A picnic of wounds

Sometimes we become the people we’ve always hated or complained of and develop a strange sympathy for the time they were with us. We always have a predefined notion of paradise and in the hurry of finding it, we ourselves become one, for the devil.In the process, we gift ourself a wound, called regret. Which when burried for longer periods, take the form of a guilt.

When a child’s mouth surrenders to the taste of something undesirable, he vomits it out but when he gets convinced by some babysitting trick, he doesn’t.

You, my darling, you have so much pain in the stomach and are getting choked by Classification of Pisces being taught in the class. You have in your notebook nothing written except doodles scattered here and there.

Will you make all the notes?, asks a student beside you and you frown with a Bilkul Nahi that is not-at-all kind of reply. When offered to exchange seats, you agree and rush after another seat in the farther end of the classroom. When will my vomit come out? , you wonder weepingly.

There is no possibility of attending any more class after this inner war of having been short-term convinced and irritated at the same time until you suppress your vomiting yet again by talking to a close friend whose department was located far away from yours. Headed towards the place, you’re stopped by a girl, seemingly twelve years who asks if you have twenty rupees which she needed to get back home. You wonder. You wonder because the clothes she wore were not enough to prove that it wasn’t a beggar’s trick of bringing out money from easily befooled people like you and never were you in favor of encouraging the business of begging. Applying all the lessons and self-dissatisfaction of dealing with people, you think of asking her questions and the only one that pops into your mind to check if she was speaking the truth was that of the address. Irritated with the kind of behavior you were trying to adapt yourself in, you give the money to her Tawakkaltu ala Allah- I put my faith in the hands of God, thinking that after all we’ll be judged not on the results but the intentions.

Reaching the college campus your friend was studying in, you get yourself seated in the canteen and after a bit of talk, it starts raining. As the rain turns slow, you get out and search for rickshaws that would lead you and your friend to the respective residences. You climb on to a sharing rickshaw and check your wallet- countable two coins that sum up to three rupees. Disappointed, you check the other zip finding a note of five hundred. The rickshaw is full and beside you is a girl probably studying in the same university. You ask her if the rickshaw-rider would be having a change, to which she says no and gives you the fair. You try hard to refuse. She was very sweet-tempered and you ask her, her name which you do not hear properly. Your place comes and you get down the rickshaw with twenty rupees in the other hand and ask the driver if he has the change . He says no and you tell him that even you do not have the change to which he bursts saying Hain toh, looking at your other hand. “They are not mine”, you explain looking at the girl who again says, “Pay them, it’s okay!”

Nothing in the world communicates enough nor stays with us, time does. You’ve observed the weather change but with time, even the climate changes.

You’re brought home, unlike all other times.

There is someone who cares, who works and knows all the storms of your heart. Not far away and always accompanying you is this infinite love, mercy and light.The belief in this, I promise, will always be enough in healing all the wounds.

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