I have spent 32 years on this planet. Yet, whenever I close my eyes and think of a time when I was the happiest, the answer is always the same. When I was 8, I used to go the local swimming pool with my dad and elder sister. Dad would give me swimming lessons while my sister swam laps all by herself. She was already an expert. I was in no hurry, often content to just float on the water and gaze up at the sky. Being in the cool water in hot summers – it was so rejuvenating. And since we always visited in the evening, the sun would inevitably set when we drove back home.
My sister was usually nice enough to let me take the front seat. I’d roll the window down (I could be trusted not to do silly things like stick my arm out) and rest my head on the windowsill, feeling the breeze sift through my hair. I’d watch the lines on the road whiz by and the gorgeous colours in the evening sky. And I’d dream. I’d dream of one day writing a novel, becoming famous, and doing great things.
Every evening when we drove back from the swimming pool, I was convinced that I was destined for greatness. Life and its possibilities seemed limitless as I sat beside my dad and watched the world go by in all its twilit glory. The sensation of what a beautiful thing it was to be alive filled me till I felt breathless with joy. And I experienced all of this in silence and with a smile on my lips. When we went home, I’d tell my mum and no one else.
