Traveling through the highland meadows in my ‘Hogwarts Express’, sipping on a perfectly brewed coffee, and looking out of the window at the scarlet and ochre hues smeared by the dusky sun in a cerulean sky, I was finally at peace with my life and enjoying what I had craved the most for one entire year. Contemplating on the perfectly painted canvas by the master of maestros, a voice inside, which I like to believe came from my departed mother, began reverberating on how I am just as much quintessential and will never be enough for this world. Now that her spirit has been lifted, and as they say, things do look better from a distance, she must be watching how everything in this superficial world is worthless except for oneself. Clueless as I might have been since her departure, for I had lost my mentor, my guide, and my friend, all embodied in a single entity, I knew this was my moment of clarity and certainty: my moment of soul gazing and introspection, but moreover, this was my moment of recouping my long lost self-love.
As I had finally stepped out of the ambiguity of what-ifs, my train to the wonderland of witchcraft and wizardry had come to a momentary halt. With a sense of enlightenment and tranquility, I looked at the person sitting next to me. It was an old German lady in her mid-70s knitting a woolen bandana. She took a while to realize that I was following her crochet patterns, and then she turned towards me with a smiling wrinkly face. There’s a beautiful perception about scars, wrinkles, and bruises: they profess some untold stories, the untold stories of life and experiences and struggles. In a world comprising 7B humans with an average life span of 70 years, I like to believe that all of us have a lot of stories to tell and plenty of wisdom to share.
Her teal eyes had evidently gotten tired, either from the constant focus on her crochet or from the long, fulfilling life that she had sustained. Fortunately, she could speak ‘a little bit of' English, and as she started expressing herself, I could feel the longing in her voice, the longing to find someone to finally listen to her. It had been twenty-something years since she had lost her husband to a terrible road accident after almost an eternity of losing her parents to the war. It felt moronic to ask if it had hurt, so I skipped to the part where she could tell me about her coping with the grief, the bereavement, and moreover, the acceptance of the fact that the person whom she had thought she would see her doomsday with, the person whom she would see the thicks and thins of life with, and the person whom she wanted to grow old with, had already bid farewell to this world. I asked if she had felt betrayed. “For a brief period after his passing”, she emphasized. “I am not very spiritual by nature, but I like to believe that he is still looking over me, smiling with me still as I tell you this story. I don’t know what happens to people and their ‘souls’ after their passage, and I guess that’s the ultimate limitation we humans hold. What follows, though, with the ones they love, and the ones who love them is dreadful and horrible. Resentment, anguish, depression, solitude, and bereavement take over, and all these felt simultaneously can definitely be exhausting. The journey from loss to its acceptance is pretty draining. But stronger you shall be, for that is your destiny.”
Engrossed as much I was in her heart-to-heart, the train driver had announced, “You have finally reached your destination. We wish you a pleasant stay and apologize for any inconveniences caused.” I bid adieu to the lady and looked out. The sun was shining brightly on my face, and as the train driver had proclaimed, I had reached where I was supposed to.
