There were moments when I wished I could rewrite my story. But trust me, life often unfolds in ways we don’t choose, and it is what it is. I was born in Kannur, a place I carry in my roots but never fully belonged to. From a young age, “weirdo” was the label stuck to me.

“Baba, I’m hungry,” little Meena whispered, tugging at her grandfather’s hand. Her voice carried in the silence of the dark room, no buzzing bulbs, no distant hum of radio. Only the roar of water, echoing beyond the mud walls. Baba with voice cracked with age and helplessness. “Tomorrow someone will come. They must.”

I seethed inwardly as I stared at the screen of my cell phone. Aseem had dialed my number exactly seventeen times in the last twelve hours. “Good lesson for the besotted idiot!” I exhaled in anger as my ego prided itself and marveled at itself, having finally mastered over the desire to wait and keep waiting for the calls and messages that took forever to come.

There’s a pain I keep inside, A hurt I’ve learned to always hide. I’ve cried alone so many nights, Fought my battles without light.

Do you know that empty street? Where no one goes. At night, no light glows. It stays dark, and no one ever greets.