee shop, taking off our face masks hesitantly for an awkward hello. We met many times after, always swapping stories over a meal and spent about three months getting to know each other before the date of our actual ceremony. Given the pandemic conditions, the usual jokes every bride hears about learning to cook before her wedding were passed over for repetitive concerns on sanitization and social distancing. I'm certain we discussed food preferences, but the early romantic fog must have kept me from clearly seeing just how important food and its preparation would prove to be once I moved out of my parents' home and into my own! I'm telling you this because I found myself thoroughly perplexed a few weeks later. Cooking, as it turns out, was more at the heart of a marriage than I had considered. I've seen TV dramas where the kitchen shelves are neatly stacked and all the appliances are in the right locations, but even the scenes that depict people actually cooking don't fully capture the emotion of what goes on in a home kitchen on a daily basis. I didn't know that I didn't know how to cook. I certainly didn't know how to cook a full meal for two people in the forty minutes between when I sleepily entered the kitchen each morning and when I ran out the front door screaming about being late for work again. The opportunities to make mistakes were so many – dicing the right number of vegetables, pouring an exact amount of oil, mixing in the perfect amount of spice and so on. At first, I found this daily task sitting restlessly on top of the heaviness I rolled around all day- the fear of a virus. I was determined to make excuses for my inadequacies. This pandemic, I can say with relief, is not something I'm responsible for. But my cooking is. And the more I began to view it as a therapeutic pushback against the devouring thing that lived across the floor from me, as a tiny act that expressed my love for my partner, the more it became an activity I could rely on rather than resist. So maybe I know a few things about resilience. It has been thriving since I've learned to ask “What would you like to eat today?”
Staring at the screen before me, endlessly morphing faces and changing voices, it kept me there, transfixed into a deep lul, neither growing nor regressing, a perfect channel filled with nothing in an empty package. I was still, my spirit was still, filled with static, calm without peace. A notification popped up on my phone as if it were to interrupt this stillness. A coworker of mine was invited to go rock climbing with some acquaintances, and he did not want to be among too unfamiliar a company, so he extended the invitation to me. I became an unwitting participant. Staring at the 15-foot wall, I decided to go forward, scaling a more difficult route, and I began by placing my feet on the proper holds, both hands where they were meant to be. One step at a time, reaching for what's just barely in my reach. Placing my right foot on the hold that was between my knees. Grabbing that U-shaped rock by stretching my body to its limit. Bringing myself up, until the final rocks of the route are at my hand. Looking down, bracing myself for the fall, and letting go. A fall, cushioned, a surreal feeling washed over me, in spite of my tired body, my mind was more than ready to tackle the next route. Hours later my body could barely move, even forming a closed fist was difficult, and when forced, painful. This pain couldn't even bother me, and as I left the bouldering wall, and went home I decided to do something more with my time. I had come to the realization, a simple one, yet one that rarely presents itself, the viability of failure. I didn't succeed every time I tackled a new route, sometimes falling midway, sometimes right at the beginning. I could feel myself becoming discouraged at times, but that feeling was supplemented with determination. The determination to eventually conquer that wall, and move on to the next one. I had come to realize that in my own life, I had come to forgo those difficult walls, the hard problems that life gives you. I grew discouraged by the initial failings, while at the same time envying those who had seemed to naturally excel. Only by falling again and again, and seeing others fall with me, did I realize there was not a single person who was the best from the beginning, we all learn from our falls more than our rises. The line that divides the competent from the incompetent is if we rise back up after we fall. I remember the first time I tried to play the piano, and considering I was only at the tender age of 7, you can only imagine the beautiful melodies I produced, which is to say, none. I stopped playing after the first time I touched the keys, yet years later, I decided it was an appropriate time to start playing again. I had no nuance, no accents, nothing to speak of, I fell over and over, stumbling upon the keys, yet it was when I struggled past my failings that I began to truly learn. That's when we learn, when we accept our failures and move past them, to gleam lessons from our falls and use them to climb just a little bit higher than before, one step at a time, one outstretched hand at a time, and one note at a time. Failures cannot define us, it is what we do with them that becomes us.
Do you want to know The future as it comes Or would you stick your head beneath the sand and show your bums ? If i cant see the nasty world Then the nasty world cant see me Like in the woods a tree falls down Without a sound to see...
