I stared at my reflection.
I was six years old. My mother had her hand clasped tightly around my wrist as we crossed the road. When she finally let go, I remember seeing her finger marks fade gradually, to unmask again, the pale white colour of my skin. I recall getting excited at the seemingly unusual phenomenon and tugging at her kameez to tell her of the magical appearance and disappearance. She laughed at my naivete, stroked my hair gently, and continued walking.
I was happy in my own thoughts, however. There was nothing else I could wish for.
And then a red mail van rushed past us. “Make a wish!” my mother said with a kind of urgency.
“Why?” I asked. It was obviously an attractive proposition, but I was quite curious.
She pointed at the mail van. “That’s a mail van. You look at it and make a wish and cross your fingers, and it will deliver your message to God.”
I closed my eyes and made a wish. “Uncross them only when you see a moving black car,” she said. And so I looked forward to seeing a moving black car. Strange thing to look forward to, really. Especially when it’s not your own moving black car.
I kept waiting. We crossed a number of roads, and my mother squeezed my wrist each time. But I was more interested in finding the black car this time round. I hardly looked where we were going. My eyes chased the path of every vehicle that crossed. I remember thinking for a second how a moving car seemed to be traveling faster when right in front of me, and how it seemed to get slower with the increasing distance. But this chimera was immediately superseded by the incessant search..
Wishes were always more interesting.
A glint of red, and the excitement of seeing a mail van again. The frenzy inflated me with immense energy. The prospect of having my wish come true, even though I was entrusting a childhood fantasy, was very enticing for a person in as distressing a situation as mine. It was like the van was intentionally crossing paths with mine, provoking me, seducing me with its mystical blur. The craving invigorated my mind and my body. I needed to tap that profusion at that very instant.
I started running.
The van was traveling faster and faster. But its driver was only human. I, however, was being driven by Passion, an entity stronger than any man. I knew that I could reach it, even though I was being impeded with the viscosity of the wind, and the other vehicles that dared to deter me. With all my might, I kept running. I could feel the muscles of my legs tightening with the speed, in complete concordance with my stationary upper body. I could feel my feet angle themselves to veer past obstacles, oriented, as my mind. My organs were in consummate harmony. I wanted to catch that van in wholeness. I wanted to touch it. I wanted to see it absorbing my wish. I wanted to feel the waves of my desires electrify its metal body.
I was only a meter away.
The shortening distance exacerbated the yearning.
I was only a few feet away. I held my hand out, trying to reach out for the van with the tips of my fingers.
And then it struck me. The nothingness that separated my fingers from the van transduced a thought so strong and convincing, I almost stopped in my confoundment.
Why should I chase after the messenger when I knew I had the power to deliver it myself?
All I needed was that extra nudge: the nudge came with that realization.
I just need to have faith in myself. Nothing else works better.
And so, I overtook the mail-van.
