Saira: The winter

Saira realised there is no hatred inside her. No matter what people did, what people said, how insulting the words were, how painful their deeds.

It was quite possible that if someone slapped her across her face in a marketplace, she could feel no semblance of a complaint. It wouldn’t be surprising if she giggled and asked them what was wrong, but she might as well have also masked it with a poker face for fear of being thought of as odd.

Not that she wouldn’t get antsy. In fact, when love filled her heart, she would end up arguing with the object of her interest. But arguments were just arguments, and there was no anger flowing beneath it. Most often, she would pull people into a frenzy from which they would want to fly. She would drag close ones into a messy maze from which all they would want would be to be out. Her love drained them of their vitality and they grew old quicker.

Saira was one-of-a-kind an anomaly on Earth. If someone was born with a line of destiny drawn on his head, a destiny that said you belong to a beautiful woman named Saira, God’s invisible hand over his head, Saira’s brand of love would have made him shine like a new penny. If someone could decipher her code of love, they would have unlocked a door into a lovely and serene space with all things prim and proper, even their anger and envy assuming a sheath of white innocence and love.

But there was none that way, Almighty had forgotten to pair that line he drew on her with that of another individual, a Godly error he made once in a billion or trillion, or once and for all, rendering Saira a lonely and one-of-her-kind species on Earth.

In a world that spun in dizzying speeds, a world that scorned the stupidity of emotions and redefined smartness into expertise in hording money, gift of gab, general awareness of things and even crooked connivance, Saira’s brand of life had no takers, and she was generally scorned up on as a weakling, or at the worst, her presence unacknowledged. And in a new age that conceptualised life as a mass of grey, subsuming good and bad alike into it, acknowledging them a part of life, Saira’s brand was thought to be fake, outdated or boring and hence, to be distanced.

But hatred remained elusive to her heart, an oddity like a lost limb. In situations where people usually found their bloods boiling, it couldn’t be predicted what Saira would feel. Sometimes, she fell into a despair. At times, she found a beauty in the crookedness, the lie, and smiled. When she felt a deep disappointment, her eyes would droop, and she would tell herself that they would reach a point of realisation later, may be years after, if not days or months. She prayed that light be up on them, but felt no anger.

If one defeats malice and walk around on the surface of Earth, through crowded streets and metro trains, markets and offices where greed, envy and diplomacy were undercurrents of everyday life’s bartering, would the world be blamed for finding Saira an alien, something irrelevant, and non-existent? Like an ant, or a fly, or something even tinier to its eyes?

So, Saira tread on silently like that ant, that fly, that something too tiny for notice of human eyes.

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