Opinion | The Seasons A Girl Witnesses

A smile… A tender hand reluctant to touch my minuscule body was what I opened my eyes to. My story, according to those present at that moment, started with timid yet feisty screams, searching for comfort; a budding sunflower exuding radiance with no one to notice its potential because the grief that my identity brought along was too overwhelming. That’s all about it… a story of hopes and desires which never materialised. Today, I am old. How old… I don’t bother remembering that; recording time in years takes away the humanness of the events, and numbers feel mechanical, incapable of conveying the meaning those years hold in a person’s life. I prefer recalling my past as the seasons; as an archive of colours, belonging to a distant place: a lost garden. It is September again, the month characterised by falling Chinar leaves and bittersweet goodbyes. This month inevitably fills me with unease and gloom. The season gives an illusion of happiness which only lasts till the winds begin to lose their warmth. Just like autumn, my story is also like an illusion… an illusion of survival. Maybe I didn’t survive the very first winter of my life, when I was made to feel ashamed of my body. Or maybe I didn’t survive the second harsh winter, when my intentions were measured against the outcome of my actions; or was it the third winter, when I, still eager to explore, was told to comply, and my refusal was met with words that left bruises for the fourth spring to heal? Maybe it was the fifth winter when I discovered what being unwanted felt like, or the sixth winter when the sky and the earth ceased to be just the physical realities of the world and turned into my shelter during the violent downpour of my heart. After that my head stopped counting; the ache every winter left behind could not be quantified. My dignity refused to do so if I still had some shreds left. The spring, however, always followed, on time, bringing dainty dreams with it, but the wrath of winter never left either. Gradually, the vividness of spring faded, and the perpetual winter took over my life. My winter would not last as briefly as three months; sometimes it would stay for a week and then leave me behind, unarmed and vulnerable. As years kept rolling, it became that uninvited guest who always brought souvenirs with it: sometimes a tearful night and other times a complete surrender to my fate. It came when my eyes saw anything remotely beautiful worth cherishing; it hugged me when the questions about my existence waged war against me, leaving my soul battered; it confronted me whenever I looked in the mirror, telling myself to take a long nap. By the time I reached eighteen, winter had already become my favourite season. Its harshness felt comforting, and the short days and long nights had become synonymous with my existence. Then suddenly one day the entire world stopped. It was already the spring of 2020. The white blanket scribbled with messages for my future self resurfaced from an old almirah , and the longing to visit that rugged place ignited in my heart: that forlorn garden in my village. What stood before my eyes wasn’t familiar anymore. Things had changed after my departure. The flowers were cheerful, and the bower, which still belonged to me, in my recollection, was already replaced by a much more genteel one. That day I was truly abandoned. I wasn’t disowned, but it was spelt in every corner of that garden. My brightness, like before, didn’t matter. That was the last time I stared long at each colour of that garden, as if to engrave every detail in my memory forever, protecting it from the cruelty of the seasons to come. I left that world behind, and a new journey began; an exhaustive yet empowering one. To either rediscover the beauty of the autumn or to gather dying leaves in my one-room home. It has been five years since then, and my quest still continues. The constant and almost natural urge to look back still throws me off as the chilly waves of the winter seem to be always chasing me. The shrieking seems to ask the same question again and again, “Why did it all have to happen? and why me?” I haven’t found the answer, and I don’t think I ever will. Some questions don’t come with answers; their only purpose lies in teaching us the uncomfortable yet universal truths. My journey thus far has also made me realise certain truths, some of which I have made peace with and some still make me shed a tear. It was not my fault that my life began the way it did. It was not my fault that my presence couldn’t make people forget the sense of lacking that my name carried with it. My name means a person who serves justice. Quite ironically, my gender came in the way. I was a girl, an ambitious little girl, and that alone was enough to ruffle a lot of feathers. Unfortunately, I had taken after my parents when it came to speaking my mind. They never discouraged me from looking beyond the majestic mountains surrounding my home; however, there was always someone waiting to disrupt my ascent into the sky. I could see from the beginning that my opinions made many people uncomfortable. The space was limited for me to express myself. The expectation to shrink myself in order for other people to not feel insecure was a natural one. But I neither fit into that box nor did I try. My sense of justice was too strong to allow me to water down myself so that I could become digestible for others. It was also not my fault that I never felt like I belonged anywhere. I have come to forgive myself for not knowing what it meant to feel safe. There are many other things that I have forgiven myself for, slowly and quietly. The winter still comes as usual, but I no longer have the heart to welcome it. My room is too small to accommodate anyone except me. Every spring, however, tempts me to look back; not to recall but to reclaim. To offer an apology to that little girl for hurting her, but when I look back, that timid girl seems to be long gone. Maybe she has set out on a journey beyond the mountains of sadness, into an invincible land of self-expression. Maybe she has learnt that although the name given to her wasn’t hers to begin with, her life is… maybe she is becoming her name eventually, an unbreakable and unyielding image of justice.

aadilairshadbhat8460@gmail.com