4.1.25
January is relentless.
The days are bleak and cold, only occasionally coloured by mugs of hot chocolate (despite minor lactose aversions – the jury’s still out on whether it’s worth it or not) and shared moments on the living room sofa where it takes approximately one full dinner discussion, plus an additional fifteen minutes, to come to a consensus on the movie of the night.
A notification containing the week’s GRAP restrictions finds its way into the family group chat each week, punctuating the passing of time. We collect all the sunshine we can find, as it filters through windows and smiles, and when we can’t do that we make our own with our new-old lamp which has finally found a new home.
Amidst new year’s quiet chaos, we brave the cold – not on a quest for sunshine but for a number, an identity wrapped up in digits. To the post office we go.
The room is small and grey. Babies are lifted up to chairs to have their pictures taken, forms are filled, and documents are pulled out of folders – all while a young boy plays a video game on his phone in the corner of the room.
His headphones aren’t connected to his device, and the entire room is privy to the gun shooting taking place on the screen. He punches his arm in the air when he defeats his opponent – they’re silly to not see it coming, he tells us – and we silently rejoice alongside him.
My father dances as we wait. He helps a lady filling out a form for a change in address. It is comforting to know I come from goodness.
My brother and I scan our eyes, give our fingerprints and stare into a tiny webcam (his photos are always better than mine). We check the spelling of our names, our gender and our date of birth on the form once, twice, three times – pausing to debate the punctuation of our monikers in Hindi. And just like that, it’s over – the ordeal complete, the boxes ticked.
Afterwards, I sit pushing grains of rice around my plate as my family converses across the lazy Susan. My grandparent’s home is one which is well lived in and loved. The Christmas tree my cousins and I put up still stands (it might be our best work yet). The magic in that space is that it feels both grounded and alive.
I pick up my plate.
The email with my code will be arriving soon.
Keya Arora Chaudhuri has a fondness for literary fiction novels, tea, dance, and cats. She is a student of The Shri Ram School, Moulsari, NCR.