It is an odd feeling being fifty. Wrinkles are settled in now, and my body feels more flimsy by the day. An elaborate continuum of forgotten memories hangs by a thread. As time passes, my thirst for spontaneity dissipates. My brain is resistant like dusty cogwheels waiting for a spark. Looking around, many strangers I used to know now rest six feet under with an identical bouquet of flowers adorning an $11,000 gravestone. Some of their bodies were taken by the wind, drowned in the deep blue sea, or kept in generational attics. Looking back, I lost many jobs in my late 20s, but thankfully I had a second chance to restart my life. Today is my 50th birthday. A day I never knew would come so soon. Occasionally, I wonder how differently my life would have played out or ponder on old friends. Even at this instant, I can taste the bittersweet memories of nostalgia in my lukewarm cappuccino. Reaching into my pocket, I felt a terrible shock enter my body. Like a pinch too sudden and too painful to even breathe. Slowly I pulled out my hand with purple bruises and a pack of sewing needles. A series of flashbacks entered my mind. My mother had sowed, and her mother sewed, and before her, my great-grandmother sewed, and her mother before that. Funny how bits of my past somehow sneak into my present and future. The pain took me back to when I was a little girl sewing patches of all textures and colors onto my corduroy pants. Clothing was scarce then, and most of my blankets were quilted. Sowing became a part of me and followed me through adolescenthood when I joined the Craft Club at my school. During the second meet-up, I noticed a girl named Lila, with hazelnut eyes and brown hair, in the back of the classroom with a croquet kit on her desk. After introducing myself to her, we became instant friends with the everlasting promise of world domination. Our friendship ended abruptly when she told me she was going to study in Europe. I lost contact with her and thought about her occasionally over the years. Even now, her mystery plagues my mind in times of solitude and reflection. Today is my Birthday. My kids and grandchildren are waiting for me to come home and celebrate a year more. This morning has been my secret escape into the past, but now I must return to the present and finish my cold cappuccino. I reach the table next to me and grab a few napkins to place my needles in. It is an odd feeling being 50, but now I feel comfortable in my flimsy skin. My life has played out the exact way it should have, and now I must keep telling my tale so that my daughter and her daughter, and her daughter will tell it too.
Covid-19 became such a catalyst in time for people and their lifestyles. It changed everyone for better and for worse. But there was definitely something we were able to benefit from, the ability to hear the silence and not have to worry about it being so quiet. Why it was so quiet or what we had to do to fix it, because it didn't need any fixing. I could walk into my room and exist in the silence, in such a pertinent time to the state of the world all I truly cared about was being able to feel peaceful. Being able to stare at the 4 walls around me and look to the ceiling and know there is nothing calling my name and no responsibilities I had but to just sit with myself. I didn't know what to do with myself, all this free time I had to myself being something I'd never imagined I'd ever have and don't think I will again. And not that that's bad, but I long to have that peace again. I never slept, but it worked in my favour, three years down the line I know what I want to do with my life. It never felt right staying stagnant in my room and my surroundings being the same. I would spend the late hours of the nights and early hours of the morning constantly moving and rearranging my room, the furniture would be turned sideways or shifted across the room for a new perspective. But the question still stands, what was I trying to achieve? Should my bed flush to the wall? Away from the wall? Would my dresser come off less demanding in the room if I placed it horizontally? I always found a way to change and analyse everything I changed and did. Then there was also the silence, of course there was never any actual silence, just the faint noises of my presence. The shuffling of my feet across the tile floor, the scraping of the furniture legs as it glided across the room. The television playing whatever movie I could think would make me feel serene. Some nights I'd come up with something to watch outrageously sad and end up just stopping what I was doing to sit on the floor and watch the saddest love stories, or other nights I'd be dancing along to Billy Elliot or even finding myself again and again in the characters on the screen. Every night was different, a different movie, a different layout and a different feeling. Usually spending the earlier hours of the morning filling the time doing something like editing a powerpoint between friends or clearing my closet or cutting my hair… again and again. In the impetuous days, it was funny how the nights became unhurried, steady and undemanding. Each day and night melting into one another, something that was such a cause for worry 3 years ago still feels so recent as yesterday. The busted little radio I spent days and nights trying to fix, the odd projects I would pick up thinking I had a hope of ever getting them to work again. Realising as the times passed all this fixing and rearranging was just a distraction from what I was really meant to be doing. This was the perfect time, the only time I may have had to do this, find myself. I tried everything, painting, cooking, baking, pottery, writing, everything you could dream of. But I was blind, I was always looking for some thing that would make me me, but that was the problem wasn't it? I tried to materialise my character, who I was trying to understand. Trying new things over and over again. But it all took me back to the quiet. That was who I was. That is who I am. I'm not a painter, or a cook, I'm the peace from dusk til dawn, or atleast that's what I feel when I am me. Sitting in my room, moving and changing, that's me. Unbothered, Uninterrupted, Unchanged but doing all those is what made me me. I was how I lived when at peace. How I functioned is this high anxiety time. Sitting and consuming the silence with movies of all genres and fixing everything around me. It was finding where I fit into my own life. And I have, going on to do what made me stop in my tracks from always trying to fix everything. I know I want to evoke the emotions in others that the movies did the me, I want to make people think, feel and cry. And I want them to fall in love and understand themselves just like I slowly but surely did.
