I hope this letter finds you in
the best of spirits. No. Hope isn’t the right word. Hope is timid, and
expresses neither conviction nor promise. I’d rather pray than hope. A prayer
has faith, a cosmic push towards a better future. And I am not sure about the
best of spirits either. How do you carry the idealistic burden of keeping high
spirits despite life destructing catastrophes? So I pray. I pray this letter
shares some of your pain and restores faith in the struggle that is life.
Sitting miles away from you, I
just felt the ripples of the doom that was cast upon on you, and it was heart
shattering enough. The feeling of ground shaking beneath my feat, the sensation
of walls shuddering against my back, the realization that my home, my safe place,
wasn't a safe place after all, brought me face to face with the fragility of
life as we know it. It is funny and horrifying at the same time how for a
couple of days I could not sit at one place without flinching at every movement
around me. I would periodically check the ceiling fans, chandeliers or mirrors for
a sign of aftershock. The long crack on one of the beams in my house, that wasn't visible till
a couple of days ago, now threatens me and mocks me for my erstwhile plans of adorning
that place with decorative lights. The memory of sitting in a corner, shivering
with fear, and waiting for the tremors to stop still gives me sleepless nights.
My mind inadvertently draws safety plans and I evaluate all feasible options to
take my family to a safe place in case of any emergency. On the outside, all of
us wear a mask of nonchalance and share the stories of our experience with the
earthquake like last night’s episode of a thrilling television series. But on
the inside, we fear and question, ‘Are we close to the end yet? Is this how
everything will go to dust?’
