the love that grows in your heart, and has nowhere to go starts blooming inside. today, I pushed myself out of bed. not too late, not too early, and looked at myself in the mirror. I brushed until the two minute timer on the electric toothbrush went out, and promised myself that I’ll sleep once I’m back home from work today. I washed my face, wore a button down, tied up my hair in a beautiful white cotton scrunchie a friend bought me, and took my bag and wore the new balance I’ve owned for years now.

it had been raining, so the sky was beautiful, clean. shining. But Delhi was Delhi today. Breezy and humid at the same time. I didn’t feel so good about my life today, but I showed up at work, and did the meetings and passed down the notes, and realised something deep and important. Careers in publishing are built after years of staying in the same place and continuing to show up. Social capital is collected once people have seen you here for a long time, and they know that working with you is going to help their books. This kind of work takes time, and that’s okay. I shouldn’t punish myself for being new in a new place. Time will do its thing.

At some point after the second meeting, someone passed me and said something about the sky raining down. I looked at the big dark blue windows covering half of the office; the world was crashing down, and the rest of us inside watched nature pour out its buckets. It was beautiful, and yet detached. The air conditioning inside. The fluorescent lights above our heads. The thunder visible outside. I love the rain. I love the violence of it. The way it doesn’t lie, just truthfully comes crashing down when it does. Without care or concern for the people trapped in the world. Almost as if it says, I don’t care for your measly human worries and tasks. I have a mind of my own, and its power is larger than you’d know.

when I got home, I kept down my things, and went straight to bed. I kept waking up, watching vivid dreams, unsure of what time it was. It always felt like I’d overslept, like it was too late, but it has just been a couple hours. I saw messages from work. simple things. I’d turned around, and clutch the sheets and sleep some more. it’s the third day of my period and I’m bleeding very little, but then when I needed to pee I did get up.

every monsoon has changed me fundamentally. the year after I left my longest relationship, it was marked my evenings with Yash. smoking and watching tv shows together. sometimes, we’d watch the rain. sometimes, he’d kiss me. it was also marked by evenings Riddhi and my sister would be home, all of us drinking cocktails, or listening to music or playing a card game. that august, I indulged my stupid self. I gave myself permission to believe another love could be just as magnanimous in my life, as you had been. which is not to say that what we had was grand. it was quiet, but it was like the ground under my feet. steady phone-calls, and guilt, and love on the weekend. you’d take me to restaurants and order some good food, and we forgot that we were just two children. my love was misplaced, but at least it was placed inside a deep friendship. life was good, even when I cried.

here’s something no one will tell you. if you’re someone who’s sad, you will be sad your whole life. not in a - I’m always depressed kind of way. in a - my sad is where my depth and beauty come from - kind of way. I’ve always been sad. but I’m glad this way. I’m true to myself. I’m sad no matter who I’m dating. do I love these people? I do. but i also constantly feel unworthy, and there’s no way to live around that. I can read all the books, and talk to my therapist, and write my way on the great sheet of paper, but I’m never going to want to trade it. I love my life, and I also love who I’m slowly becoming.

what happens when you’ve been single for too long? life becomes so beautiful. it’s poetic and the rain, my god, it rains in this city for you godammit. it’s all for you. the flowers, and the mornings, and the commute, and the office desk and the big team, and meetings with your manager where you make notes and get on the same page. the lessons are for you, and so are the promotions, and all the button down pinterest photos of jennifer lawerance looking so cool, that you almost embody but not really. the metro is for you, and so is the breeze, and the kindness, and the soft bed, and the incredible dreams, no one will hear about. they all belong to you. being in conversation with yourself will be the greatest high you witness. finding things to say to your friends is beautiful. you will be a weird sad girl, and you will thrive that way. there’s no one with a brain like you, and the smart almost leaks onto the page whenever you write.