She still had three hours to go before leaving for the airport and embarking on this new stage of her life. But for now, she just wanted to have a few moments alone while her family waited for her for their farewell dinner. "Dream beyond what you see," she read before taking the last poster off the wall and rolling it up to put it in the boxes. She still remembered the exact moment she got it inside a cereal box, she was only 12 years old, she had no idea what that phrase originated during her teenage years. Dreaming had motivated her to work steadily, but also with passion. No one had taught her to pursue a dream, she learned the hard way to do it. I walk around the room, looking at the shelves where her books of adventurous princesses and fantastical kingdoms once rested, and now there is only a thin layer of dust on the old wood. Who knew she too would embark on an adventure far from home like her heroines? Her little self, who thought she would be forever in that small town, would not credit that she would now be off to the other side of the world in search of her own story. Now with her life packed in two suitcases, she had to say goodbye to that little girl who at some point had promised her that at some point they would discover beyond the mountains of her city. She had already fulfilled the dream of that little girl, now she had to fulfill the goals of her current version, who not only longed to look beyond her, but to be the best version of herself. -I just want to thank you for not giving up," she whispered before leaving the room, "Now it's my turn to continue with our story. Picture: https://i.pinimg.com/564x/49/9a/1d/499a1d371bab813b63b13a3c94c1ce4b.jpg
And there they were in Barcelona, looking at the world-famous cathedral. The photographer told them not to look at the camera, but there was no need. The majestic building was mesmerising and it was impossible to look away. But the guests forgot about the architecture and were staring at them. And what about them? They were having a wedding. Just like in his fantasy, just like in her romantic dreams. They said, "I do" and exchanged rings. He stood behind her and the wind blew her hair into his face. She could feel his warm breath and they both felt good. It was the culmination - there were no two parts, just one whole. Incredible emotions from a rich wedding and a woman he could only dream of recently - for his ego and the sentimental part that was ecstatic for the guests and the woman he loved. There were family, friends and prominent industry professionals. It was a victory for him. He couldn't contain his emotions - his cold soul was melted by the great success. His voice trembled as he spoke and a tear of joy dropped from his eye. "I am incredibly grateful to everyone here today for supporting both of us before we met," he hugged his lover tightly, “and after. You are an incredible people. This success is yours too! To all those who told me it was impossible, but continued to support me – you were with me in your hearts, even when my head was against it. I would like to say a special thank you! My love, I'm still in awe of how things have turned out, so I thank the universe for every second of it. We have come a long way but we are here today. All of us together. This is a new phase of life, but it's definitely better than the last one! Salut mi familia!” And now what? I don't know - he went to talk to his best friend. Suddenly A realised that he had been chasing something all his life. It didn't matter if it was material or not, but it was a chase of passion. But why think about lost opportunities when everything turned out in a way he could not even imagine? - Do you remember...? –B asked softly as if addressing the wind, not A. - Yes..., – A breathed out a little sadly. - What's next? - I hope this is the beginning. - New York? – B looked seriously at his interlocutor. - New York... The wind blew strongly, bringing with it the scent of September. They were lost in their memories – looked thoughtfully into the distance and became nostalgic. There was a lot to remember. Those distant, carefree days, 15 years ago, when they were just making a name for themselves, trying to prove themselves in school tournaments and leaving it late – exhausted but happy after such events. And when go outside, nature heals. On a warm sunny day and the crisp September air was filled with the scent of their friend's perfume. The trees, dressed in colourful garments, seemed to absorb the sun's energy, creating a sense of harmonious unity in nature. Birds were singing, some flying south. They quietly contemplated this beauty and gradually merged with nature. September was more anticipated than the New Year: the start of the school year, the end of the holidays and the shorter days encouraged us to get more involved in our work. Maybe this is the year we will be successful or victorious? With their dreams supported by their daily work, the days fly by for them. So the beauty around them goes unnoticed. If only this moment could last a long, long time... Then there was the university. Thanks to the Internet the best relationships have been established and consolidated. Not without face-to-face meetings, of course. During the periods when the pandemic was waning, it was possible to attend classes in person. Unfortunately, the enthusiasm for the educational process disappeared quite quickly, but the fact of going to university was quite pleasant. Most of all, they looked forward to the September evenings. A walk after classes on a clear day – people are coming home from work, young people are having fun and making noise, the first lights are shining on the busy highway, where premium cars are speeding along, ignoring the speed limit. They looked up at the clear sky, only the sun is setting behind the horizon, its last rays filling the buildings with orange light. Once a missile hit the schoolyard, burning the perennial maples, destroying the patterns and damaging the building. It was rebuilt many years later. And they are still there. Just like now, in September, it happened again. But it's not the same. These trees need several decades to restore the overall atmosphere of natural grandeur. - Don't think about it too much, – said V, who was the first to recover from the wave of memories. - I have done everything for today anyway! - Come on, let's go, they're waiting for us. And so began his dream life. After the official part of the wedding, the newlyweds and their best friends went to the Costa Brava. The picturesque road along the Mediterranean coast and the Porsche – it was an unforgettable moment.
