A quiet, innate, intimate personal exploration of the restlessness of life, which is hollowed out of hope until another individual's relentless faith rekindles it. Quiet companionship, honesty in words and a deep sense of faith reveal that hope might be concealed but never lost; it is capable of returning when mirrored in a person's intrinsic valour and courage.
I come from a cradle shaped by my mother’s hope and faith. Years ago, she says, she asked her God for me countless times, and even in despair, she held on to belief, and then she had me. So that must make me a child of hope, right? I exist because of it. I imagine it must be something powerful, something life-changing.
And yet, I wonder, if I was born out of hope, why does my life feel so empty of it? Or maybe what I have is only a fleeting kind, something that fades as quickly as it arrives. How can the very reason for my existence feel so absent from my life? It almost feels like a betrayal to myself. How can something I was born from become something I’ve forgotten?
I think about this often. Hope feels harsh now. I hoped for a better tomorrow, but it always feels like a tomorrow that never comes.
But then I really wonder, what would I say to someone who feels the same way? Someone precious to me. I should say something. I shouldn’t stay silent.
I sit next to her on a cloudy summer evening, on a bench beneath a tree. Silence settles between us. I don’t speak. I don’t feel like breaking this silence. The silence seeps into me, through my skin, my flesh and my bones. But it isn’t just silence I feel; it’s her hopelessness too, and it unsettles me. The scarcity of her hope is drying my existence out, because that’s what I was made out of long back. I wait. I can sense she wants to speak. The words are there, just held back by something unseen. Her emotions are loud even in the utter silence, and they begin to overwhelm me, so much so that, without realizing it, I find myself hoping. Hoping she says something. In the middle of my own emptiness, I find myself hoping again. Hoping, only to share someone’s hopelessness.
I can’t bear it any longer. With all the courage I can gather, I place my hand gently on her knee and leave it there. She finally speaks. “What should I do?” she asks. It’s a question I’ve always feared. But she doesn’t need to know that.
“Why is there no hope? Why can’t I feel it? Why can’t I believe things will change? Why can’t my tomorrow be different? Why am I incapable of hoping?” As much as I wanted her to speak, her words leave me heavy. Still, I know I can’t let this moment pass. I glance around, as if the answer might be hidden somewhere in the stagnance around us. “Don’t answer,” she suddenly says. "Why?” I ask, though I already know. She’s tired of hearing the same empty reassurances. She doesn’t reply. We sit in silence again. But then I begin to speak, without thinking, without stopping.
“You know, you already do hope." She looks at me, confused. “ When you asked me those questions, you were hoping for an answer. You were hoping that something I say might change how you feel. So you are capable of hope. It’s not gone, it’s still there.”
I pause. “You deserve to hope, and you’re born out of it too. Something you’re born from can’t run from you. It can hide, it can quiet down, but it can’t escape you. It’s too deeply a part of who you are. It’s way too submerged in your existence to be able to escape.”
The words leave me before I can question them. I sit there, unsure of what I’ve just said. Then she laughs softly, pulling me out of my thoughts. Now it’s me who feels afraid; afraid I’ve said something foolish, something meaningless. Afraid I won’t know what to say next. But she stands up.
For a moment, I panic, thinking I’ve pushed her away. I search for words, anything to hold her there. She turns back, just once.
“What you said to me,” she says gently, “is what you needed to hear too. You’re capable of hope. It just took sharing my hopelessness with you for you to see it.” Her words are soft, yet harsh.
“Hope to see you again,” she says.
And as I watch her walk away, I realise, quietly, almost unexpectedly,
I do.
Fadhl Talal is pursuing her Bachelor's in English Honours at Jamia Millia Islamia.
Edited by: Sritama Chakrabortty
Disclaimer: The opinions expressed in this Publication are those of the author. They do not purport to reflect the opinions or views of The Jamia Review or its members
