Itvara

The summer is here in Europe, and I have been living in this wonderful city of Berlin for the last two years, tucked away safely, travelling from one country to another every few months, presenting myself as a cool and new self on my Instagram. This is what I think about all the time – to be fabulous, cool, successful, a strong rebel, etc. The words seem to keep adding, and the weight on my shoulders appears to  grow as I add more words.

I do not remember if I avoid reading about the horrors of the world or have simply become cold and apathetic towards them. I have managed for so long to feel so little and occupy my space with all things materialistic and pretty. But the world has a way of getting into your heart.

I was walking on the streets of Lyon when I saw a quaint church and decided to go inside. As I entered, I froze. I saw a group of young boys wearing orange or what we call ‘gerua’ in Hindi sitting in front of the pulpit.  For a few seconds, I lost hold of myself. The first second, I forgot where I was; the next second, I remembered I was in a different country; the third second, I realised I was in a church; and finally, in the fourth second, I grasped that the boys were part of some school sports club.

As I sat inside the church, I looked at Jesus and those boys sitting in front of me. To me alone, they seemed out of place.I was surprised by my reaction, especially since I consider myself more spiritual than religious. The color, so beautiful, which is the same shade as saffron or a bright marigold, could be associated in my country with one thing only. A colour has taken hold in my mind that, miles away from home, I still feel a sudden jolt.

In that serene church, I felt all the things that I did not want to feel. I remembered the discussion happening on the S-Bahn between an Iranian and an American. They spoke in English, and I could understand them. The American considered himself an expat, and the Iranian an immigrant. They debated this concept and googled the terms in front of me. An expat – someone who moves to another country temporarily for work. 

“But you want to stay in Germany?” asked the good-humoured Iranian.

 “Yes, I do,” answered the American. 

“That makes you an immigrant.”

 I could see the discomfort on the man’s face with the word. The word “immigrant” today carries a powerful negativity, laden with guilt that crushes the souls of those who dream of a country grander and more radiant than their own.

I looked back at Jesus and thought of the times I had travelled across the villages of different countries in Europe. When people looked at me, I wondered if the age-old internalized colonialism was kicking in or if simply the way they saw me made me feel the colour of my skin.

I took my bag and left the church, walking aimlessly through the streets, hoping the feeling of despair would vanish. As I wandered, I saw a few women in headscarves. As they passed me, one of them gave me a smile. I noticed the slow gaze from the people around me towards them, and I disappeared behind another community. The news channel was switched on somewhere, and even though I did not understand French, it was about the attack in Palestine. For months, I read only the headlines and scrolled quickly through the pictures trying my best to register very little. My eyes were glued to the television today. I was staying in Neukölln when I saw the first demonstration. It was the time when the West had not joined the protests yet, and I saw the police stopping the protestors.

I was near my building door, and I witnessed the anger, pain, and struggle. I observed quietly and cowardly. My mind reeled back to Auschwitz, where I had gone last summer with my parents. Our tour guide, when showing us the hair of the victims and the chambers, said something I shall always remember: “We preserved this so that we remember the past. So that we can learn from it.” The words ‘we learn from it’ still ring in my ears.

I sat on a park bench, tired. I hated that the hopelessness did not die down. I never knew that a simple color could trigger a world of dejection. The wind blew on my face, and I still did not feel better. I remembered all the children on the streets. People generally say – it’s all relative. It is true. Those children on the street seemed so much better off than the ones dying in another part of the world. And the children playing in the park in front of me, who will never see the streets, seemed to possess the happiness of demigods.

The world started enveloping me, and for a moment, I thought I couldn’t breathe. When I opened my eyes, I saw one of the same women with a headscarf standing with a bottle of water. I took it from her hand and drank.

 “Panic attack?”

I nodded. She opened a bottle from her bag and let me smell it. It was some kind of oil. I breathed in and felt the air return to my lungs. I thanked her profusely. 

“Are you okay?” she asked. 

“I think so.” She smiled and left me.

A child’s ball hit my foot. I picked it up, and a sweet girl came to me, and I handed her the ball. As I gave it to her, I saw her; I saw my brown hands and her white, her religion and mine, her country and mine, her language and mine, and her roots and mine. She took the ball, grinned, and said, ‘Merci’. The fifty degrees of separation dissolved, and what was left was a smile and a thank you.