I see myself in a white coat, stethoscope around the neck, easing a patient's pain and improving their quality of life. I see myself in scrubs, gloves donned and scalpel in hand, about to perform a life changing surgery. I see myself in the wards, assessing a patient's response to treatment and modifying accordingly. I see myself on an awareness walk, educating and screening people of endemic blood borne diseases. I see myself assuring a labouring mother to be, catching the baby as she gives a victorious growl. I blink and come back to reality, a 16 year old girl about to make one of the most important decisions of her life. I am filling a JAMB form, a qualifying exam which will determine my course of study and university for my undergraduate education. I have always imagined myself as a doctor, helping people with my medical knowledge. And now that my dream is within achievable reach, my palms are cold and my heart beating faster than usual. I cast my mind through the various professions that have piqued my interest over time, coming up short. I fill in medicine and surgery alongside choice university and submit the form, heart beats coming to a crescendo. I am 17 and in first year of university studying medicine. There is a latent feeling of euphoria and trepidation. There is a minimum CGPA we must achieve at the end of first year in order to proceed with 2nd year. I am not worried though, the new courses are familiar concepts from high school. I am confident in my abilities. I make new friends from various departments but I still feel homesick sometimes. My hostel is a horror so I go to my friend's place frequently. We read, play, read some more and play harder. I am having a blast. I am 18 and in 2nd year, the courses have become a bit complex, we have been introduced to anatomy, physiology and biochemistry. My dream is gradually being actualized. I quickly learn that the courses are more voluminous and the exams are structured differently. We have blocks instead of semesters and incourses are held at the end of each block. A professional MBBS exam will be held when we have gone through all the blocks. There is some fear and anxiety, the incourses are not as simple as I expected and I experience my first failure. I quickly shrug it off, when the going gets tough, the tough gets going. I am 19 and the MBBS exams are fast approaching. I cry sometimes while reading, the information simply refuses to stick. My parents are a huge source of strength and I double my efforts, pulling all-nighter several times a week. Exam timetable is posted and the tension is palpable. I pull through exam weeks feeling wrung out, but hoping for the best. While we await exam results, I am plagued with feelings of inadequacy. I wonder if I made the right career choice. The results are finally released and I pass with credits. Some of my coursemates got distinctions and a small percentage failed, they are to retake the exams in 3 months. My happiness at passing masks my growing resentment at the whole system. Then COVID happens, and there is widespread panic and misinformation. The government issues directives and guidelines, my school is shut and I go home. The whole country is on lockdown and the health care workers don their PPEs. I am reminded of the reasons why I chose medicine, the selfless acts and caring attitude, never turning away patients despite being stretched to the brim.I feel proud to have picked such a noble profession.
