1993. Shweta, that was her name. I can’t remember her second name though. I met her when I was 6. I was a very shy kid and she was the only one in class who would talk to me. And she’d talk a lot. She’d talk about her mother, her younger sister who she loved and hated, her favourite teacher and how she hated when school ended. I began enjoying our conversations during lunch, though I barely spoke. She, was one of those beautiful ones with big black eyes and her hair tied in a high pony. Some days I’d feel a certain pride walking next to someone who had the attention of everyone. She’d always get in trouble for not finishing her homework and often be found in the principal’s office. She would come back and tell me of how she heroically managed her way out of the situation. One day she was summoned mid way from class. After she left, the teacher packed her bag and took it along. I wondered if it was because she didn’t finish her homework. The teacher informed us later that Shweta’s mother had been very ill for the past couple of days and had passed away. Shweta and her sister left the school, the state and the country. I never saw Shweta after that.
Dear Shweta,
How are you? And how’s your sister? I wonder what you look like, do you still talk a lot? I am sorry that I didn’t reach out to you after you left. I was just a kid, and a very dumb one. I didn’t know what it must have been like to lose a parent, or console someone who had to go through so much. I wish I knew then the reason for you not doing your homework, or showing up late for class. I wish you told me the real reason why you never got a tiffin, or you crying. I hope wherever you are, you are doing well for yourself. I’d love to meet you someday, and talk like we used to. I’d hug you and say “You’re so beautiful!” Thank you for being my first friend. Thank you and Goodbye.
1999. He always had a cigarette. He was in his 40s with specks of grey hair, an unkempt stubble and deep brown eyes. He would quickly hide his cigarette butt and greet me and my sisters with a smile when he saw us walking towards the bus stop. He was always a cheerful man. The smiles soon progressed to Hello and Good morning, which then went on to full fledged conversations. I grew up in a multicultural and close knit neighborhood, where everyone knew everyone. Everyone knew Mr. Ali was a harmless old man who worked at the same job for over 30 years. He would tell us about Yemen, the buildings, the short winters, his wife and three kids. We looked forward to his stories and would get out of home early. Every day, Mr. Ali would be there in his navy blue two piece suit, smiling and waiting. The stories were always dramatic and excruciatingly long. He used to take his time in explaining the details and eventually could never complete a story. We were always interrupted by the loud honking of my school bus and Mr Ali would refuse to continue the incomplete story the next day. This went on for a few weeks, and everyday was a new story. The school closed for vacations and my family and I went for a holiday. I never saw Mr.Ali after that. My dad later told me that he was sent off from work and had left for Yemen.
Mr. Ali, thank you for your lovely stories. I still remember the stories of your funny Turkish neighbours and how they’d always be fighting. Or the story of you walking to the local farm with your mom and buying some fresh vegetables and not the ones that are filled with pesticide. Your stories always made me feel like I’ve been to Yemen. I feel bad that they sent you off. I hope you are reunited with your family. I hope that someday if I travel to your land, I meet you and your family. Thank you and Goodbye.
2009. He used to call me his girl. The most popular guy in school who also was funny, sensitive and charming somehow took a liking towards me- an awkward, slightly obese and boring girl. I met him first at the school debate. He walked up to me after the debate and said “You’re good”! He was tall and gawky and had a very strange crooked smile. It’s funny, cause he thought I had crooked smile too. Maybe that’s why he liked me. That’s why he loved me. He’d get me a big bar of chocolate every time I was upset and would secretly stare when I wasn’t looking. He was always there when I needed him and he’d stay till I forced him to leave. He’d be okay with me losing my temper, because he was so hopelessly smitten. He had a charm, a way to get me to smile. Everyone knew about us, he made sure of that. But I wanted more. I couldn’t wait to get out of that small city, travel to new places, meet more people and make many memories. I wanted to see the northern lights, the Eiffel Tower, and so much more. I didn’t want to get married early and just be stuck in those four walls deciding the shades of curtains.So I left, without even a decent goodbye.
Dear Boy,
I know you probably hate me, and you are right in doing so. You didn’t deserve to be treated that way. In fact, you deserved better. You deserved someone who would love you unconditionally, who gives you more importance than herself. Someone who would go to any extend to make you smile, and understand your greatest fear. I know it’s too late, but I am sorry. I was young and naive, and I panicked. I loved you but I loved my freedom more. I was stupid to think that I would find another you who would love me the way you did. I thought you’d be happier with someone else than me who never really appreciated you. Nothing will take away the shame or the pain I caused you, but one day you will forgive me. I will eagerly wait for that day. I pray and hope you find peace and love. Thank you for the lovely memories and teaching me how to love. Thank you and Goodbye.
2016. She was a friend, a sister and a mother. A good one that too. She had this white aura around her, always comforting and always smiling. I felt a sense of security and belonging when I was with her. She was a stranger, and yet I told her everything about my life. She’d bake cakes and make the tastiest meal. Her daughter and husband adored her. Infact, everyone did. That’s the thing about Nisha- she was so easy to be loved. She took me in as her younger sister. She prayed for me when I was going through rough times, and often spend hours listening to my problems. She too had problems, but she always gave others more importance. It was 7 in the evening when I got the call. She had an attack of epilepsy that morning, and was rushed to the hospital. She didn’t make it. And just like that she was gone.
Dear Nisha,
It’s been a year and I am still not fine. I was angry with you, with God, the world and myself. I wanted to tell you so many things, we had so many unfinished plans. I wanted you to meet my husband, or watch our kids grow up together. You were the only one who stood by me when everyone else believed I was wrong. I wanted to thank you for the numerous times you’ve comforted me. I wanted you to be with me, so much that I forgot to ask you what you wanted. I forgot that you too had problems, and you too needed me. I was angry that I wasn’t there for you or your daughter. I am guilty of only thinking of calling you and never really doing it. Forgive me Nisha. I wish I had a chance to say something, or see you even. But I guess you are in a better place. I know you are around, still watching over me and protecting me, like you always do. You’ll always be that amazing and beautiful person for me and I’ll never forget you. Thank you for teaching me how to love a stranger and give them a home. Thank you and Goodbye.
Life is like a grand theatre where hundreds of people walk in, while many others walk out. While you still are the protagonist in your life, the others around you are there to add colour to your story. Some play an important role, that changes the whole story, while some are there to just watch. Everyone of them are there for a reason- to teach you something about life, make you realise something new about yourself and even prepare you for the worst. Once their role is done, they leave.
Unfortunately, we get so involved with the smaller aspects of life that we forget the people who got us there. We focus on the names and not on the relationship. We forget about the ones who taught us to dream, to trust, to dance and to love. People who we are grateful to have, but rarely appreciate. We fail to express how vital they’ve have been in making us who we are. But time eventually runs out. We only realise how valuable someone was once they’ve left.
