travel writing competition

I entered a Bradt travel writing competition where the theme was the kindness of strangers. I didn’t even make the top 16.

Humbled by rejection LOL

---

The Weight of a Grain of Rice

It started with a mosquito bite smaller than a dot on a grain of rice.

I was in India, staring at my bare stomach in a hotel room mirror, where a saffron rash began to stain my torso.

What followed, I can’t seem to touch. My memories are like frayed saree threads between my fingers- fragmented and unfinished.

Joints shattering. 

Flayed open. 

Being cleaved in two

over

and over

and over again

by some invisible attacker.

I stood shaking in the cold shower while drops of sweat boiled out of me. I was burning from the inside. In my fevered state, I kept trying to turn the temperature down, not understanding the fire was coming from inside me.

Dengue is not called the breakbone virus for nothing. 

It passes- consciousness, time, the worst of the infectious disease.

Instead of seeing the clean, soft hotel room hugging around me as a refuge for my broken body, I saw the iron-hard walls caging in on me, restricting my freedoms.

I was permitted one small, rectangular window with a view of a nondescript street. Everything in the room- the bed, the chair, the desk- looked like any other back home.

Not exactly what I had flown halfway around the world to experience.

With Dengue still riddled throughout my body, I continued my travels.

Entering the buzzing Kerala train station, about to catch a 14-hour journey to Goa, I dragged myself to the ticket counter, carrying not only the weight of my heavy backpack.

“There are no seats left. 

You will have to stand.”

With routine dismissiveness, the ticket agent slid the paper on the counter towards me.

“Please…I”

Before another word escaped my mouth, the next person was stating their destination.

In the bubbling heat, my legs buckled just from the walk to the platform. I collapsed against the wall, eyes closed, attempting to shut out the clanging odours.

Not days before, I was unable to eat a spoonful of lentil soup because the distance from the ceramic bowl to my parched mouth was too far.

A whistle blasted, startling my eyes open; an overcrowded train was approaching the platform.

Carriages filled to the brim with people

over

and over

and over again

passed by my line of sight.

Doors ripped open.

Passengers pouring out.

Inside, the crushed crowd cracked; surely the train would burst at the seams like my body inevitably would if I had to stand for 14 hours.

Using the wall as support, I heaved myself up from the ground and spotted a station worker through the spillage of people.

I’m barely able to meet his eyes;

Excuse me… I’m going to Goa… I don’t have a seat… Is there any way to get one?

A few of my ragged breaths pass.

He nods.

The commotion stills.

A light steadiness embraced me, although the stranger would never know it.

Brushing past my thank you, he carried on with his workday, its full gravity going unnoticed.

A while later, on the train to Goa, I eased into my seat. Finally giving in to the rest that my body had been faintly whispering. Out of the broad window, I observed the tranquil expanse of the Indian landscape.

I glanced down at my stomach, where the seemingly inconsequential mosquito bite used to be. A quiet interaction, fragile as a puffed piece of rice, that left no trace on the surface, but settled deep in my memory.

The weight of a moment is unbalanced. To one, it drifts away, quickly forgotten; to the other, it is held close to the heart, never knowing which way the grains will fall.