I still remember my aunt mocking me, “Aa gayi merit ki ladki line pe,” when I scored 70 percent in my 12th boards. The wound is still so alive, but let’s just say, “That isn’t worth the cry now.” We are all just mere shell collectors standing on the shore.

“I have always waited for you, and I can barely move on.” Those words tied giant-sized blame bags to my shoulders. Accused #101 of the crime of crumbling the shells she adored along the way. I can’t sketch anymore like I used to. I can’t be besties with my school friends and continue for five more years to fulfill her ten-year friendship dream. I can’t be, and I’m not excited about her birthday in three weeks. I can’t be the topper of my class or get into a Tier 1 university. I can’t be as amazing an artist as I thought I would be.

It’s not a rant but a confession.

It’s a sunset, and it’s going to be late soon. I cannot just go back and search for their crumbles. Even if I found them overnight and got back on my aim tomorrow, would those crumbles need the same love they always asked for? Would their corners of pain not hurt me?

I’m really… really sorry. I thought I would do it tomorrow, then another tomorrow, then another tomorrow.

“Which tomorrow, honey?”

I was going to put them in alkaline water and then resin, or dried parchments, or prints, or—

“But you didn’t.”

Yeah, I’m sorry.

“I thought you loved them.”

I used to. Yeah, I used… to.

“Used?”

I’m grateful for all of them, but I can’t keep all 100s of them with me. I know you will say I’m reckless, but learning to love 100s made me so. I thought they were a mere collection of my soul—until the pungent smell of their ashes.

Yeah, there is an ‘until.‘

Until I heard, “No one’s ever gonna love you for what you did to me.” A curse? A curse just because I watered a yore only cared to vent for it.

And now, no one is going to love me?

No one?

“Hey. Get up,” shouts the captain.

“Hmm…” I murmur in response.

“Everyone loves you, Fille.” He calls me Fille. In French, it means daughter.

After a smooth pause, as a bird exited my right eyesight, I asked, “How do you find the right path?” Something in me wanted the conversation.

“You drive through several wrong ones.” His poise matched the drift.

“Won’t you get lost?” I was intrigued.

“So, you already know the oasis.” He glanced at me to question.

“You’re done with your nap, huh?” Dad teased while walking towards the bow. Mom and Dad were at the stern, watching the view.

Before I could reply, he continued with a knowing smile.

“Hey, look towards the right. That’s your dream island path. We always wished it for you,” he finished with a sensitive tone.

“But what if it’s not for me?” my mind questioned.

“I have always waited for this day—to drop you over and see my mini-Dora saying to me, ‘Dad, we reached.'” He calls me Dora. His voice was full of excitement and longing.

“Can we turn back, Dad?” I couldn’t ignore but wonder.

“Oh my god, my Dora. It always makes me laugh when I picture Mini Dora saying, ‘Daddy, I wanna go to the island.'” He laughed and excitedly continued.

“What if I don’t want to anymore?” I wished I could shut my mind.

“And here we are.” His eyes turned to me as he completed the statement.

“Why are we here?” If only I could ask.

It’s a massive ocean with various tides, various undertows, and various gales. Even if I follow the trade winds, would that beacon my voyage? What if I missed the right current? Or what if I corrupt the harbor’s doctrine? Or maybe, what if my shipwrecks?

Life is a big ocean—with shores of varying intensities, multiple oases to choose from, countless gales to fight, and endless routes for your voyage. If you missed the right current, you eliminated the wrong one. Every harbor contains shells to pay and lend from. What if your ship finds the island?

It’s always the way you see it. Questions remain the same:

What if I’m not enough?

I’m not enough for…?

Well, I don’t have answers to it. We are all on the same planet but sailing different oceans. Our destination paths are 40 percent derived from our origin. The rest? Whether you ride your yacht in the Atlantic Ocean or the Bermuda Triangle—it’s your ocean. It’s on you to create your way and choose your island.

“But, what, Mom? What if there are many in front of me?”

“What if they inherited their way forward?”

“What if I’m already behind?”

“What if someone else reaches before me?”

“What if I reach the wrong island?”

“What if I don’t know the right path?”

“What if I don’t know the right island?”

“What if my first blog is shit?”

“What if it never works out, and I never become famous?”

“Okay, and? Can you change their voyage?”

So,

Now you know about the massive ‘What If’ ocean you don’t have to swim in.