Name: Kubra Aizaz (literature part ll)

A stroke of hope: Journey of rediscovering joy

I was on a train to Tuscany. Flashbacks of my last meeting with Viviana came to

me.
Viviana Greco is a psychotherapist I had been receiving consultations from for
over 3 years. Viviana and I had a pretty decent relation.
She believed she was capable of fixing me and I did not doubt her but we were
wrong. It soon became painfully clear that my shattered psyche was beyond repair.
I was broken into a million pieces and some of them were already lost and gone.
Nobody could make me a whole again. Despite her best efforts, her attempts to
piece me back together proved futile and had been going in vain. It was then that I
made the difficult decision to sever ties with her, recognizing that it was the only
way to free us both of our sufferings.

"Its a shame that you are shifting to Tuscany, I wanted to explore a bit more of
you. It would've been nice if we could have a few more sessions", said Viviana
Greco with disappointment in her eyes.
"Honestly the decision to discontinue our consultations has nothing to do with me
moving to Tuscany", I said plainly.
Viviana wore a look of surprise as she questioned, "What do you mean?"
"You said you can't continue because it'll take you 5 hours from Tuscany to reach
Florence".
Her tone grew more insistent as she pressed on, " If that wasn't the true reason, I
wish you'd reconsider your decision and think about coming to see me twice a
month. It's not a lot to ask for, is it, Mia?", she said, eagerly trying to persuade me.

Ms Viviana is one of those people who never lose their cool, no matter how serious
the circumstances are. So she sat still but her calm demeanor belied her underlying
desperation.
I empathized with Viviana's desperation; She must feel like she is leaving an
incomplete puzzle knowing that it will disappear when she returns to it tomorrow.
Giving up on it right now would mean forfeiting all hopes of ever completing it,
leaving behind an itchy feeling- one I knew all too well. The way I felt when the
ideas I worked on day in day out were robbed multiple times and I was forced to
settle for less demanding projects because my colleagues had graduated from more
prestigious universities than me.

Despite her best intentions, Viviana's efforts to persuade me only strengthened my

resolve to leave her. I let my evil self take over, I wanted Viviana to feel it, the
itchiness coming from your unresolved mysteries. It was a small act of vengeance,
perhaps, but in my own twisted way, it brought me a sense of satisfaction - well
aware that I was bleeding on someone who did not cut me.

"You see, that's not the problem. Even twice a week wouldn't be a big deal for me,
its not like I'm going to get busy once I reach Tuscany".
Viviana wore confused expressions. She opened her mouth to say something but
thought of better. I think she might have started to sense where I intended to lead
this conversation.

"You couldn't fix me", I said bluntly. Judging by her reaction it seemed like Ms
Viviana who always pushed me to value honesty through out our sessions did not
like that truth very much. "Nothing has changed", I said, eyeing Viviana clutching
the pen in her hand, "he's still here sitting right beside me, my dead dad -- my
trauma".
My name is Mia Ricci. I'm twenty nine years old. I have quit my job and I'm
headed towards my sanctuary to resign from life.

My grandmother's house in Tuscany had been my oasis to seek refuge in every

time I got lost and felt beaten down. However, this time was unlike any other. I
wasn't here to recharge or nourish myself. No, my request was far more significant,
a huge favor, to take me in while I count my last breaths. Any remaining desire for
change I possessed disappeared the moment I set foot in Tuscany.
I have embraced my fate and I have accepted that I did enough ; its time I rest.

Its been 2 weeks since I arrived here. My massive suitcases have given grandma an
idea about my stay here. She doesn't say anything but she can see it. I barely ever
sleep due to my worsening insomnia. The voices in my head have gotten louder. I
might as well be on the verge of losing my mind. My constantly deteriorating
mental health has blurred the line between imagination and reality. My nightmares
aren't confined to my bed anymore, they follow me wherever I go.
I stay locked up in a small bedroom upstairs all day until grandma's patience runs
thin and she drags me out of my room using excuses like she needs assistance in
knitting a muffler for next door's daughter. She hates the neighbors. The scarf's not
going to them. And so today as well I am being taken for an evening stroll around
the neighborhood against my will.
Gran recalls her memories from when I was a child as we stroll down a snow
covered narrow alley. The neighborhood hasn't changed much since I last came
here. That's one thing I like about it the most, the sense of familiarity it gives. A
small bookstore at the end of the alley. I remember myself spending entire
evenings there and staying up late until midnight taking a cozy corner at the back
of the shop reading Harry potter series. Next to it was a record shop. All the old
people from the neighborhood would gather around in evenings for tea talks on a
cemented slab outside the shop. The shopkeeper, an elderly woman, would then
spill out neighborhood secrets while imparting knowledge about the latest beauty
products from the city for all the ladies ; together they would complain about
tourists spreading litter in the village.
We passed by an old abandoned house shrouded in ivy and snow. Me and my
friends from the village used to make fantasies about a witch living here who
roams around the neighborhood at night to feast on children who lost their way to
home. I wonder why am I suddenly reminded of all these memories? Perhaps it has
something to do with me reaching the end and so flashes of good and bad I
experienced in life are coming to me now to bid farewell.