When I got back home today, I got in bed with a book. The heat knocked me out, and I deliriously ordered groceries at some point. Until my mom woke me up. I got up, and drank water from this bottle I love so much, and I waited for the time to pass. The heat is its own person in Delhi. It lives with you in your room, and travels with you to work when you’re getting late. And I’m always getting late.

I thought being a writer meant, I only put out work that was excellent. at this moment, in this flow state, I realise the point is this. To exist. To honour the moment, and not question the work. Even though I question the work. Constantly. Consistently.

It took a long time to reach here. Too long almost. And I always wanted the wrong things. I pursued them all the time. I begged them to stay. But when it left my life, it left an emptiness that made room for the new. For the unfurnished. Half of this year is over, and now I know how much time and effort and love it takes to drag your life from one point to another. I feel like a little pebble, stuck to the side of a creek, and even as the water flows, it’s changing me, while not changing me at all.

it was a return to the kind of sex my body at this age yearned for. after half a dozen years of experience, I wanted a mix of everything I liked, strong and sensual, with enough meaning and words muddled in, that pushed the boundaries of intimacy without making me feel like a middle aged wife. you were pushy, but if i really thought about, you pulled me closer instead of the other way around. we’d understood each other, at least in bed, which is more than i could say for real life.

turns out, you were pleased with me too. i say pleased but you were secretly glowing. maybe your friends noticed it, or maybe they didn’t. I wasn’t sure. but I did.

come here. you said without entitlement or detachment. you felt it, without being trapped by your own words.

easy to please i thought at one point. but no, i worked hard at it. on one occasion, you tried lighting a candle in your bathroom and accidentally almost burned your thumb. i slowly nurtured it on my tongue and you said, that felt a little sexual.

there were the customary kisses. small pecks at the door, saying goodbye or hello. some lean-in’s in the kitchen, between freshening drinks. and then of course, parts of me asleep, with you nudging towards my back and neck. sweet, yearning, but in a way you’d kiss someone you really cared for.

that’s what you said one night.

it feels like we care about each other.

(i’m paraphrasing to protect you)

I’d say really crazy things in bed, and they’d drive you mad and you’d say - that’s the fucking problem with fucking writers. you’d be right, so the last few days i’d spend the nights with you a little quiet.

all in all, it was not beautiful because the sleeping around was intense, but because we were trapped in time. a moment in which we understood each others bodies and gave love away without an ounce of measure and pulled each other lovingly.

sometimes i’d watch your frame around your house in your old college t-shirts and felt very content that I was sacrificing all this time. I’d been waiting too long to be touched in the ways i wanted to be touched and when it finally arrived at my door again, I’d let it wash over me like an ocean wave in the clean beautiful waters of the mediterranean. I’d only let my floating body hold onto you, so i could hear you, so i could understand and feel it in the same moment as when you were feeling me, because when you touched my waist, it just felt deeper than love.

…

Can I come in?

Yes.

I get back to my desk, and you sit on the old sofa and take off your shoes.

Can I take a shower?

Sure.

When you return, you smell like me. Your cheeks are flushed. You heat up the food in my fridge, chicken and rice, and sit against the kitchen counter and finish it in all of ten minutes. You drink a whole bottle of water and refill it and take it to the bed, and soon enough, I can hear your soft snores.

I stay at the desk until four in the morning, when it’s late and the light is beginning to appear. I put the blinds on, and tie my hair and wash my face. I stretch my sore stiff body, and I get into bed. You put an arm around me, and you’re warm and deep into sleep that you don’t notice when I lift up your arm to get more comfortable.

We sleep in. At some point in my slumber, I notice you wake up. Your phone rings, and you answer it. Your voice is heavier.

Yes.

See the Tokyo numbers.

Is it bad?

Kind of.

Okay.

You wake up, and open your email, with just one eye open, with the shock of the morning.

I watch you a little.

God.

You moan at the screen.

You don’t get out of bed. I’m grateful for that.

You call back, but it’s over in a minute.

Is everything okay at work? I ask.

