Some say that one must be born a woman to understand the meaning of true love. A statement that deserves, at the very least, to be questioned. Love, after all, has no gender.
When the world descends into darkness, humanity's only salvation becomes, as the reader has likely already guessed, love for one's fellow human beings and love for a dream. These should not be confused with one another, for they are different pursuits, though both are equally serious. When we find ourselves standing at a crossroads, we are forced to choose between them and trust that choice, because a mistake in such a matter is one we may regret for the rest of our lives.
Such a twist of fate unfolded in 1969, in the dusty and anarchic city of New York.
Simran leaned her head slightly out of the taxi window. The cab had become trapped in a traffic jam so long that, from a bird's-eye view, it might have resembled the tail of a bull. The avenue stretched for nearly two and a half miles before widening at an intersection into a careless oval. All because of a recent accident that had claimed three innocent lives. The road had been blocked off, warning signs erected, and traffic diverted.
Hence the congestion.
"This should take about ten minutes, miss," the driver said.
As though trying to lighten the mood, he tapped a small figurine mounted on the dashboard—a pretty Hawaiian dancer wearing a bright pink skirt. Simran watched in fascination as the little doll swayed her hips in a rapid hula dance.
The sight genuinely surprised her.
Until now, she had only ever seen bobbleheads that moved their heads, never their entire bodies.
"I see," she murmured, blinking, before turning her attention back to the open window.
In truth, New York was every bit as ugly as it was beautiful in Simran's memories.
She had spent the last five years away from the city, attending a private boarding school for girls. She had been thirteen when she left behind her home, her friends, and everything a young girl's heart held dear: trips to the movies, carefree games, elementary school, and countless other fragments of childhood that now returned to her memory in scattered pieces.
New York was vast and colorful, yet strangely unfamiliar.
Foreign.
Cold.
Like the giant skyscrapers that cast their shadows across the streets.
Turning her head slightly to the left, Simran froze in silent astonishment and gripped the door handle.
A disturbing sight had caught her eye.
People were rummaging through garbage bins.
As the line of cars crawled forward, she noticed more scenes that unsettled her. Women in bathrobes smoked on apartment staircases while babies cried in their laps. Boys kicked an empty plastic cup down the sidewalk as though it were a soccer ball. Elegant ladies and sharply dressed gentlemen hurried past them without so much as a glance.
The contrast felt wrong.
Jarring.
Like something from a stage play.
As though Caesar himself wandered among servants, rabble... refuse.
The strange images accompanied Simran all the way to the bridge. Beyond it, however, the city seemed gentler. The highway widened. Diners and storefronts became more frequent. The streets appeared cleaner, and the smell of burnt rubber no longer hung in the air.
CZYTASZ
Rhythm of rebellion
RomansIn the late 1960s, Simran returns to New York and gradually settles back into the rhythm of school life. Her days are filled with the mundane, predictable routines of a young woman chasing the American Dream. But the city is on edge. The rise of the...
