Nishimiya.

That’s what my name-tag read.

I’ve been the butt of jokes at the parties, while sympathetic gazes washed over me. ‘Who names their daughter, Nishimiya?’ they wondered.

My parents. They do.

Standing and sulking in a dark corner, next to a grand chest of drawers. That’s where people would usually find me. At parties, that is. With a sweating glass of soda in my hand. Nobody cared to ask me if I needed a fresher serving – not even the waiters.

Ni-shi-mi-ya…

What is so wrong with that name? I think it’s beautiful.

It’s like that head-rush you get after a good long run – that heat that travels up your feet and down your head, at the same time, taking over. My name takes over your essence when you call out to me. It lingers with each syllable floating around; hanging in mid-air till you utter the last one.

Is that not brilliant?

It takes more than just second-hand dispositions to appreciate my name. It takes imagination. And a sense of wonder.

But I know that those who crack jokes at my dispense lack that. And that’s why I’m not perturbed – I’m not affected in the least.

I know it’s beyond them to comprehend the scope of novelty that Nishimiya is. At least in their present circumstances. And so I don’t blame them.

I just wait – wait to move out; wait to meet people with better things to joke about; with broader horizons.

I know that the time will come. Where I’ll be able to channel my despair towards better things. And I also hope that these people do too; that they channel their despair towards doing better.

Nishimiya… Isn’t it beautiful how my name takes your time?

 

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