Nothing I can solve at this hour you say, and keep the phone away.

We get closer in bed. You hold my face, and kiss my head.

How late did you come to bed?

Around an hour ago.

Jesus, and I thought I worked hard.

I work nights.

I know now.

Am i disturbing your process?

what process?

the morning slumber?

no?

no?

no.

okay, good.

I would hate that.

you’re not disturbing anything. you’ve no idea how happy I am you’re here.

you turn your face towards me.

okay. have we hit that ceiling on happiness?

Maybe, i’m not sure.

I’d like to reach that goal.

That’d be nice too.

i’m going to think of things.

that’s unnecessary.

when you say I make you happy, I get very motivated on making you happier. for example, what would you like for breakfast? i’ll cook.

oh wow. eggs and pancakes.

okay, easy. coffee?

yes please. okay good coffee.

do you wanna sleep in for longer?

maybe a bit?

will they miss you at the office?

not anymore than i’ll miss you at the office.

okay smart ass.

I have a question.

shoot.

why is it that we add eggs in pancakes but that’s not considered a healthy breakfast?

oh. you’re asking all the tough questions today.

I’m not sure, maybe something to do with the percentage of things.

okay.

okay.

do you still want them?

yes.

okay.

i’m glad.

what are you thinking about right now?

whenever i’m happy, i’m thinking about whether my reaction to things is appropriate.

appropriate?

not appropriate, like I wonder if this is how a normal person with a healthy childhood would react.

so you’re thinking about your childhood?

a bit. yes.

okay.

I get worried that I’m not emoting as well as I should be.

well, there’s no test.

yes, but the fear is that if i’m not emoting well for a long time, you may leave me.

is that what you’re thinking of when you’re happy?

sort of.

okay. so you think of how everything could go wrong when things are good.

doesn’t everyone?

maybe, i don’t know. why don’t you tell me more?

god. okay. I feel like I can tell you things sometimes and that you won’t run away. qnd that makes me fall for you. because I begin to trust more.

that makes sense.

it does right? i’m always scared, of my emotional logic sounding strange outside my head.

no, it makes sense. I feel that way too sometimes?

you do?

yeah, with other people. not with you.

yeah?

yes.

how come you don’t feel that way with me?

I feel safe already. on some level I guess. I trust my gut. I’ve been in so many situations when I’ve felt like I need to leave from the back door, that when I feel a little bit more stable with a person, I can tell I can manage how I feel around them.

that’s nice. you’re a healthy woman.

I guess so. You helped with that too.

I’m glad. that makes me happy.

should we stay in? and sleep for a bit.

yes, we can do the pancakes later.

for dinner, you chuckle.

great minds.

we turn towards the same side and bury our face in pillows. I’m grateful it’s the weekend.

…

someone who won’t abandon me

someone who won’t give me advice when i tell them anything about my life

someone who will take initiative in making plans

someone who will pick me when he says he will pick me up

someone who will drop me home so that I feel safe

someone i feel safe with

someone i can trust

someone who will care for my parents likes he cares for his own

someone who is kind

someone who cares about money but not too much

someone who watches smart movies but also likes my taste in things

someone who’s open to my ideas

someone who’s physically affectionate

someone who psychically craves me

someone who likes laughing with me

someone who commits to plans with me even though his friends made cooler plans

someone who doesn’t disappear

someone who likes having a schedule around our time spent together

someone who is gentle with me when i’m sick

someone who sees my talent and potential and doesn’t doubt it

someone who wants a simple wedding but a beautiful marriage

someone who hugs me

someone who wants a cat with me

someone who wants a dog with me

someone hard working

someone who sees the good in people

someone who eats with his heart

someone who makes room for my shame and my secrets

someone who talks about the things he’s afraid of openly

someone who shares his bad days with me

someone who gets me a snack when he realises i could be hungry

someone forgiving

someone who likes books

someone who is kind about my shopping

someone who understands my fears

someone who drops me to the airport

someone who says, romantic things at random moments

Sometimes I feel like other people have so much.