I look over the students one at a time: there sits the one with yellow blouse, long dark hair, there the two (seem to be intimate friends) one with yellow short hair, blue eyes, with a short with a knot and the one with black curly hair with imposed facial expression, engaged in an animated conversation in low tone, looking over me once in a while. With Black hair, like a straw, and an oddly matched blouse and a skirt, I feel intimidated inside ‘will i ever get to be friends with them?'. Part of me propels me to think so, because it craved for such friendship so long after the lockdown. My storming thoughts are fueled by Tim – our English teacher at this education center – as well as the founder, leaving me with the question ‘Will I ever get to be a good student of his?'. ‘I'm not coming for the next lesson' I say, with fear piercing through my mind. ‘I wanted to try out another education center, but if I don't like it, can I come back?' Maybe because I was trying my best to be a responsible, honest, and loyal student, or maybe because I expected him to confirm that he is okay with that because he is sure of the quality of education he is providing for students, I was struck when he said ‘no' that easily. ‘You can go, but then you have to leave, we don't take back students who left us'. While part of me grew outrageous for his unfair and biased judgment, I couldn't resist the fear of losing a teacher, even if he doesn't seem to be promising. ‘Why not?' I go on. ‘Because this is how it works'. I had sort of promised myself not to expect anything from anyone after my big disappointment from my other education center teacher, whom I overly respected, who I saw as one of the closest people to myself that I expected him to care about. At least I was his best student before quarantine. At least he had taught me for 2 years. At least for the sake of all the laughter and jokes we shared with my groupmates and that teacher. But when the quarantine started, when my world turned upside down, I realized that it was all my fantasy – a teacher caring for a student. It was only after I fought with my bias and realized that a teacher is just a teacher and a student is just a student – expect no more, and if you don't pay, you're now not even a student, you're an outsider. Therefore I had sort of promised myself not to expect anything from any teacher other than just the lesson, but still the easiness that that ‘no' came with once hit me hard, extinguishing my last bit of hope towards intimacy, kindness, and caring for others. As I go home, I nail to myself over and over again my father's words “in this world, nobody but your family (parents, grandparents and siblings), cares for you”. ‘Well, maybe this is becoming strong – you accept there is nothing like proximity, kindness, and care in your relationships with others''. I was totally tired. Tired of believing in the existence of love of teachers, friends, other than family members. I accepted. In this world, everybody is for themselves. This black and white is what the world is. I learned to be cold and keep the distance with others all the time. Until I met my other English teacher, who is now a motherly figure for me. She melted the ice in my heart and convinced me that we're not just teacher and student in the classroom and strangers outside it, but we remain teacher and student anytime, anywhere, and in any case. She convinced me that I could actually turn to my teachers, friends, not just my family when tough times come. I was hesitant as to her intimacy in the beginning after it all happened. But over her closeness with her other students, caring for them like their mother, and trying to bond the students and make them like siblings, I felt love, care, and kindness. The image that my father described, my experience with previous teachers echoed, the one that is black and white became full of color – vibrant colors. Today, I look back and always try to remind myself, when I'm struggling with my academics, that there is love, care, and kindness; life is not just black and white. True, not everyone can paint it, but that doesn't necessarily mean people who can bring colour don't exist. They do, you just need to keep believing in and meeting them someday.
My grandma has always been the glue that has stitched our family together. She is that tall tree whose roots are so sturdy they cannot be cut down. She is the reason we want to visit home during the holiday season. She is a reminder that though we no longer have our parents, God had purposefully placed her in our lives for such a time as this. It could be her contagious laughter that changes any atmosphere or her mischievous gaze that lets you know she has been around the world for some time. Her hugs let you know that she is in love with you, and her cooking, though not the best conveys a sense of home. My relationship with Grandma was rocky for a long time. We could not see eye to eye on certain things. I blame it on our similar traits of hot temper and stubbornness. After my grandfather passed away when I graduated high school and turned nineteen, things took an even darker turn. He had left a business with no will, and per tradition, the oldest of the siblings inherited the responsibility. My mother, at the time, could not care less, so the weight fell on my shoulders. The business was in so much debt, which made it difficult to revive for an inexperienced high school graduate. After several attempts to save the business, it continued to drown in debt. I had borrowed some money from several people with a promise of reasonable interest, but I could not pay it back. Needless to say, we had to close the business. The people I owed money to were banging down our throats, leaving my grandmother in shame and embarrassment. A few months after the business had closed, my grandmother and I had a talk in which she requested that I leave home and stay with my mother for a while. I took this demand to heart as a form of abandonment and rejection. I obliged her wish, but I could not erase the brokenness and disappointment in her gaze. Our relationship was bad, but it had taken a crack for the worst. It was difficult to forgive myself. Years had passed, and I had not set foot at home, even for the holidays. I found a job and proceeded to pay off my outstanding debt. I did not dare to return home and face her. The wound of not being able to forgive had caused a deep rift between my family and me. I lived in isolation, away from them, as a way of self-punishment. I would later lose my mom to AIDS, but even that would not repair our relationship. It had been years since my mom's passing, and my siblings and I kept in touch. I would ask about her well-being but end there. One random day, I received a call from Go-go (translation: grandma). She proceeded with the greetings, and I replied with a sceptical tone, "I'm okay." I can't describe to you how surprised I was by our next conversation. “Sneh, why have you not home?” I thought to myself, has old age taken her memory hostage? “Are you still