I was in the living room reading a book "Effective use of your backyard" by
Samuel Grande, which grandma made me borrow from the bookstore on our way
back from the evening walk that day. She had pushed me to buy myself a good
novel for my stay here, when she saw I did not budge she gave in and instead got
us this book saying she wanted me to read it and tell her some good tips for
gardening in her backyard.

A sudden familiar feeling grasps me again, making me drop the book in panic. It
creeps down my neck and consumes every bit of my being until all I can see is the
replay of the most dreadful moments of my life.
Blood. everywhere.
On my clothes. On the floor. And on the rug where a dead cold lifeless body lie.
Sensation of ice cold wooden floorboards under my bare feet.
Salty taste of tears in my mouth.
Deafening sounds of screams and ambulance sirens ringing in my ears.

"Mia..Mia...MIA!!", Grandma's voice yank me back to reality. " Mia? you hear
me?... Did she go back upstairs again", I hear granny calling me from the kitchen.

Shaken, I stumble into the kitchen to find her.

"Did you call me?", I say standing at the door frame.

She turns back to look at me, "what were you doing? I thought you went back to
your room again", she says chopping the vegetables. "Take out the pastries from
the oven, they might be burning now. I have been calling you since forever, I don't
know where's your head at".
"I was reading that book you borrowed", I say fumbling through the random
kitchen items in a drawer to look for the gloves.
I take out the tray and stare at it. "Your favorite --pumpkin pastries", she says
smiling and without looking at me.
"Hmm", I mumble and taking the tray walk out of the kitchen.
"You're welcome", grandma says loudly.

She has always done that. Makes me pumpkin pastries whenever she had to ask for
a favor or wanted me to do something she doubted I would do. It used to work well
when I was a kid but things have changed so much since then. I have changed so
much since then. Nonetheless I decided I'd pretend it still works.

“Remember my friend Ms Stupar?”

"That unmarried old lady who owns a private school across the music store?, I say
taking a bite from the pastry. They taste delicious as ever.
"Yes her, she asked me for a favor", gran says nervously. "You know how much I
owe her. Couldn't turn her down".
"What did she ask for?"

" Told me evaluation was coming up and a lot of work has piled up. They are
short on staff. She needs you to be a substitute art teacher for a time being".

Grandma keeps glancing at the fireplace as if in an attempt to avoid eye

contact.

"Couldn't refuse her Mia, she's an old friend who has helped me in dire times",
Gran continues, "besides I don't know what's bothering you but staying in your
bed all day wouldn't do you any good so I wanted you to go out, engage with
people; see the world still working so you can sort things out for yourself as
well".

"but I don't know art, how do you expect me to--"

"Come on Mia, you used to paint so nice. I still have those drawings and
paintings you created somewhere in the storeroom"

"That was years ago, I haven't lifted a brush in years", I say getting irritated
now.

Grandma falls silent. She releases a sigh while staring at the fireplace.

"Alright, I'll do it", I say without looking at her and start climbing the stairs.
I couldn't refuse my grandmother. I did not want to. She's the one and only
family I have. But about the school I have no idea how I was going to pull that
off.

I am waiting in the teachers office fidgeting nervously. Ms Stupar had reassured

me that the job did not require any prior knowledge on the subject. In fact they
already had an art teacher and all I had to do was work in her guidance for three
weeks.

Staff room doors open behind me. I spin around and I'm relieved to see a
woman walking towards me.

"Hi, I'm Amara Tyler, the art teacher who'll be your guide for your time here",
she says putting forward a hand. I shake it, "I'm Mia Ricci, nice to meet you".

"Thank you so much for joining us, I really appreciate your help", she goes on
excitedly, " I have been occupied with evaluation preparation and some other
businesses so I'm unable to take classes but I guess my students will be having
their favorite class again now that you're here".

"I suppose so", I say forcing a smile.

Amara leads me on a brief tour of the premises. I can't help but notice how
much it has changed since the last time I was here with my grandmother.
Before sending me off to my first class, she provides me with a few essential
guidelines.
Amara is one of those people who are always beaming with energy, effortlessly
uplifting the mood and atmosphere of those around her. And that's precisely
what she has done for me. Despite my reservations about the job, her infectious
enthusiasm has made me excited to begin.

However, as I make my way to class, I can feel a surge of tension building

inside me. The fear of failure, an all-too-familiar sensation, creeps up on me,
causing me to doubt my abilities. The weight of my past mistakes and
disappointments weigh heavily on my mind, threatening to leave me in a state
of despair. Once again, the gloom takes over, and I trudge towards the
classroom, bracing myself for what's to come.

It was a new but ordinary experience. Nothing exciting happened, not with the
mindset I went there with.

