"Amma, look!" she said, picking up the frail edges of the newspaper, too heavy for her tiny hand. Her little finger pointed towards a colourful photograph of a smiling woman that stood in stark contrast to the lifeless news in black and white. Frowning, the little girl's mother dropped the platter she was washing and took the newspaper in her wet hands. She pushed back the little strands of hair that dangled in front of her eyes and slowly traced her calloused fingers over the picture of the smiling woman. She was draped in a drab brown saree that was pulled up to her head with a hundred and twenty creases.

"Chitra…" the name escaped from her lips almost like a whisper. Oh how much I missed this smile, she thought as her daughter jumped and yanked the newspaper away in one hustle, running out of the mud house. Her pigtails danced in the air as she raced down the barren grounds of Chenappady village bare feet.

"Chitra aunty state first aah!" she screamed on top of her voice waving the newspaper like a championship belt. Bent backs working under the sweltering sun straightened and rose up. Watchful eyes of flibbertigibbets peered through wooden window grills. Pedalling feet stopped midway. Country kids joined from all four directions and ran along with the little girl, nudging her and raising their eyebrows in question. They pushed their way through a moving flock of sheep as the shepherd cursed the kids and raised his oak staff in the air.

"Chitra aunty state first aah!" The kids cried in unison and ran along the parched terrain and down a stretch of yellowish brown sward. A thatched hut stood against the sprawl of dead grass outside which hung a broken slate with the words "CHITRA TUITION" written against it in big bold letters.

The children burst into the low entrance and into a dark ill-lit corner of the hut. A boiling pot sat atop red logs blazing with fire and a scrawny figure stood next to it. She felt someone pulling her hand and dragging her out of the hut. Her fingers involuntarily clutched the pallu of her saree with which she covered her face. Out in the meadow, she tugged her arms under the saree, her cobalt black eyes flinching, trying to adjust to the sudden brightness. The little girl put her arms around her neck and climbed behind her back, clinging on to her shoulders. She brushed the newspaper on her face as three little boys danced in circles around her. The gaunt woman picked up the newspaper and opened it, as a fast-blowing wind striked, taking two sheets of paper along with it. The quivering sheets which rested between her fingers beheld a bright photograph of her with the words, "20 year old village tutor tops Kerala HSE boards," printed underneath.

The winds beat again and she released her fingers. The papers flew away as the gale tossed and turned, flipping and flinging them like a toy. The tall grass brushed against her shins and she ran inside the hut, putting out the fire. The children surrounded her and she held them in a tight embrace. Her bun loosened and dishevelled hair fell down her shoulders. She closed her eyes gently, planting soft kisses on their heads. She smiled.

Eight white kids in a classroom. Two Latino kids.

It’s Black History month, our teacher says. We’re going to watch a documentary about Black history.

Okay. That’s fine.

The documentary begins, and it’s interesting. It teaches me about Greenwood and other towns in the 1920s that were all-Black. Because of segregation, Black people couldn’t shop or live in white communities, so they created their own. That’s supposed to be empowering, right?

May 31, 1921. The city burned to the ground.

Too much detail.

Don’t spell it out for me, the order of events, the causes. The Black men going out to defend themselves, being sent home.

White men take up arms.

Too much detail.

I wrap myself into a ball, pull my feet up onto the chair, hug my knees.

Don’t cry. This is a classroom, people are going to notice if you cry.

I want to scream.

“Alleged bombs were dropped...”

A Black man on screen remembers how his mother told him to get under the bed, how he watched a white man come in with a torch and set fire to the curtains.

Five years old.

Across from me a boy yawns.

A clip plays. White men in white sheets, white hats. Fire. American flags, American blood. “Blood flowed in the streets...”

It’s those American flags that stick in my mind.

Those American flags, held high and proud, marched down the street by the KKK.

Am I shaking?

Deep breaths.

It’s all in the past...

Except that it’s not.

American flags, American blood.

Armed white people told to go home, armed white people who don’t listen.

The other people in the class don’t seem to notice.

Three minutes to the bell. The other kids stretch, put away their pencils and worksheets, talk in low voices about other things.

I sit in my seat, still curled in a ball. Still trying not to scream, or cry, or jump up and run out of the room.

The teacher turns off the documentary. We all stand, collect our bags.

“Are you okay?” a boy asks me.

“I’m fine.”

“You look really tired.”

Oh yeah. Tired, sure.

“I’m fine.” I force a laugh.

The bell rings.

I hurry to the bathroom, lock myself in a stall. Lean against the wall, shivering, and let the tears come.

American flags, American blood.

Red, red, red.

What if, in a parallel universe, we were just letters of ink on a parchment?

What if, in a parallel universe, we were mad waves of the ocean?

What if, in a parallel universe, I were her? Would I really love that guy who just keeps staring at me, and trembles with every step I make towards him? Probably, yes!

My heart aches for another breeze to brush by me gently,

My road of life is shaped by the curvaceous path of destiny,

My dwelling is in every creek, in every cave by the mountainside,

I don’t have a solitary who keeps my secrets, in whom I confide,

I am not garlanded by pearls, I am adorned by the solar systems’ stardust,

I keep one foot after the other, inspired by my soul’s wanderlust.

My heart aches for the dingy forests and scent of the fresh roses,

I do not regret over the roads in life I have left behind, unchosen,

I am enchanted by this stupendous world, by every blue river and stream,

I seek pleasure in the untruthfulness of my illusionistic dreams,

I do not wish to bear the weight of the finest of silk nor purest gold,

I only yearn that mysteries of this world, with my wanderlust, I can unfold. 

When my heart aches for the magic of nature, the brilliant shades of rainbows,

I am not bound to choose the grassy road neither the one with snow,

I do not reside in the lavish houses in the country,

The lap of nature is enough to soothe my weary body,

My pockets are filled with emptiness like the core of my longing heart,

This immortal longing of mine is satisfied by nature’s exquisite art. 

My aching heart desires to see all of life’s zillion hues,

For my soul’s lust for adventure, the earth is it’s muse,

With nothing more than an ignited desire of adventure,

I have no tales to tell of heroism, cowardice or valour,

Yet, wanderlust takes upon my soul in a thousand different ways,

It is this unusual desire that shapes my destiny, the world says.

He was alone. Afraid, hurt, and scared. Yet feeling superior, you had to kill him. For fun. Humans suck. People suck. We don’t deserve a thing we have. We don’t. Our species was an evolution mistake. A creation our world regrets. So I guess I stand here now. Tearing apart the very planet that kept us alive.

I'm pretty sure most people are dead.

No one has an imagination anymore.

It scares me a bit.

I think technology made it to where people don't have to think for themselves, so they lost their creativity?

I was a child of the 90s/teen of the 2000s.

Maybe I am wrong.

Just an observation.

I was once the prolific writer

The sexy drunk girl

Alone in her ivory tower

Writing like the words were the blood that circulates my veins

I was something or another at one point

A fizzy yellow star

And now I am forgotten even in my own little world

I was once

But now I am no more.