Ropar Diaries – Maybe I would never return

I have a bowl in my hands, with every passing day I am filling it with salt and when I would complete the training, every piece of this land would be covered by the granules, reminding the sacred rain of the bitterness that I spilled on the land instead of carrying it with me because I have home to visit, the holy land of Hamirpur, the bowl would once again be filled, with sugar and I would never return.

I hold no grudges to anyone, I just hold impressions.

I am afraid. Yes, I am afraid. I fear to visit the mess, I fear to visit the court, I fear to visit the gym, I fear to visit the library, I fear the land, I fear the sky, yet nobody is at fault.

I fear men.

But fear should never be mistaken with weakness. Silence is a weapon.

A serious, geeky, nerd face with black-rimmed spectacles, a restricted smile and a constant gaze; a disapproval with a pen is me. I need time to fit in spaces, perhaps everybody needs time. I write not to impress people, but to accept myself, instill the inner fears, to speak without a voice, and if you are impressed, the following happiness, craving, attraction, infatuation, appreciation, should not become an obsession to sneak into my being.

I would try to be as kind with the words as I can be and even if I cross the limit, I won’t apologize.

Komal Ma’am, is in sync with me all this while because we both share sufferings.

I feel hungry three times a day; so I visit the mess, everyday; surprisingly one of the mess workers is highly trained in mathematics and physics, for to calculate the amount of food on my plate, to calculate my drifts and moment, speed and velocity is his favorite of thing, for which he needs to constantly monitor every piece of me and hence I hold no bitterness. I too like mathematics.

From childhood, we have been told to respect people because that’s what defines a true human being, and this trueness is so greatly followed in this temporary land of mine that I feel blessed. A few boys; red, black, blue, white and grey (I don’t even recognize them) are friends with the mess worker for the question here is respect. They look at me with all due respect (you know how it is) and then whisper in each other’s ear, for now, I own their world.

I now bath daily, twice a day since there are eyes to shed dirt on me. I go along with Shubham sir to most of the places, for I need a nightingale in between scavengers.

When he was confronted; to steal digits, which can ease their way to my phone, I felt guilty, for he suffered, once, twice, maybe thrice; standing in the sun selflessly.

Throw bikinis, judgments, character tags; denouncing the falsehood I carry; yet turn around because the inner god knows that these words are just a repercussion of frustration and not a mirror of my persona.

I now doubt my new friends, which happen to be men, I am sorry for experiences have overruled the reality.

We never say that the glass is half full, but the glass is half empty; here the glass has just a drop of water, I fail to recognize that sect of men with whom I can map the streets, or exchange glances and smiles. Every fresh face seems like a demon in disguise. I know I am mistaken, but I am made to believe this.

I don’t own these words, this ‘I’ contains every girl who has suffered and who would one day suffer because I fail to see a happy ending.

This fire would no more sustain till tomorrow, in which I burn ablaze tonight; trembling, quivering, life would once again walk on the usual track, but even the faces of time would not be able to fade away the impression that I now carry.