Zadan ZarikReader, Writer, Reviewer

The alarm disturbs my sleep, its shrill beep pulling me from the depths of a dream. A glance at the screen of my N-73 phone reminds me of the night party that awaits me. I pull myself from the coziness of my bed, stretch my arms, and check the time—6:33 AM. The day is already calling, but tonight’s promise is where my focus lies.

I unlock my closet, standing before a sea of options, wondering which brand will be my statement for the evening. H.S.Y., Nina, or Levi’s? I decided on a necklace of black diamonds and blue pearls to match the elegance I’ll exude. My hair was dyed in the color brigantine and fell in soft waves around my shoulders. I scrub my hands and feet, wax my arms, and leave my hair in a wet, effortlessly chic style. Tonight, I will be the treat.

My eyebrows are meticulously plucked, and my nails are polished to perfection. My slim, sensuous body demands attention, and “MAC” is the makeup of choice. Gucci Envy me—why settle for less when you can command attention with such luxury?

Now I am ready, every detail in place. I slip into my strapless, backless maxi, the kind of dress that turns heads and makes hearts race. Razor-sharp heels click as I step closer to the mirror. “To hell with simplicity,” I say with a wicked grin, lighting my favorite cigarette. My glossy lips and smoky eyes mirror the rebellious spirit I wear so boldly.

As I leave for the night’s party, I laugh at the people chasing after me. I drive recklessly, the world going mad in my wake. “For my popularity,” I murmur, as if to remind myself of the power I hold. They all want a piece of me.

When I arrive at the casino, the lights seem to dim in comparison to my presence. My shadow moves across the bar as they greet me—tempted by the sensuality that radiates from me. I am the emblem of bewitching beauty, every move a seduction, every glance a promise.

An eager fellow reaches out to me, pulling me in with a passion that matches mine. We lose ourselves in the heat of the moment, our bodies entwined in a frenzy of desire. My nails trace the lines of his back, the tighter he holds me, the more desperate my touch becomes. We enter a world of our own, a universe of lust and longing.

The night passes, a blur of satisfaction and sensuality, the intoxicating blend of wine, whiskey, and the taste of his lips on mine. As the night sweeps over us, I know that in this world, my beauty is a power, one that knows no limits, and I revel in it.

A ball kicked back and forth between bureaucrats, like a shuttlecock tossed between the rackets of indifferent authorities, this land of mine has become nothing more than a mere possession. Once rich with sacrifice and struggle, those days now feel like distant history. The “Independence Day” comes around with its empty fanfare, high-sounding promises made—promises that are broken before the ink can dry. It’s always been this way, hasn’t it? We speak of updating the system, of striving for enlightened moderation, but we’ve forgotten the very principles we once held dear. Forgotten the values that once defined us.

I am the country now—divided, fragmented, and scarred. Five decades of my existence, marked by nothing but influence peddling and political machinations. Everywhere I look, the elites dine on excess while the common people, torn between their desires and struggles, are left to suffer. The rich, in their gluttony, celebrate in nightclubs and lavish feasts, as my body—the land itself—is pushed down by the weight of their corruption.

I am torn apart into sects, each more fragmented than the last. Extremism runs through my veins like a poison, slowly draining the life from me. And my soul, helpless and bleeding, cries out for salvation that never comes. My constitution, once the symbol of my integrity, is now nothing more than a discarded piece of paper—an afterthought, a joke. Peace and harmony? Mere words, lost in a haze of promises that serve only to line the pockets of the powerful.

The worth of merit has vanished. It is no longer the ability to do, but who you know, where you come from, and how well you can pander to the elite. The media, which should reflect the pulse of the people, has become a circus of shamelessness. Women are reduced to their sex appeal, their beauty measured by the gaze of the world, not by the depth of their minds or the strength of their character.

Budgets are drafted and revenues inflated, yet all it does is serve to deepen the cycle of poverty and starvation that plagues us. The cries of the hungry and the poor are drowned out by the clinking of glasses at lavish parties. “Equal distribution of money,” they say—but it only feeds the already bloated while we starve. Banks are robbed in broad daylight, and my honor is trampled in the streets. The world looks upon me and calls me a harlot, questioning my dignity as though it is theirs to claim.

