There are many ways in which a writer takes risks, takes chances and faces her own demons. There are many ways in which a writer stirs, feels leveling up and wiser. And there are also many ways a writer understands, writes and shares her experience. Writing is not as easy as it is reading and forming an opinion, and definitely not as easy as it is critiquing it. Since I have started writing a blog, That Weird Indian Girl, I find myself at a much open and fragile position. But because of this, I have many ways in which I get inspiration.
I met a girl recently, and we started talking because she read my blog and found it ‘out of ordinary’ and could correlate. She told me about her personal struggles, her addictions, her fight with drugs and her life in general. For an hour that we talked, I grew fond of her and understood her. This is a letter for her, for trusting me, telling me her story and allowing me to share it with the world.
I met a girl recently, and we started talking because she read my blog and found it ‘out of ordinary’ and could correlate. She told me about her personal struggles, her addictions, her fight with drugs and her life in general. For an hour that we talked, I grew fond of her and understood her. This is a letter for her, for trusting me, telling me her story and allowing me to share it with the world.
Dear Amber (name changed),
I do not believe in coincidences, I do not believe that you came randomly to me because you liked my face, and I do not believe in ‘lucky’ meetings. There is no such thing like it. In Arabic there is a word, Maktub, which simply means ‘it is written’ and I believe in this. I believe that whatever happens, happens for a reason, happens because it is written, and because it changes us for good or worse (that depends on how we perceive it). I also believe that the girl you are today, possessing both positive and negative trait, is because it was already written.
You know back in the early days, the concept of ‘loosing virginity’ was as scared as deities themselves, and I remember reading rules of loosing virginity in the Old Testament. And when you said the same, all I could say was “You’ll know when to lose it, and you’ll know which person you’ll want to lose it to.” You smiled, and I know it all might be too romantic or too dreamy of me, but that is how my mind works. You said you are not ashamed of losing it to that person, but you felt mortified of what happened after; of making love to every new person you met. And while I sat there listening, I felt more like a mother listening to a child whine about losing her favorite thing. I felt that compassion course through me, but I did not say a thing, because I could not. In that moment, I lacked the ability to form a single word, leave alone a whole sentence. I kept repeating “I understand” because that what made the most sense to me, and also, because I meant it.
I can imagine how it would have been for you to go to a psychiatrist, to feel like you were buying a friend, hiring someone to hear you out because talking to walls does not help. I sympathize with you, because that thing can be daunting, to giving your secret to a stranger, you know. But the thing about drugs is that you treat it as an escape because reality becomes a nightmare, and I know that you did it too, and you did it for loosing yourself. It is well enough because you can easily blame it later for your inability to cope up, and it is always easy to blame than take responsibility. What got me was that you were taking it from a bunch of guys who were giving you thrill and who are all now in rehab. Have you ever thought how would it be if you would be too? How it would have changed your life because you were fragile? More than all of this, how it would have broken you too.
Since my cousin brother was born more than a year back, I have myself been fascinated by the idea of having a child. It is beautiful and superhuman, I think, to be a mother and create a life. I had never shared this with anyone ever before, but with you I had to, because it would have irked me if I had not. When you said you understand what that would be, I was surprised because I thought no eighteen year old would ever understand it. “It was almost a year back, I was 17 and a month pregnant and I was devastated when I came to know,” You said, “I did not have strength to tell my mom, so I told it to my closest friend and she helped me. She bought me a pill from the chemist that I had to take every day for a month and it was so strong that I felt dizzy at times, and was body was swelling too.
“One day I was standing in front of my wardrobe, trying to find my underclothes to head to the shower, and something rolled down my legs, and it was like a tennis ball size lump. I was so scared that I did not know what to do, so I just picked it up from the floor and flushed it in the toilet. I called my friend I was staying with at the moment and told her. She said ‘Congratulations, it is done’.
“After I realized what she meant, I sat on the floor and cried for God knows how long, because I could not believe I flushed it, my baby, you know. It was my baby.” It made me emotional too, especially because it was a personal story you, because you had not shared with anyone. I thought for a moment that I saw tears in your eye before they dried.
I do not believe in coincidences, I do not believe that you came randomly to me because you liked my face, and I do not believe in ‘lucky’ meetings. There is no such thing like it. In Arabic there is a word, Maktub, which simply means ‘it is written’ and I believe in this. I believe that whatever happens, happens for a reason, happens because it is written, and because it changes us for good or worse (that depends on how we perceive it). I also believe that the girl you are today, possessing both positive and negative trait, is because it was already written.
You know back in the early days, the concept of ‘loosing virginity’ was as scared as deities themselves, and I remember reading rules of loosing virginity in the Old Testament. And when you said the same, all I could say was “You’ll know when to lose it, and you’ll know which person you’ll want to lose it to.” You smiled, and I know it all might be too romantic or too dreamy of me, but that is how my mind works. You said you are not ashamed of losing it to that person, but you felt mortified of what happened after; of making love to every new person you met. And while I sat there listening, I felt more like a mother listening to a child whine about losing her favorite thing. I felt that compassion course through me, but I did not say a thing, because I could not. In that moment, I lacked the ability to form a single word, leave alone a whole sentence. I kept repeating “I understand” because that what made the most sense to me, and also, because I meant it.
I can imagine how it would have been for you to go to a psychiatrist, to feel like you were buying a friend, hiring someone to hear you out because talking to walls does not help. I sympathize with you, because that thing can be daunting, to giving your secret to a stranger, you know. But the thing about drugs is that you treat it as an escape because reality becomes a nightmare, and I know that you did it too, and you did it for loosing yourself. It is well enough because you can easily blame it later for your inability to cope up, and it is always easy to blame than take responsibility. What got me was that you were taking it from a bunch of guys who were giving you thrill and who are all now in rehab. Have you ever thought how would it be if you would be too? How it would have changed your life because you were fragile? More than all of this, how it would have broken you too.
Since my cousin brother was born more than a year back, I have myself been fascinated by the idea of having a child. It is beautiful and superhuman, I think, to be a mother and create a life. I had never shared this with anyone ever before, but with you I had to, because it would have irked me if I had not. When you said you understand what that would be, I was surprised because I thought no eighteen year old would ever understand it. “It was almost a year back, I was 17 and a month pregnant and I was devastated when I came to know,” You said, “I did not have strength to tell my mom, so I told it to my closest friend and she helped me. She bought me a pill from the chemist that I had to take every day for a month and it was so strong that I felt dizzy at times, and was body was swelling too.
“One day I was standing in front of my wardrobe, trying to find my underclothes to head to the shower, and something rolled down my legs, and it was like a tennis ball size lump. I was so scared that I did not know what to do, so I just picked it up from the floor and flushed it in the toilet. I called my friend I was staying with at the moment and told her. She said ‘Congratulations, it is done’.
“After I realized what she meant, I sat on the floor and cried for God knows how long, because I could not believe I flushed it, my baby, you know. It was my baby.” It made me emotional too, especially because it was a personal story you, because you had not shared with anyone. I thought for a moment that I saw tears in your eye before they dried.
Remember how I mentioned that word Maktub earlier, I want this letter to end on it too. I am glad you met me now, and not two years back, because then I would have judged you to be some spoilt and wasted harlot, and would be disgusted by you. I might even hurt you more than you already were because I could not have understood all the things you went through. I am pleased that I met you now, because I believe and appreciate you. Thank you for letting me in your world, even though I was stranger to you as you were to me, and inspiring me with your story. I could have not understood these things, if it were some body else. When you read it, I hope you are satisfied; and do not worry, the best is yet to come.
For you, with love
a
a
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