Sonia Lall: Blackie

Once upon a time, my sister ran a poultry farm right in our backyard in Chandigarh. It was quite the setup! Shobi Masi and Uncle Avin had moved to Sector 5, bringing along all four of my cousins, which meant our home was never short of drama or noise.

Tani, my Sister, was a superhero in my eyes – probably because she could reach the top shelf without a stool. Naturally, we were given the all-important jobs of collecting eggs, cleaning chicken poo (glamorous, I know), and refilling fresh water. In our noble quest, my brother and I found ourselves becoming quite attached to one particular cock. We named him Blackie because, well, originality wasn’t our strong suit.

One day, disaster struck. We couldn’t find Blackie anywhere. We searched high and low, calling his name as if he’d magically respond. But there was no sign of our feathered friend. The next day, still no Blackie. Things were starting to look grim.

Then came Sunday. At the lunch table, after anxiously scanning every plate to make sure no one was feasting on our pet, we finally shared our concern. “Uncle Avin, we can’t find Blackie!” we said, bracing ourselves for the worst.

Without missing a beat, Uncle Avin casually pointed at the table and said, “Well, he’s right here.”

We froze. My brother’s fork dropped in slow motion. We looked down at the roast chicken in front of us. **That** was Blackie?

The next few moments were a blur of tears and drama. Bhaiya and I got up from the table like we were in some tragic Bollywood scene, leaving behind a room full of awkward silence—and a very well-roasted Blackie.

Yesterday was supposed to be my first day of work. I had my outfit laid out the night before – ironed to perfection, as if crisp collars could shield me from the chaos in my mind. I woke up, got dressed, and stared at myself in the mirror, trying to convince the reflection that I was ready. Spoiler alert: I wasn’t.

Instead of walking out the door, I had a full-blown panic attack. The kind where your heart races like it's auditioning for the next Fast & Furious movie, and you’re left gasping for air like you’ve run a marathon, except you haven’t even left the bedroom. So, I did what any rational adult would do – I peeled off the office clothes and retreated into my comfort zone, the cozy cocoon of avoidance.

I spent the day feeling like an abandoned sock – lost, mismatched, and utterly pointless. The world was moving forward, and there I was, stuck, trying to breathe normally while staring at the ceiling, as if it held the answers to all my existential questions.

It’s funny how isolation hits differently when you’re battling demons nobody else can see. Of course, no one really gets the mind of an alcoholic, except another one. It’s like we’re part of this strange, dysfunctional club – one where the secret handshake involves a bottle cap and a whole lot of shame. Believe me, it's true.

By the end of the day, the only thing I’d managed to do successfully was survive – and even that felt like a close call. So, yeah, it wasn’t a nice day at all. But at least I made it to tomorrow.

the reason why I must make amends.