I’ve no stamps in my almost-expired passport, or a boyfriend with a car.

I don’t even have a master’s degree or a good excuse.

Sometimes the lack of ‘things’ in my life feel bigger than everything I have put together.

The crying is nothing out of the usual, but now, there are other things you’re missing. Like this terrible week I’m having. I’ve been awake for twenty four hours, and I’m running on this mad survival adrenaline. You didn’t see the houses I saw, the balconies and the light, but when I got into the lift on my way back, the broker said your name. He asked me where you were. I said your name out loud in years, and I thought about how I’m here in this lift, and I don’t know where you are. How your universe has so easily left mine, and now my solar system’s missing a planet.

Two halves of each other. Two sides of the same coin.

I couldn’t live in the house with you, but at least I’m not depressed anymore.

I’m full of light, it bounces off my chest, because now I know - I can run, I can leave, if I jump there’s a safe landing, even if it’s not you.

All my dumb words are about you, but I’m standing on my own two feet. Using my card. Paying my dues. Fighting my battles. All without you. I’m doing everything without you.

The waves terrify me. The water is unpredictable. And yet with you, some part of me is safe. If I can row the right way, if I can keep the rowing up, that part of me might reach the shore. So now, no matter how hard things are. I imagine the rowing and the boat and you. Your unflinching stability. Just there.

Talking to my parents. Clearing your schedule. Buying me lilies, and adding an extra stem of the colour I like. I imagine you. Parking your car. Drinking responsibly. Absorbed at work. Coming home late, smelling like winter and outside. I imagine your tired body. Your phone ringing endlessly. All the people you’re saying no to.

I spend Sunday mornings slow. I eat and work and clean up after myself, and when I call you, I can sense the honesty with which you recount every detail of your day. Your time is mine. There’s no silent negotiation, no rushed excuses. Just promises, said and kept.

When I wake up in the middle of the night, my heart doesn’t race. Instead I pull up your iPad. I start making lists. Building a life, and a home and a holiday. you’re sleeping but when the phone wakes you up again, you look at the screen, take the call and hold my hand.

We sit in the sunlight together. It bounces off the wooden dining table. We split a fruit bowl. Life is not difficult. Not inconsistent, or with that senseless pain.

the blog i started was something I operated from a computer lab. in the drab heat of Rajasthan, I’d get fully dressed into a salwar kameez (as was the norm in my university) and i’d march my way through the heatwave, to the computer lab in one of the other college buildings. then, I would wait for someone else to be done with their computer work and once their system was free, I’d use my pen drive to open my blog and post the essay I’d written last night. the essays were long and about something sad usually, but that was normal. there wasn’t much in my life back then to thrive off on, and I wasn’t exposed to joyful enough things to know the difference.

that blog was a safe space. at the beginning, I made an effort to write about geopolitics. this is back when I still had hope. but slowly my personal life quietly took over. I wrote about school and friendship and college and feeling lost. I wrote about my family and my idea of shame and scarcity and my love of books. always, my love of books. that always seeped in. across two drab cities, my love of books saved me. the library in my school and my college and the bookstores with one shelf full of fiction saved me.

I devoured as much as I could. and I wrote. I found my voice and my personhood. I realised that as sad as my stories often were, they were also beautiful. and I kept writing. sometimes on the blog, and in letters to my friends in faraway cities and across internships and cover letters and copy for work and now, my notes app and my substack. writing was something that helped me dig a hole out of impossible situations. writing helped me land opportunities and jobs and roles. with time, I learnt more about people and wrote nice emails and made wonderful new friends and worked on life changing books.

over time, it became easier to write for other people and harder to write for myself. easier to work on other peoples books and harder to write my own. I took over work confidently but shrunk back when I had to work to make choices for the characters I wrote.

it’s been a journey. and there has been so much to learn. and most days i still struggle with putting sentences together about what i’d like you to know about me. but today is not one of those days.

today, I feel better about my chances. when you walk into a bookstore and see a hundred books you realise how many people have this urge. to string sentences together for their own sanity and their bank accounts and the story in their head that doesn’t seem to rest. and then you begin to calm down. you realise you’re not special. it just takes work and courage. i’m just trying to show up with one, hoping the second will show up on its own.