angry with me?” Nope, she still remembers. “Don't you know how much we have missed you at home?” The shock had silenced my tongue. She continued to express her concern for me and her desire to see me before she dies. Bear in mind, this was just the old people's way of quilting you, not a declaration of a terminal illness. While she talked, a stream of tears came pouring down my cheeks. I felt a lump that had suffocated me for years releasing. It was the first time I let go of the guilt I carried for so many years. I realized that I had imprisoned myself in this self-imposed cell, and only I had access to this key. You know that infamous saying that being unforgiving is like someone taking poison and hoping someone should die. I had been poisoning my soul with bitterness and hatred. My grandma opened the door to healing. I decided that the next step would be to return home. Little did I know, that a lockdown would be implemented. Because of the pandemic, I realized that the anger I carried would amount to nothing. All of a sudden, the senile remark about her dying could become true. During the months of lockdown,I fell into a deep state of depression. By grace, the lockdown restrictions had been eased, and I returned to work. After many months, my finances settled, and in August 2022, I went back home. When I arrived, there she was, my old lady, seated outside her muddy kitchen hut. Her body was frail and wrinkled but still beautiful. Her left eye was near blindness. “Who are you?” I blamed her eyes that had given up on her sight. “Again, she asked, "Who are you?" I replied, "Go-go, it is me, Sneh." She could not contain her joy and hastily cupped me in her arms, joking about my weight gain as if we were old, lost friends. It was foolish of me to think that love, coupled with wisdom, could not forgive a multitude of mistakes. After a couple of days at home and we became friends. She would, like all seniors, question my marital status and my capacity to conceive great-grandchildren. I still wonder if I deserve her, but I believe God had placed her in my life intentionally for such a time as this.
My first memory of COVID was late at night in December of 2019. I saw it on the news, looking at my phone in a pitch black room – a room in the apartment my family had just moved into. An apartment that was small, 11 stories high, and about 7,000 miles away from where I used to call home. When I was ten, my parents shifted the entirety of my life by moving us to Kyoto, Japan. What made me remember this moment - looking at my phone at the news in the midst of unpacking and struggling to live in this completely new culture - is that I told people. I told others about COVID and everyone shrugged it off; as did I, not realizing it would change the trajectory of our lives – everyone's life. A few months later: It's February, 2020. Light was streaming in through the thin brown curtains of my open-windowed classroom at school, all 20 students sleeping on chairs or squishing onto the one stained couch at the back of the room, all looking for a cushioned seat to sink into. Three teachers were jammed in the room. First they said we would be wearing masks. I didn't think anything of it, as did everyone else. The following week, my teacher, standing in the shadows of the light bleached room, said we would all be going into online classes. Everyone was silent. No one understood. Throughout the next three years the borders in Japan stayed closed. Traveling back home over the summer required 5 hours of paperwork after 20 hours of flying, plus quarantine. Only at the start of this year did the Japanese government finally release their grasp on the Mask Mandate. Even today about 85% of people still wear masks; it's like a regularity now, a parasite that people have learned to live with and don't know how to live without. I was in online school for over nine months in total, and staying home wasn't the worst part - it was being told I was going to be able to go to school in person, and then a few weeks after actually being able to see people, we would have to go back into online school. March 2021: The waves licked at my feet in beautiful Okinawa Japan in the late afternoon during spring break. We had been at in-person school for five months when I got the email –- we would be going into online classes for two weeks. That turned into over two months. In the US people sat outside their houses on lawn chairs, talking to their neighbors through their windows. Japan doesn't have front lawns, or back ones. They have windows that are only opened when clothes need to be baked in the sun because dryers take too much space in the house. I talked to almost no one for a year, and, having just moved to a polar opposite country to the one I had been previously living in, I felt trapped in a cage labeled “overwhelmed.” For the first couple months where we lived free of COVID in Japan, there were many foreigners visiting. Where we lived, we weren't surrounded by only Japanese, but also those from the west who somewhat made it feel like home. Then, the borders closed, and the land was quiet. My world felt silent for two years. As I was able to begin riding the train again each morning, not trapped in my home, I realized how being foreign and living in Japan was not pleasing to some. The stares. People crossing to the other side of the street when you are near. Moving to a different bus seat when you get too close. Though every country experiences these problems, living in a closed-off Japan, trapped from the rest of the world - trapped me too. But then I met a girl online, and she filled my life with light. And soon I met another, who lived close by and came over to my house often. Though there were days I felt alone, I knew that I had wonderful people around me - and I will never forget the hilarious Zoom calls with my friends from school… I miss them. I moved back to the US in June, and not wearing a mask felt odd, but freeing. I now live in Texas, and I see that everyone talks to everyone. They are kind – they say excuse me if they are in your way, and they smile at you more often than not. Being in Japan, not talking to many people for so long due to language barriers and the extensive shut down COVID inflicted on the country made me realize how deficient I was in the complex action that was being social. Despite all of this, Japan was a blessing, and COVID wasn't a curse. It was painful; but it also made me stronger. I understood the meaning of looking out for myself, and to simply enjoy life as it was. Sitting at home and typing at my laptop for a whole summer resulted in an entire book that has infusions of my life in it, something I never would have done if COVID didn't occur and I didn't have the time. COVID resulted in me learning about myself, even if it was a struggle to realize that. Those four and a half years were worth it, even through the hard times, and experiencing the entirety of COVID in Japan, though difficult, allowed me to see the goodness in a newfangled place halfway across the world.
