Starry Skies

The Little Girl looked up at the sky. Enamoured. Enthralled. Excited. Standing at the edge of the tiny hill that seemed like the highest mountain to her, with her hand tucked tightly into her father's hand, it seemed to her each star was hers for the taking; each one sparkling as hard as it could for her own personal enjoyment. She could see so many different things once she played connect-the-dots with them. There was her kitten Fluffy, and Papa's favourite armchair, and ooh, a unicorn right next to the castle she herself would some day live in!

The gentle breeze ruffled her hair, playing with it in a friendly, mischievous manner. She paid no heed, busy scheming on how she would some day reach those twinkling stars. They did not seem that far away. And the ways to get there seemed simple, and infinite, much like the sky itself. Someday, she knew for sure, she would hold one of those diamonds-in-the-sky in her hand. She could hardly wait.

The Little Girl grew up, and became a Young Woman. She came back to the same hill many years later, alone, and the breeze carried to her many bittersweet memories. At moments it taunted at her, explaining to her in excruciating detail how the life she led was so far off from the life she had dreamed of. She gazed at the stunning, starry expanse of sky, and could only think of how far away it all seemed - the sky... her goals... happiness...

She never seemed able to see the possibilities anymore; just the impossibilities. If she tried playing connect-the-dots with the glittering balls of gas above, her mind strained instead to find the constellations as named by others before her. Still, looking at a starlit sky always brought her a measure of hope, and revived a tiny bit of the dreamer within. So for the tiniest of a moment, she could forget that she was stuck at the edge of greatness, with no idea how to get there...

Taxi

The girl looked at the damp palm that offered her back her change. 'Keep it!' she told Amir, with barely hidden disgust, and slammed the car door.

As he drove away, Amir wiped his brow with his already sweat sodden handkerchief. It was not yet lunchtime. The sun glared down at him, finding its way through all the dust. It arrowed in sharp, unrelenting rays into his taxi, shooting at him through spaces between the towering buildings, over the billboards, and slyly reflecting at him off the multitude of shiny surfaces all around. Everything seemed to have a shiny surface in this city, even the people.

He sighed, and thought of home. Never did he miss home as much as in the summers, and it surprised him that despite surviving sixteen summers in this still-foreign land, the pangs were as sharp and painful as his first.

And always, the same question: Was this really worth it?

His son was far away in another foreign land pursuing a higher education. The brash young man was a far cry from the two-year-old Amir had left behind. He was someone Amir barely knew. A stranger. A stranger he could barely relate to. Things would have been different, he was sure, had he not left so early and been away so long. They would have been different.

But the choice had been family, or money. Family, or money for family. Amir had not been discontented with his own life, but he knew his son would need more. His son would want more. At least he had been right about something. At least Amir had made money. He himself did not need much, so saving had been easy. And he was proud of his son, who everyone told him was exceedingly intelligent. He could be anything he wanted. Why he wanted to study to be a musician Amir did not understand. Had he sweat and pined all this time for a son who made a living - a bare living - playing an instrument. He had struggled, so that his son would not have to, and here his son was intent on choosing a life of struggle. He had insisted that Aman at least major in something useful. Another thorn in their fragile relationship.

It was Sunday, and Aman would be calling him soon. He partly looked forward to, and partly dreaded these brief conversations. Already he was clenching his teeth, and biting back the words he knew would antagonize his son. But really? A musician...?

* * * *

Aman glanced at his watch and gulped down the last of his Dutch courage. It was almost time for THE CALL. He hailed a taxi to quicken his journey to campus, where he called his father, and then mother, once a week. His mother, at least, would be eagerly waiting. Ready and willing to soothe his frazzled nerves. There was a reason he called his father, and not her, first.

He could make the call from any phone booth, but the boisterous students all around at the campus gave him an odd air of comfort. And he was less likely to make a scene, to shout and yell himself breathless, as he was always tempted to do when speaking to his father. So far he had always managed to contain himself. Just barely. But it was getting harder to control, and easier to just explode. Especially now that his dreams were within reach.

He jumped into the taxi, and barked out the address. His fists were clenched, a reflex foretelling of the verbal battle he was about to engage in. How could he make his father understand? He was not selfless enough to give up his dreams and live the life his father wanted. He was not strong enough to live with that dissatisfaction. He knew his father had made harsh choices, but had he not made them so that he, Aman, would have his own choices? They would never see eye to eye. He knew that.

The taxi slowed to a stop in front of an unfamiliar building. 'It's the wrong block!' he told the driver with obvious annoyance. Not wanting to sit there a moment longer, he jumped out of the car, and threw some money into the open palm that waited.

Stupid illiterate fool.

A smile and a nod

I see you from across the store, paying for your purchases. You haven't seen me yet. I wait to fight that urge that usually surges up when I see you. The one that usually pushes me to go up to you, to ask you how you are, to simply connect with you somehow.

It doesn't come. Surprise, surprise. That's something I will have to analyse in my quiet time.

Just as I am about to go back to deciding which shampoo to try next, you turn and spot me. You also seem to wait for something, and your face changes with surprise when you realise that you are no longer pulled to me either. I am of course irrationally annoyed and relieved in equal parts.

So this is how it now is. We could be any two people off the street. Strangers. Any surplus feelings we have have been usurped into the daily details of the lives we now have - lives that don't include each other. I'm so used to the dull ache that washes over me when I get a glimpse of you; the ache that is always swiftly welcomed by a rush of bittersweet memories. And now...? Nothing. I feel nothing.

I still remember everything, but with the feeling that it all happened to someone else. She was not me. He was not you. They were not us.

The tapestry of us - remarkable, complicated, vibrant, colourful, so entwined is a now a distant, dreamy watercolour. I feel disconnected from the entire gamut of emotions that comprised us.

And how evident it is, that you do too.

And so it is that we acknowledge each other politely with a smile and a nod. You leave with your bag of groceries and your arm around another girl's waist, and I go back to the internal debate of mousturising versus detangling.

Who knew, when we decided to try to be friends, a day would come when all we would exchange would be a smile and a nod?

Oh, what have you done to me?

Oh, what have you done to me? Ever since that day I saw you, so long ago, you have been on my mind every day. There was love instantly; an immediate connection, and I was changed forever.

Oh, what have you done to me? There are moments when my hunger for you is so strong I would do anything - anything! - to get to you. There is no substitute. It has to be you. I am addicted, and when I am unable to get my fix, I am moody, bad-tempered, and hopelessly dissatisfied. It's not easy not having control. I wonder, if I had known back then, when my affair with you first began, how ruthlessly you would wreak havoc with my mind and body, would I still have made that first move to reach out and touch you? Every fibre of me screams Yes! A thousand times yes! I would survive without you in my life, but there would be no flavour, no joyful decadence, no sumptuous temptation...

Oh, what have you done to me? One dose of you requires hours of recovery. You are detrimental to my health, and yet I could not bear to give you up. Sometimes I feel like I should enrol in a twelve-step programme to give me the strength to get away, and stay away, from you. How can something so wrong for me, still feel so right? Maybe it's time to say goodbye, and focus on something that is GOOD for me. I don't have that energy to bounce back in good shape like before. I will miss you, but surely there are enough distractions out there!

Oh, what have you done to me? I am afraid it's time to go our separate ways. It's no longer as easy to get rid of your effect on me, and something tells me it's an unhealthy, unbalanced relationship. Oh, I will miss you, and think of you often and fondly remember all the moments we shared. But I have made up my mind.

Oh, chocolate cake, what have you done to me? No salad is as tempting and delicious as you. No session in the gym as satisfying. But it's time for a change.