One and the Same - By Aahana Suri

Written By: Aahana Suri

Category: Essay

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Aahana Suri presents "One and the Same," a thought-provoking essay entry in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This reflective piece explores themes of class disparity and human connection, set against a vibrant backdrop of an Indian city. Suri's narrative delves into the contrasting worlds of privilege and poverty, offering a profound meditation on the shared essence of humanity.

About the Work

In "One and the Same," Aahana Suri masterfully captures the complexities of societal divides through evocative imagery and introspective prose. The narrative poignantly contrasts the comfort of privilege with the harsh realities faced by the underprivileged. Through a chance encounter, Suri's work challenges readers to reevaluate perceptions of identity and connection, highlighting the universal bonds that unite us all.

One and the Same

Original Submission by Aahana Suri

My polished fingers pull open the silk curtains to a view of valleys. It is a humid area filled with street vendors and stray dogs with bells on their necks. The burning, turmeric-coloured sky soaks into each lady’s sari, illuminating a candlelit glow, but my eyes linger on the dull-coloured clothing matted on the frail bodies of the poor. Those whose only source of warmth in their lives is the sunlight pouring through the rips of their clothing.

How easy it is to look into their lives, I think. After all, I’m just a tourist. Why bother troubling myself over them, that will only lead to heartache. “I must have a good trip”, this is what I tell myself.

To not think about the world around me is my luxury and today I will buy it.

A knock disrupts me. My brother sprints to open the door and there stands a boy. The phrase “room service” echoes through the Airbnb. As I watch my little brother interact with this teenage boy, two mirror images form with both of them staring at their past or future. Except that the threads of their future could not possibly overlap.

My little brother would never say ‘room service’.

Right?

Our eyes meet and from across the floor I can see his dark circles and scrubby white-collared shirt, while I stand limp in my tank-top. My area of the wooden floor is comfortable, almost moulded to my feet. I don’t step towards him. I don’t talk. I don’t smile. An order is placed.

We later take our seats as he serves dinner. The scent is pungent, almost condensing on my tongue as hunger strikes. His too, it seems, as his eyes linger on my meal and me. My mom makes friendly conversation. He says he is seventeen. Seventeen?

He dropped out of school at fifteen to support his family.

Suddenly the utensils on the table divide our worlds. He is used to his world. I am not. Nor do I want to be. Now I cannot stop myself from thinking. I hate it. I hate it so much that I’m falling. The world is purple and I’m falling into black. My hair orbits me and my eyes feel like moons. Then I’m seated.

We’ve gone back in time, I’m in grade three back home in South Africa.

The intercom buzzes with its usual announcement before break. Some students leave and soon return with brown paper bags, filled with sandwiches and yogurt which they duly trade with us for pasta or curry.

That was lunch. Underprivileged students got school lunches and others had floral tiffins packed from home.

At nine, we never thought heavily of these things.

We were all just kids with cravings and great built-in bartering skills.

We were one and the same.

Something tugs my neck and I’m in India again. I later demand to take the dishes down.

As I enter the small kitchen, there is a fly buzzing around in yellow light.

The boy appears and thanks me for the plates. I reluctantly start leaving.

No. I cannot act oblivious. I must speak. I must take goes at life.

I walk up to him and introduce myself. He looks at me with raised eyebrows and I wonder if he’s questioning my intentions or my broken Hindi. He replies consciously, “Hello, mera naam Harsh hai.” - Hello, my name is Harsh .

We both begin unwinding whilst he washes dishes. He talks of how my exuberant brother reminds him of his sister. I listen over the counter, giggling as he jokes about how I was eating the roti like a tourist. For my counterattack I sprightly correct his assumption on how South Africa is not just all lions and zebras. He then talks about his favourite school subject, Maths, to which I pull a face. He asks me what I’m learning. “Functions”, I say. He pretends to draw a hyperbola with the foamy dish soap on a steel plate. In-between our conversations I take breaks to swat the fly which he soon joins me in doing until it leaves the kitchen. By the time that’s done we’re all sweaty and laughing.

The epitome of teenagehood.

I say goodnight and he tells me to stop addressing him formally and call him “bhaiya” - brother instead.

My phone beeps. An hour has passed, my mom has repeatedly texted me about my whereabouts.

I lie and say I’m looking at the stars.

No. I don’t lie because after so many years this is the first time I felt their light.

I have lived with my eyes closed because I didn’t want to carry a heavy heart on someone else’s behalf, which led me to carry no heart at all.

What made me draw such sharp lines between classes and culture?

With those moon eyes, I was blind and so I wouldn’t have met him. I would have seen him, but not met him. We were both just two curious teens meandering through life.

We shared our humanness.

Sure, life had treated us differently thus far but we were still one and the same or Ubuntu as they said back home. We both knew about hyperbola’s, flies and roti.

And that was enough.

The next morning we left, but I first said goodbye.

“Thank you.” I said.

“For? “ he asked.

I wanted to thank him for carving the craters in my moon eyes. Now I can see.

But I resorted to saying, “For teaching me how to eat roti properly.”

To which he wryly patted my back.

Archbishop Desmond Tutu explained Ubuntu as ‘I am because we are’, a quote that always felt like just writing to me.

I had been a tourist to life, looking down at people like ants. Comparing them by significance and stamping them into either the black or white stripes of zebras.

But I’m sick of it.

‘ “Umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu” - A person is a person through other people.’

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar celebrates diverse voices from around the world. This prestigious event invites participants to showcase their literary talents, exploring a variety of themes and styles. The competition aims to foster creativity and provide a platform for writers to share their unique perspectives with a global audience.

We extend our gratitude to Aahana Suri for her compelling essay, "One and the Same," submitted to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Her insightful exploration of humanity's shared essence is a valuable contribution to the competition. Thank you, Aahana, for sharing your voice and perspective with us.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.