Cost of inclusion

 I opened my eyes while lying in bed; across the window were the small hills veiled by white clouds. My face was swollen, and my eyes might be red. Breezy air was making my baby hairs flow. I got up from bed and went downstairs. Hearing the sound of tapping wooden stairs, my mom said, “Why are you awake so early? You have already stayed up late packing; go have some sleep.”

I saw my mother sitting near the fire furnace making rice in the kitchen. For the first time in my life, I noticed wrinkles, smile lines on her face, and grey hairs. She was smiling, but I knew her heart was crying. How can a parent not be emotional when their child is leaving? It was April, and like every year, Uncle Urmit—a friend of my father—came for the trade of Shirui lily flowers. I went outside where my father and Uncle Urmit were sitting in the garden having a conversation, either about money, politics, or this time maybe about me also, because I was going with him. I hugged my father—he hugged me back tighter than ever. Uncle Urmit, standing in front, said with a flickering smile, “Are you ready to experience something completely different?” I wasn’t sure what to answer with filled eyes. I just nodded my head while being on my father’s shoulder. Gently patting my hair, my father said, “Go wash your face.” Ditching the bathroom, I went to the nearby valley. I knew this fact: that leaving this surreal nature could never be worth any amount of money. I reached the valley, let my legs in the water, sat, and busied myself admiring my home, my whole Ukhrul district. The long stretch of the valley with green threads all along and weather so clear that heaven could be seen with the naked eye. Spending almost an hour, I then washed my face and filled my mouth with sweet water. I was coming back home when I noticed my school—the only school on the hills—and suddenly my whole childhood began to flash back in front of my eyes. Again, my eyes were filled, but I controlled them from overflowing.

It was the time of dawn—the time of leaving my everything to start a new beginning. My bags were packed, and my parents were loading everything that they could give into the car. Uncle Urmit was sitting in the driver’s seat like nothing. I was in the kitchen to grab a water bottle when my neighbor, Aunt Kimmi, came. She was the person who always used to scold me if she ever found me not studying. She is more than a real aunt. With astonishment, I said, “Aunt, you! I was coming to meet you anyway.”

She, hiding tears with the greatest smile, said, “Here is your favorite Ngari (fermented fish dish); take this.”

“Mom has already packed some of it, no need, Aunt,” I replied. “You like mine more, I know,” she replied while making my hand squeeze. I took the pack and went outside and saw what I never imagined. The whole village was there to say goodbye to their daughter. All my bravery went, and I burst out crying. Everyone consoled me and said, “We are so proud of you.” While sitting in the car, I saw my father crying in the back, but I wasn’t brave enough to say anything or even have eye contact. I just squeezed my mother’s hand, said goodbye to everyone, and the car started. While on the journey, when we crossed the bridge, I remembered how my father had fought with the government to have a permanent path to connect hills with plains. From writing fifty letters per day to knocking on every door of the government office, he had done everything possible to let the Northeast be inclusive to every state. After almost ten years of struggle, the bridge was finally constructed, and the first person to leave the hills was his own daughter.

We reached Delhi, and I felt alien in my own country. The hustle, bustle, weather, and people—everything was strange. We stopped at a restaurant where I ordered the most known dish from the menu, which was rice and dal. While having the meal, Uncle Urmit said, “Now you have to make your own path; you have your hostel address, right?”

I was completely shocked because my father had previously clarified in front of him that Uncle Urmit would be there at every step until I felt settled, and at that time, he also accepted that fact. I was completely perplexed by his strange attitude, chewed the food in my mouth, and replied in a fumbled voice, “But Uncle, you agreed with my father that you would be there with me.” He laughed a little and said, “Make your own way, child.” I understood he always had this evil side; only our kindness wouldn’t allow us to see that.

One month passed—one step passed, and I survived my first step, which is always the hardest. I began to settle where I never belonged. Struggles were there, but the people I met after Uncle Urmit were surprisingly helpful—maybe because I didn’t expect anything.

One day at noon, I was sitting in the college canteen after classes; as usual, I called my mother. This was my regular time to call her. Once, she didn’t pick up the call. I called again; she didn’t pick up. I began to feel strange because usually my mother sat by the phone at this time. Sweat was all over my face; I tried to call my father, neighbors, everyone from the valley, but nobody was answering. I tried my best to think positively until a notification popped up on my phone: “Manipur is burning…”

Dear readers, this story is completely fictional and has no intention of harming anyone’s sentiments.