I’ve spent the last decade of my life in Delhi, and I have my answer. I’ve outgrown this environment, mostly because this city didn’t accept who I was. I’ve been to none of the new places, I think. I can count the friends I have here on one hand. And I’m now quietly waiting for the next stage of my life.

I spent all of last year bumping into things. I bumped into working at a yoga studio. I started practicing yoga consistently, and then in my attempt to get out of my current job, I fell into another publishing role. I said goodbye to all the bad parts before, and so part of me was relieved, but once it was over, I had to deal with how I was feeling, and that took such a long time. I spent a month in limbo, and I slept in for days. I thought about quitting again, but that phase passed too, and once I started being useful, I found my rhythm. I found people who liked me, and people who liked being home after work, and people I didn’t have to be friends with for them to accept me. All this while I realised how single I’d been all of last year. And how freeing it had been being on my own.

For the last week of the year, I went away to Bangalore. I slept in a beautiful room, ate good food with my friends, and in the span of two weeks, finished reading two books. I also got lost, spent a lot of time alone, and sat in the sun. I burned some money, and came back, and realised I’d found my way back to who I used to be.

And then I deleted the apps.

Here’s what I know about my life. I’ll have to take the money I’m making and create a beautiful life. This feels possible if I put my mind to it. I have all of this year, and I can work towards moving away. It’s true that part of my savings will go away, but I know the move will be worth it. A city feels like a fresh start, and Delhi has done everything in its power to make me hate it. Or maybe I’m incorrigible, too. I can’t tolerate the people here. I’m starting to hate this weather and the air, and I’ve rarely enjoyed the places I’ve gone to here. It was nicer when I had closer friends who I’d see often enough to go out with, but with a lack of that, I don’t go out at all. I feel self-conscious, and the staircase of my building is starting to wear off on me.

But I’m making good progress. I’m doing well at work. And I’m starting to get into a routine that feels like a tall glass of lemonade. I watch my shows, and I take cabs, and I show up where I need to be. I really like my new manager. She’s kind and considerate, and I value her opinion and process. My hair is starting to get longer, and I’m trying to track my new habits. I’m on a reading streak, and I’ve started making time for my writing too.

The thing about finding yourself is - you have to discover what to do next. I’ve lived five years in the same room, and now I want to leave. I want to build something else. A different life. Something beautiful and similar to what I loved about my room and my home, but something separate now.

I’ve loved my memories here, but the room reeks of the past. Of people lost. Of my failure at climbing up the ladder, financially and socially. I’ve done what I can, but all the plants I tried to grow are dead now. Or at least, close to dying.

The start of this year feels hopeful to me. Because for the first time in my life, I’ve accepted my fate. I’ve accepted that the smallness of my life is a reflection of how many people have hurt me, and how many people I’ve hurt. That, as much as I’ve managed to hold onto the field I’ve flourished in, there’s also nowhere else to go. When I was young and naive, I looked at people older than me with so much admiration. I thought they’d figured their lives out, and now I know it’s so much more complicated. There’s a sense of unfriendliness and a sense of insecurity in this city, and it’s seeped into me. I’ve gone to war and returned defeated.

And that’s probably the best thing that’s happened to me, because now I know I don’t fit i,n and so I can move on. I can find something that’ll work better, and I can avoid the pity party. This year has also been crucial, because this year, I accepted every negative quality in myself. I realised how cold, or rude, or unfriendly I could sometimes be. I realised how sensitive I was, and what kind of ambition I had, and all the mistakes I’d made in the past when I’d blamed other people for things that went wrong. I’ve made my fair share, and I can see it clearly, and at least now I know what not to do.