A week has passed. I’ve been taking my scheduled classes and spending the rest
of the time waiting for off timings in teachers room each day.
Today's topic as per the course outlines Amara handed me is " The future I see
for myself". "What an irony", I think to myself. For a person like me who has
no hope for future to conduct this class. I watch the students beginning to sketch
out their visions of their future selves. Among the drawings are depictions of
doctors wearing stethoscopes, an astronaut standing on a planet I'm doubtful
exists; a guy who appears to be a 90s gangster posing in front of a Ferrari, and a
chef expertly chopping vegetables.
I'm struck with all sorts of thoughts as I move from one student to another
closely observing their sketches. It strikes me how different it must be to be a
child with a lifetime of secrets yet to unfold, full of hope and aspirations to
create a path to their dream destination. To have countless opportunities to turn
things in their favor while they still have the chance.
I feel a mixed concoction of happiness and jealousy. Because I have lost all my
chances but I'm hopeful because some people still have them. Despite my initial
reservations, I find that my mood has lightened since entering the classroom.

On my way to the teachers room, I run into Amara who spontaneously invites
me to visit her mini art gallery in school. She leads me through the halls and
into a cramped room next to the student's infirmary, I am unsure of what to
expect. The room is unfurnished and shabby looking very unlike the paintings
that adorn the walls. I stand mesmerized and bewitched as if under a spell, as
my eyes take in the sudden burst of lively hues enveloping me from all sides.
"Y..y..you're a genius", I stutter as I take my time drooling over her captivating
creations.
Amara's face lights up with happiness as she sees my amazement at her
artwork. "I'm so glad you liked them," she exclaims, her voice rising with
excitement. "Why don't you give it a try? I heard you used to paint too," she
suggests, her eyes twinkling with anticipation.
My voice comes out shaky and hesitant as I respond to Amara's suggestion.
"What? No..." I say, my face turning red with embarrassment. "I only painted a
bunch of things as a child. I'm not good at it or something," I add, trying to
brush off the topic.
"Its okay, there's no harm in trying it. Maybe you'll grow fond of it this time",
she goes on, "People may link it with luxury and leisure time but art is not an
indulgence, its a necessity -- art in all forms".
Her persistence and belief in me are overwhelming, and I find myself slowly
giving in to the idea. After all, what harm could it do to try?
"Maybe you're right," I said to Amara, my voice filled with newfound hope.
"Maybe I should give it a try."
"Absolutely," she replied, smiling. "I'll even lend you some of my supplies and
give you a few tips. Who knows, you might surprise yourself."

Amara looked like a cool professional using all the fancy but sincere words.
Even if she used them to lure me I'm not ashamed to say she has succeeded,
because I'm staring at an empty canvas holding a paint brush in my hand. "Just
paint anything you want", Amara had said before leaving the room, "maybe just
throw your complicated thoughts on the canvas. That’ll do too”.
"Words like unexpressed emotions and complicated thoughts circle my mind. I
doubt I can convey them through art. Instead, I opt to paint in the style I
preferred as a child: random buildings, corners of rooms I liked, mountains, and
aesthetic sceneries. After some contemplation, I decided to paint my favorite
part of the first house my family bought in Rome, filled with lingering
childhood memories.

As I start to paint, I realize how therapeutic it feels to immerse myself in colors

and strokes, creating something new out of nothing. The brush moves
effortlessly across the canvas, as if it had a life of its own. I lose track of time,
getting lost in the process of painting. It's as if the worries and anxieties that
were clouding my mind have disappeared, replaced by a sense of calmness and
contentment.

I got so immersed in it I hadn't realize it was already way past the timings I
usually head back home at until my phone rang. Gran was calling. I receive the
call.

"You're late today", Grandma says sounding worried.

"Yes, I'm leaving in ten minutes", I say sniffing.

"Are you crying?"

I hadn't realized the tears streaming down my face until gran mentioned it.

"No, I think I've caught cold. See you", I lie.

Before I could wrap my head around at what had happened I was crying. Huge
heavy sobs.

As I make my way home, my mind drifts back to the sudden breakdown I had at
the gallery. Painting today had caused memories of a relishing past flood back
to me, happy moments from my childhood spent with my parents in our first
home in Rome. I had seen myself as a carefree child, playing scrabbles with my
dad, lying in my mother's lap as she ran her hand through my hair. Building a
snowman in our small backyard on a cold winter night, and baking cookies
together.
I force down the lump forming in my throat. Those tears back in Amara's
gallery were without a doubt tears of happiness. The memories I had recollected
were so vivid that it felt like I had gone back in time to relive those moments.
As I pass a local cafe, a sense of warmth and comfort envelopes me, feelings
that I hadn't experienced in a while.
I thought I had accepted the way my life had turned out, but I guess a tiny
flicker in my heart was still waiting. Waiting to set my heart ablaze all over
again. And strangely I did not mind that tiny spark -- at all.