Lily Troye drew in a chilly breath as she made her way through the busy streets of Raindale, a small town on the south of Sington. The snow had started earlier this year and Christmas was not due for another three weeks. Children ran around dressed in layers of clothing, their large hats hiding away their tiny ears from the cold. Lily was on her way to the forest adjacent to the marketplace which was temporarily closed down due to the trading of explicit media which caused quite a furry among residents. The sound of bells faintly reached her ears, announcing midday already. She hurried her steps, seeing the tall trees covered in white powder. She knew the path but still followed the slightly bigger footsteps she could trace out in the snow. Her heart pounded in anticipation. She was pretty sure she'd never get used to this feeling any time soon. That's what happened when you were dating Celia Blossom, the daughter of the town's mayor. Celia and Lily were currently in their senior year in high school and had been secretly dating since they were fifteen. To say that they disliked each other at first was an understatement. In fact, they had hated each other more than anything. Lily, being from the underprivileged in the city, didn't have an ounce of pity for anyone related to that vile politician who profited off the hard working people of the town. Celia, on the other hand, couldn't stand Lily's arrogance and had thought she was part of some gang due to her background. Of course, this all changed when Lily had found Celia alone in the nurse's office, after school hours, tending to some bruises, courtesy of the mayor's wife. They quickly developed a profound affection for each other, which deepened into something more over time. Lily smiled as she recalled the weeks before the start of their relationship. The quick glances. The way Lily's coffee coloured skin complemented Celia's snow white complexion. That electrifying feeling when they were in close proximity. Or even that longing in Lily's eyes every time the other girl would come into view. She cherished those memories so much. She finally found herself in front of the picturesque view of a frozen lake surrounded by the forest, as if Mother nature wanted to keep this magnificent landscape away from prying eyes. Lily's eyes however were focused on a particular figure sitting on the snow, every fibre of her being exploding with joy. The woman with unmistakable red hair did not seem to have heard Lily coming as she gazed into the distance. Lily silently drew closer and hugged the girl from behind, causing her to giggle like a teenage girl. “Lily!” The red haired gasped but embraced the other girl nonetheless. “Celia babe, you have no idea how much I missed you,” Lily said and breathed in the red haired scent. As the mixture of strawberry and cherry perfume hit her nostrils, Lily felt intoxicated. At that precise moment, she realised how much she loved Celia Blossom and the consequences be damned, she'd do absolutely anything for her. Celia broke the hug and gazed at Lily lovingly, as if Lily was the elixir to all her anguish and torment. “I missed you too,” Celia whispered, as if scared to bother the serenity of this moment. “I made some cinnamon rolls,” she gestured towards a small basket that Lily didn't notice. Cinnamon rolls were Lily's favourite sweet dish and Celia never missed the opportunity to prepare them for her girlfriend. They sat in the snow and inspected the food. Lily tasted the still warm bun, the custard dripping from her mouth. She rolled her eyes in pure ecstasy as the silky and soft bread hit her tongue. The forest seemed to be dead silent except for the occasional chirping of birds. It had been a while since they last saw each other. With Celia helping out in end of year events organised by her father and Lily's participation in this season's photography competition, they seemed to barely have had time to spend together. It was agonising to say the least but it also made stolen moments, like this one, more meaningful. “Lily, you have-“ Celia removed her right hand's glove, revealing her bare hand with a ring on her index finger. Lily had its matching necklace under her clothes. Celia moved closer to her, her hand reaching for her face. She placed her thumb on Lily's lips, trying to remove the leftover custard. Lily thought she might pass out any second now and couldn't help but notice the coldness of Celia's finger as it traced her skin. The red-haired eyes softened as they took in Lily's features. They were bare inches from each other, neither of them wanting to take the next step. They were suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a squirrel, rummaging through Celia's basket. "You have got to be kidding me," Lily groaned. Celia, on the other hand, laughed and rested her head on Lily's shoulder. To them, it was another heartwarming memory that they'll look back on later, perhaps in another time and era.