I’m hoping this year comes with fresh, new, beautiful, big changes. I want a new house, and I’d like to save a lot of money and go on runs and read a lot of books. I want to make new goals and write a lot, and travel as much as I can. I’d like the beauty of my own life to astonish me, and I wanna see sunsets that will blow my mind away.

That’s the true dilemma. When I think of you, there’s a warmth in my heart and a sense of wonder, but then I think maybe I’m imagining it. It didn’t quite start out well, that’s not a story I like to tell - but somewhere between sitting on that couch in your living room, watching TV or talking to you, I started to trust. I began to trust that when we’d be alone, we’d be the same people we’d be when we were around other people. When I told you I had too many bags to carry, you’d come downstairs and carry them up for me. You had some sort of serious breakfast addiction. But then we’d sleep late, you’d skip it, and you’d stay in with me. I liked the balcony and the pace and the smoking, but most of all I liked you. The probing questions, the simple way we could laugh and flirt, and I’d know if this ever ended, you’d be the one with the broken heart.

That made it easy. To walk around your house, and sleep on the other side of the bed, and give my love away, freely, willingly, with little to no restraint. I guess I’m that age where I adore familiarity. So the sightof you in the hotel lobby freaked me out. The charm of that broken room, and your pleas at work, did the trick. I’m going downstairs to borrow matche,s you’d say, and you’d disappear. I started to see less of the asymmetry and enjoyed how you were growing on me. I watched you order fruit bowls and coffee and eat and walk around with me, and when I got upset about missing the sunset, you were thrilled. I love this side of you, you’re such a travel junkie. I just don’t think we should miss the last sunset, I said, as it passed me by, once we missed the boat.

And then there were the inevitable gaps. Did you not want me there? Your attention was a tad bit touch-and-go, and when I sensed it, I closed the gaps. I pulled you closer, but how could that have worked out anyway? You shouldn’t have to convince someone to want you back. And I didn’t want you back. But I liked the comfort and the care and the brackets around whatever we were, because it was easy. Easy to buy flowers, show up, and make some effort on the weekends, when I know you wouldn’t miss me. But didn’t you miss me, wouldn’t you miss me?

I’d never say no to sex with you, you’d say, but that was obvious.

What wasn’t obvious was your confusion at my clarity. People talk in smoke signals when all you know is morse code. Did the sweet moments not count for anything?

That Sunday, I slept in, and you comforted me. Sleep as long as you want. I like seeing you this way.

Wearing a saree in the metro with you, and your slight discomfort at playing it down, at how much attention I was drawing.

Even the women are checking you out.

See, I can dial it up.

And then came the changes. The slow ways in which my life didn’t look the same.

But I loved the car rides with you. It felt nice and comforting and below my standards, but I also thought about how badly you’d make a good husband.

Is that what pushed me to the edge? Some would say I was already there.

At the brink of some serial monogamy.

Begging for couples’ sinks in the bathroom. And getting picked up from work, and knowing that if you’re making a drink, I’m getting one too. This time, I didn’t ruin anything. But I am grateful that you let me go.

People can feel like magic, and I’ve brushed aside many people, but I’m glad I didn’t do that with you. I’m glad you’d shave for me, and I’d fuck up the plans sometimes, but I was learning to tiptoe around what I felt. You loved me, I could tell, and once when I got drunk and asked you something of that nature, you said, I want to love you, but I’m not sure you want that.

Long story short, I always knew where the exit was. And no part of me wanted to run to it. It was present in the back of my mind, but I didn’t entertain it, because at this point in my life, you made sense.

It made sense to love you and to trust you and to think - oh, I wish I could spend all my time with him. It would be embarrassing and an adjustment, but not so bad, because it grounds me. But a lesson learnt.

Phones can ruin things. And friends can ruin things.

And maybe overthinking and under-speaking can ruin things.

