Who in the world am I ?

Rumi moved to a tiny hut perched at the top of the mountains in her mid-twenties. She was selected as an acclaimed essayist for a writing retreat in Switzerland. She always draped a Cashmere shawl hanging down her shoulders. The woolen adorned tangled knots all over yet, she wore it every day. When asked ‘That’s the only thing left by my Maa behind; I own’ she said. Her eyes, marked by smudged kajal, carried whispers of the culture she had left behind.

Amidst the echoing symphony of cowbells, Rumi carved out her space within the quiet mountains. A stark contrast to the urban jungle she once called home. Every evening she would hike down the Schäfler Ridge listening to the cowbells and cries of flying eagles. She mostly enjoyed solitude until she craved a warm hug on harsh cold nights. Rumi was a hopeless romantic, even though she never experienced love. She dreamt about angels singing her songs of love, whispering ideas of the unknown. As the sun rose, she strived to write deciphering the stories told last night. The love stories were the only thing she had to hold onto momentarily replacing her void. Until one night, the little angles didn’t show up. Rumi waited and waited until her legs hurt.

Feeling dejected she woke up that morning almost paralysed; unable to speak her mind. She stared at the blank screen numbly until the days turned into weeks. Without her creativity by her side, she felt hollow and disabled.

Yet one evening, she forced herself to trail down the ridge praying to let her see again the angels in the dreams. Clueless about her unanswered prayers she made her way to a cafe by the cliff engraved in the mountains. Ordering a glass of wine she sat on a tiny bench gazing at the mountains. ‘The Swiss Alps make me feel insignificant yet human. I should be grateful to be here’ she reminded herself.

Suddenly a wild scapegoat crosses her sight entering into an old cave limping with an injured leg. Bewildered and amused she decides to follow the scapegoat’s steps entering into the cave. She is skeptical and hesitantly traces back the footsteps. She discovers a colony of bats hanging from the ceiling. The walls are adorned with scribbled drawings. It depicted angels with outstretched wings and faces obscured from sadness. In the center of the chamber lies a peculiar stone drowning in a real cheese fondue. Puzzled yet drawn to the sight, Rumi's fingers graze the smooth shiny surface. A green light beams and suddenly her mind is flooded with images.

Rumi stares at a woman’s back almost identical to her age. Her life glimpses in the blink of an eye — She lives in a bustling city with a husband who forgets her name and her newborn baby she hates. Her heart aches for pain that doesn’t feel her own. She vents and sends recorded voice notes to herself to console. She spends her afternoons talking for hours to the customer service calls she gets. The stranger men on the other end still feel more familiar than the one she lives with. Surrounded by a family deep down she feels alone. The woman daydreams and replays made-up scenarios in her head staying indifferent and numb to reality. Rumi feels intrigued and sad for the woman’s life. She wants to help and inches closer to her, the woman turns around and Rumi’s head feels light after what she’s seen. With a racing heartbeat and cold feet, Rumi is staring at the reflection of her own. Only one question remains: Who in the world am I?