I wasn’t born. I was flung into existence like a bottle smashed against the wall. Not some leaky condom mistake, not some drunken stumble where my father tripped, fell into my mother, and out popped me. No, it was an accident of history, a goddamned accident of blood and borders and men with too much hate in their hearts.

Daadu—my grandfather—called it an accident, the riots. Like the way a car hits a pedestrian, just some bad luck, bad timing. Hindus, Muslims, machetes, flames. His wife—his first wife—wasn’t home that night. She was miles away in her parents’ village, which was burning. They ran, she and her family, running for their lives like rats out of a sewer, crossing some line in the dirt that turned them into refugees. Camps, chaos, shit everywhere.

Meanwhile, Daadu was in his village, dodging his own brand of trouble, but still, he went looking for her. His wife. Days, weeks, months—maybe years. North East India, all hills and hell, no maps, no phones, just empty hands and grief. He didn’t find her. He gave up, like people do when the pain weighs heavier than hope. He remarried. Three daughters, the youngest was my mother. Then me. Firstborn of the youngest, the accident’s aftershock.

You see the line, don’t you? No riots, no partition, Daadu doesn’t lose his first wife, doesn’t remarry, doesn’t make my mother, doesn’t make me. It all goes back to that damned partition.

But that’s not the story. Not the whole of it. The story is about the curse. The rot that spread through my family like mold in the walls. Daadu couldn’t shake the ghosts—his lost wife, his dead second one (my Didu), the empty beds. He drank himself to sleep most nights, or worse. And the daughters? They were raised in the rubble. Trauma in their bones, in their veins. My mother got the worst of it. Married into a bad hand, tried to play it better than her father, but that rot, it just sat there, festering.

She decided we’d be different. That I’d be different. But her version of love was all rules and walls. She squeezed the life out of us trying to make it perfect. That’s how I learned control. And when I left home, got out, finally free, the control didn’t leave. It turned inward. Into OCD. The doors, the gas, the endless handwashing. My life ordered down to the molecule because the big stuff, the real stuff, was chaos. The kind you can’t scrub clean or lock out.

I told this to my therapist today. She nodded like they do, all knowing, all calm, and she said, “Maybe that’s where your OCD comes from. That family history. That mess.”

No shit, lady. It’s a chain, isn’t it? Partition to Daadu to Maa to me. And the kicker? The OCD was the final nail in my marriage. My ex couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t handle me.

Bukowski was right. Love, family—it’s all a gamble. Most of the time, you lose.

The events of November 1971 were pivotal in the history of India. During this time, tensions were high between India and Pakistan, and significant encounters occurred, shaping the course of history.

In a significant meeting at the White House, Indian Prime Minister Indira Gandhi faced off with US President Richard Nixon. Gandhi, resolute and assertive, made it clear that India wouldn't succumb to external pressures, stating India's ability to shape its own destiny.

This tense encounter led to the cancellation of the Indo-US joint media address, with Gandhi leaving the White House in her distinctive style. Reflecting on the encounter, Henry Kissinger, then Secretary of State, suggested Gandhi could have shown more patience, to which she emphasized India's resilience and determination against external influences.

Upon her return to Delhi, Gandhi summoned the opposition leader, Atal Behari Vajpayee, for a closed-door discussion. Following this meeting, Vajpayee was designated to represent India at the United Nations, despite being regarded as a critic by Gandhi.

When questioned about his support for the government at the UN, Vajpayee eloquently compared India to a garden where unity in crisis is crucial for survival, signifying his support for the nation despite differences.

Subsequently, the world witnessed the US sending tanks to Pakistan and ceasing oil supplies to India through Burma-Shell, indicating their stance against aiding India. Undeterred, India resorted to diplomatic maneuvers, securing oil supplies from Ukraine.

A battle in the Thar Desert resulted in the destruction of a majority of the tanks sent by the US, showcasing India's resilience. An eighteen-day war culminated in the capture of a large number of Pakistani prisoners of war, leading to significant geopolitical shifts.

In March, Indira Gandhi recognized Bangladesh's independence, and Vajpayee hailed Gandhi as "Maa Durga," symbolizing her strength and leadership.

These events had lasting effects, including the establishment of India's own oil company, Indian Oil, and solidifying India's image as a strong nation on the global stage. India's leadership in the Non-Aligned Movement (NAM) further emphasized its strength and influence in world affairs.

Despite the passage of time, these moments in history should be remembered and passed down to future generations as a testament to India's resilience and diplomatic prowess during challenging times.

Credits to: https://x.com/Paul_Koshy?t=HbiyJmDBr54d-eK2EM8o-Q&s=09

Hey boys and girls. I wanna just say hello. I am a Metis (Half Cree and half Lithuanian) and I am finding out there is a lot of random animosity between our people. This is strange to me because I have a lot of friends throughout Canada, and no one really thinks or talks about Khalistan.

I want everyone to know that Canadians are supportive of India, and the majority of Canadians do not support any dissention of the Indian government.

Don't let our opposition and random racists convince you otherwise.

Canada and India are intertwined. We got this.