As I sip my afternoon tea, I look at the pictures of younger versions of me protesting on the streets and cries so loud that is shaking the core of the nation. I browse through the rape stories which has become more like ‘another rape occurs in some part of India’. I continue to glance through the articles of Trump’s impeachment to Borris Johnson and Brexit, the opposition who earlier could not agree on anything or have a plan for the country, united against the opposition and a selfish and an inhuman part of my heart sighs, ‘at least I am Hindu in my country’ and ‘this will be over soon, New Year’s eve is around the corner’. I know I will never feel the sting of feeling uprooted. I know I will never know what it is to have an obscure future. I know I have no open wounds yet. But, in spite of all the safety, the picture perfect life, the easy money, I know I am not fine anymore.
As the economy crumbles, cities burn I know the silence in me continues to be deafening. It is because of people like me fascists come to power, people with once beautiful homes become refugees, women continue to be unsafe and nations fall. I feel wistful and nostalgic about India which I am not sure if it ever existed. How could it when I am living here? I shut the TV, switch off my lights and continue life as is, knowing that we are not fine anymore.