My people are worth nothing. The value of life is reduced to a paper with a fee—red tape that suffocates us all. Deaths pile up like administrative tasks as if human lives are just numbers to be filled in a ledger. And still, I mourn. My heart aches with grief, my eyes searching, longing for the patriot who will come and remind us of our humanity. Who will rise to teach us that a nation is built not on corruption and dishonor but on truth, compassion, and unity?

But for now, I am left with nothing but this grief—waiting for the day when my soul is healed and my land, once again, knows peace.

I stood there, clad in a new white dress, my hand clutching a crisp 5000-rupee note. There was a sense of pride within me, a feeling of superiority as I beamed with self-congratulation. I had sacrificed my desires—no perfumes, no snacks from the college canteen, all for this moment of supposed generosity. I had set aside the trivial for something greater. Today, I was going to make a difference, or so I thought.

With my pocket money swelled by a little extra, I left my place for the sole purpose of charity. The destination? A “Special Kids’ School.” I entered, my heart heavy with the sanctimonious weight of my good deed. “Poor souls,” I thought, as I surveyed the children who seemed to play and shout, their bodies incomplete. I watched them through a veil of pity, my gaze full of condescension. They were the ones in need. Or so I believed.

I asked for the head boy of the school, a child who, at 14 or 15, stood out among his peers. The sound of his crutches echoed in the hall. Deprived of normal feet, he hobbled toward me. His gaze met mine, and there was something in it—a defiance, a pride, a challenge. My heart fluttered in my chest, and I thought, “How strange, how odd.” He was just a creature to be pitied. And yet, his eyes told a different story.

Without hesitation, I extended my hand, offering the 5000-rupee note, convinced that my charity would be accepted. But instead, his reply left me stunned.

“Charity from folk like you, we don’t need,” he said.

The words struck me, but I was too proud to understand. “Why?” I asked, my voice dripping with the arrogance of someone who believed they were doing good.

The boy, still standing tall despite his physical limitations, met my question with a calm but piercing response. “You think of yourself as a gift from heaven, a beauty in your late teens. But take my word, it’s not us, rather ‘you’ who are incomplete.”

The words reverberated in my mind. He continued, “We don’t walk on the path to damnation because we have no feet. Tell me, how many times have you, with your eyes, seen the starvation, injustice, and poverty around you?”

My chest tightened with each word. The boy, whose body lacked what mine possessed, had looked deeper, further than I ever had. He didn’t need my money. He needed society to wake up. He needed people to look beyond their superficial charity and address the rot that plagued us all.

“Lovely fingers like yours we don’t have,” he continued, “but you, with your complete body, have failed to see the real tragedy—the incomplete souls of those who walk this earth thinking they are whole.”

In that moment, something within me cracked. The pride, the vanity, the sense of superiority—it all fell away. I had come to give charity, but it was I who needed a lesson. The boy had seen through my façade and called out the emptiness that lived within me. He had shown me that it wasn’t our bodies that made us whole but our hearts, our actions, and our ability to see beyond ourselves.

And there, in the presence of children whose bodies were “incomplete,” I realized the true meaning of completeness—it was the soul that mattered most.

Alone in my room, the clock strikes one. I close my eyes, and there she is, as if she’s still here. I feel sick again, caught in the cruel grip of autumn, missing the sound of her bangles, the soft, rhythmic chime that once filled my world. I am so alone, so lost in this hollow space. Come to me again, I plead.

The darkness surrounds me, the room silent and still. The curtains remain drawn, the light never reaching me. I am lifeless, drifting through this emptiness, longing for the spark she once gave me. Come back and bring life to me again. I am dead inside, numb like the leaves that fall, crumbling and forgotten.

Caress my hair, sing me to sleep, I beg. Give me the touch of your fingers once more, that simple, tender touch that meant everything. Photographs, the pages of my diary, they weep for what’s lost. The colors of my life have faded. I need you to paint it with your brilliance again, to make it whole.

The flowers in the vase are wilted, the candles have melted into nothingness. The walls of my room echo with the silence, yearning for the sound of your lullaby, the song your bangles used to sing. The rocking chair stands still, waiting for the music of your presence. For God’s sake, come to me again.

If only I could sacrifice a thousand lives for just a single moment with you. The love in your eyes, the warmth of your shawl—my pain fades with a mere touch of you. All I ask is that you dedicate it to me, to come to me again.