#47: The Girl & The River

notes on changes

Heraclitus had this idea that you can never step into the same river twice - because the second time, it would not be the same river and you would not be the same person.

I live walking distance from my parents' first apartment together. Walking distance from the sprawling Arabian villa my grandfather rented in the 90s, where I got to know every corner of its earth up until I was ten years old. I haven't been back to both buildings - worried they'll look smaller, more aged. Or worse - brand new, shiny and unrecognizable. No familiar cracks where I used to run my hands while waiting for the school bus.

The day I left the island, it gave me a send-off. A herd of motorcyclists roaring through the airport road that lay in front of us acted like a guard of honour. They were saying goodbye without realising it.

Everyone's saying I brought the winter with me - that it's been colder than Dubai has been in years. When I was a child in that villa, my grandfather would stand with me waiting for that school bus and we'd look at the fog-breath that we could look at in the winter air. These days I wear shorts in the winter.

My apartment is tiny - I believe the positive term for it is cozy. It's perfect for just me, with the bare essentials and guaranteed safety. A place to rest my head every evening.

The River looks the same as the last time I was in it, and I'm sure it feels the same of me. But in a desert, everything is a mirage. Especially water.

I wonder who's living in my childhood homes now, who is noticing the parrots in the neem tree. If the neem tree is still around. I wonder, if I go back there, would it recognize my breath if I sang it a song from the other side of the wall?

So many things are the same here: the light, the breeze, the sparseness of trees.

And yet, so many things are different: the names of train stations, my friends with their own cars, classmates getting married. No one to really call family.

The River is different.

The last time I lived in this city, really, truly on an everyday basis - I was barely 16 years old. My entire life revolved around the train and my friends and spending money on overpriced stationery. That girl was a shaking mess a lot of the time: unruly hair, awkward limbs, feisty comebacks waiting on the tip of my tongue, doting boyfriend who I was sure I'd marry, chipped nail polish.

Today I'm a little mellowed out - anxious, alert at the wrong times, asleep at the wrong times. Waiting for a suitcase full of my things that my mother sent me. Embarrassed about waiting. Discovering that when you are overeager to present yourself as someone who knows things, you end up revealing how much you don't know. I'm learning to balance my footing on a tightrope between proving myself worthy of this desk job and taking down notes at every corner. There is no time for a feisty comeback - the knives have to be concealed, wit must take precedence over everything else, irritation must be painted over with a laugh. Feeling the lack of exercise every few days that I go without it.

This girl is different now.

But we meet again, the river and I. We can't help it. We keep finding each other.

See you soon,

Kaav