Torn

I stare down from my rose-tinted window. The “lucky” country. With its lucky trees providing shade for its lucky citizens.

I stare down at the Samaritans walking down the footpath while diligently dragging their finger through the tecno- streams of curated content. Their heads hang below their necks, taking their luck as a token of inevitability.

Even through the window, my nose wafts the lucky country’s smells of petrol and cigarette buds. I tear my eyes away from the streets before straightening up. A small child is standing in the middle of the road. Sliding my glasses up to the bridge of my nose, I wonder, why aren’t you scared of the cars child? Why are you alone?

The small girl holds a partially deflated balloon as her jelly sandals squelch along the damp dirt road. A silver tiara is propped on her head with purple diamonds placed all around. The girl lets out a slight chuckle as if she can feel my interrogative eyes pressed against her back.

Faint droplets of rain are delicately sprinkled upon my windowsill, catching the attention of the corner of my eye. I dart my eyes back to the girl. It is raining. You must go home. With her arms outstretched beside her, the girl becomes unmoving. Her feet locked into a small pothole in the road. My fingers rhythmically tap against the window, quiet enough not to gain her attention. Loud enough that it conveys my concern. A few moments pass by before the girl regains movement. Her head swaying from side to side. She is smiling. Her arms dangle elegantly as she begins to twirl around, her arms flowing after. Alike the girl, the rain begins to gain movement too.

I receive a knock at the door. Before ignoring it the first time, the second knock walks me to the corridor. A newspaper is thrown on my doormat by a prepubescent boy, likely trying to make money just to “get by” for the summer. The sun tries to peep its way through the clouds but is failing miserably. The rain begins to slowly cascade in intensity as I sweep up
the newspaper. Newspapers? Who would’ve thought in 2025, I was eager to read a newspaper?

Momentarily losing my balance on my dining room chair, I regain it before flicking through the first pages. I stare at the crossword and Sports quiz and contemplate answering two of the questions before quickly losing interest. Question 2’s answer is always C.

My eyes flicker down the page: Bombing in Milan. Earthquake in the Philippines: 5 people in Critical Condition. Pressing my finger against the wet pages, my eyes continue down. Bondi Beach Massacre: 15 dead.

With tears built up in each corner of my tainted eyes, I shut them tight. My palms starting to itch as if the news was something the world hadn’t faced before.

What has become of this lucky country? The tears burning my eyes loudly. The country in which foreigners would stand in lines to buy postcards just to set their eyes on the grainy images of Noosa Beach.

The country that marks their citizens as “One and free” yet is now torn down the middle by hate. The country in which synagogues would be opening their arms to the Jewish community, instead of acting as a donation centre for bouqueted flowers.

Overcome with grief, I stand up to the window. My eyes scanning desperately for the little girl. With her tutu slipped over her hips, her sparkly pink tights bunched around her ankles. The girl is not there. The rain has stopped. The flashing hues of red and blue paint my room walls.

Oh, what a lucky country!

• By Maya Bharadwaj

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