Everyday you wake up to choose either a coffee or a coffin, I chose coffee that day, but my friend chose a coffin. Everyone was there, her mom's eyes were wet, everyone sat in a circle around her consoling her, and I watched. I felt hands on my face and it was her sister, her sister's eyes were not dry too, she thought my wouldn't be too, but they were. "Why aren't you crying?" She asked, and I stared at her not saying anything. It happened when I was twelve, my mom said there was something wrong with me when I watched my father die with nothing in sight but his legs dangling and his body soulless. The doctor diagnosed me with alexythymia, and my mom read that as me being a creep, she still thinks that till date, she still thinks that as I do not mourn my friend. My mom worked as a teacher at the school I attended, when she was asked about me, she simply said, "she'll get over it with time", I'm fifteen and I'm still the same, no one asked about it again. They saw it for themselves. It was a Wednesday, school for that day had ended and mom was busy so she asked to wait for her, then I saw it, I saw a boy being hit on the head, he was bleeding from the head, he was screaming and tears were streaming down his face, I went back in to my classroom and met a teacher, I told him what I saw, and he looked at me for a moment, then went on with his work. "Why didn't you say it a little more seriously" his nose was scrunched, his eyes were red, probably from the tears, but I stood there, watching everything unfold, people had now gathered, some speculating that the boy was soulless. "Leave my daughter alone please" my mom said something when the man kept screaming at me, he looked at me one last time, before getting on his knees to take the boy, mom then stared at me too, her eyes were red, everyone's eyes were, except I was not part of everyone. After the incident, mom decided I should change to another school, she suggested a boarding school, and I nodded when she suggested that. We set off the Tuesday of the following week to a neighbouring town, throughout the drive, she held my hand and looked through the windscreen, I took my hand a few times to either fix my dress or drink water, she did not say a word and I did not ask why. We reached the school at noon. "Your roommate will be joining you shortly" the man looked like someone approaching forty, he had lines on his forehead, his eyes weren't on me as he spoke, the papers on his desk kept him busy. I expected to see my roommate a week or two after the man told me that, but I didn't see her till after three months, she came in not like I did, her eyes were puffy and her hand had scars, "What's wrong with you?" I asked her, she didn't respond, she had a mirror facing her, she turned away from it, maybe she did not want to look at it, "Does anything seem wrong with me?" "Your eyes are all puffy and your skin is all scarred, you don't look right" "You're brutally honest" it almost came out like a whisper from her, I nodded when I met her eyes. She laid on her undone bed, and I saw her close her eyes, I did too. The next morning, I woke up and she was not there, I went on to my classes and saw her, she had the clothes from yesterday on, and her eyes were still like they were except a bit less swollen, "You're late" the teacher stopped teaching to face me, "I'm sorry" Mom had taught me phrases that she claimed would make me 'normal', she told me to use 'im sorry' more than the others and I did just that, when I did that often, her eyes didn't get teary every morning. The teacher went on with his lesson. ★★ "Wake up" I heard a voice faint as I tried to see though my eyelids. I opened them and it was her, she had changed from her previous clothes and her eyes were a little less puffy. "Classes are over" she said again and I nodded, she went out through the classroom door and I followed. Then suddenly I heard a loud thud. It was her. I looked around for a teacher but there was none. Then I heard her get up, she got up coughing as if choked by something, "Can't you help me up?" I saw her raise her hands right at me and I grabbed it and helped her up. "I heard you're sick too" she said and I found it very not related to the current situation, but I nodded. It rained and we stayed in the rain because she said so, we did that the day after and the week after. "School's over, see see you next... year?" I she said it like a question and walked out of the room with her suitcase as she waved at me, then I heard her slam the door right before I felt it, I touched my face to see if they were real and they were. Tears streamed down my cheeks and I did not stop them. I smiled.