Missing India

I know I am a Muslim and, more than anything in this world, I am defined by that. I know it's silly to be nationalistic. But, I can't help but feel nostalgic about India. I know there are many out there who have no good things to say about the country and, at the mention of this topic, already have a list of venomous things to spout out but, to be honest, I don't care to hear about it. I remember India in a particular way, perhaps a distorted way, but, just like in any fairy tale, the allure of justice, however unrealistic, is comforting, my India, however unrealistic, is comforting.

In this land, I have some of my fondest memories of childhood -- of a real childhood -- of innocence, of fantastical dreams, of ambitions, of contentment, of myself. I remember sleeping, counting the stars overhead on a windy cool night, with the old majestic tree swinging in the breeze. I remember waking up at 4:00 in the morning and getting ready to catch our train at the bus station. I remember the silence of a quiet town, slumbering peacefully. I remember being lifted up to the back of a bandi, being uncomfortable and looking up to see the stars and forgetting for a second the reality of the moment. I remember dreaming to fly in the skies like the carefree birds I would see touring the open fields. I remember looking out at the graveyard and remembering those I was unable to learn from. I remember being excited to go to school. I remember waking up in the summers with the goal of only one thing on my mind: play. I remember innocence and confidence and ambition like I never felt any time after. I remember having absolute faith that there was a grand purpose to my life and that everything would work out for the best. I remember aiming for the highest of achievement and not having even the tiniest sliver of doubt remind me that there was a very low possibility of me making it. I remember true freedom, true joy, true childhood. I remember the true me.

Now, more than a decade later, a jaded, corrupted soul remembers all those things and wonders if she will ever feel that again.

There's a part of me that still lingers there. A part of me that hasn't left that place even if the place has left me behind. That part of me I can't conceal. That part of me I can't silence. I know it's just a piece of land, just like any other land in this world. I know it's just another place, like many others I have lived in. I know that it's nothing special....but I'm happy there, in that past, in that fairy tale. Granted that fairy tale will end. It's already chipping away. But, can you blame me for wanting it to have a happy ending?