But ruin is a risk you take, and maybe I’m proud I explored more of myself when I wasn’t sure this was the best idea. But when you bailed, I didn’t blame you too. Love was too unmanageable for you.

I think I’m falling in love with you. and I didn’t believe you then.

But I believe you now.

I believe that all those nights we slept beside each meant something. My arm over your chest so that we were touching without touching each other. A million photos I’d take of this uncomfortable comforting lying down position, your laptop propped on your legs, scrolling away as things fell apart in your life and mine. I went to the doctors and you took meetings that didn’t go so well and yes we were witnesses, witnesses to each other’s embarrassments and each other’s humiliation, but we were the source of each other’s joy. My hair would turn curly and you loved it. I watched you, wet with shower mist and thought no one could look this good (and no one still does)

Now when my hair turns curly, I think about the only person who maybe loved it. Life is short and we don’t spend enough time with people who love us freely, but you were clean from it all. Your parents never did the things my parents did, and so even when it turned to hell, it was easier to sit across from you and tell you the truth.

That’s terrible for me, you said.

Why is that terrible? They’re my parents and I’m supposed to take care of them.

Yes, but that’s terrible. For me as well.

I was propped up on sticks. But loved and supported. And seen. And then all the time passed.

You went up and forgot about me. For a while there, I curled into a ball and cried. And I did it during the loveliest months of my life. Something beautiful was blooming, but all I thought about was this erasure.

How you’d erased me from memory so cooly, and I was being forced to do it too. I’d sit into a corner and I’d let myself feel it all. It was a gift I’d think. To have felt safe. And then to have ruined it in the most natural ways. I was young, but you were childish.

Some part of me thought my memories were mine. But the mind is a funny thing. It can only hold so much. And so it started moving memories of you in corners I wouldn’t find. I grieved it. deeply. I embarrassed myself and claimed to move on faster, and part of it was the truth but there are no if’s to think about.

I don’t think about how it would be if it had all gone right. How it was in the palm of my hand, and I was meant to move forward without it. How you loved me and then just as easily, didn’t love me. How I still own t-shirts and pajamas from that era of my life, and suddenly, years have passed, but it’s not cool to miss you anymore.

But I do.

I miss swimming in the pond of your life, the gracious way with how you shared it. Unsparingly. There was no room for doubt or confusion or greed. But we were young and we bumped heads so often. How many times can two people get back together before it’s too many times? We flowed easily, and my old mind that just used to be cloudy, feels completely clear now.

It’s the leaving in the morning. And the urge to go to a print shop and have them make an exact replica of you. Now, all love feels cheap. Like a dupe I’d see at Zara. Polished, but I know I had the real thing back in the day. I lost it all, like you lost your credit cards in the cab. And now I’m someone you won’t call, when you need help finding them.

two years ago, when the cancer grew in his throat and esophagus, the meals changed. protien powder and coconut water, sent through drips. the occasional fruit juice and boiled eggs. khichdi. dal water and vegetable soup. the food didn’t stay in his stomach. the food pipe had almost disappeared, and his body had started betraying itself. that is the story of disease.

my family is sick of telling this story. but this story is important for setting the context. bhaiya papa was the mountain in our lives. we didn’t think anything could move the mountain. what was a little cancer? we knew he’d beat it. especially after the surgery. we were waiting for him to get better. and he did for a little bit, until he got worse.

its true that he wouldn’t want to be remembered this way. he’d want to be remembered for his jovial laugh. for the house he built for our family. for putting five daughters through school and college. he’d want to be remembered for his love of cricket. and hindi cinema. for encouraging us to take on the highest of dreams, my sister’s fulbright scholarship, and the best of postgraduate studies.

he took care of us. he made sure we had enough. and so it breaks my heart to think - my worry being did we do enough? why wasn’t it enough?

I was afraid of writing about this. I was afraid i’d be letting the grief talk.

bhaiya papa took care of me. but somewhere, he also understood me. he’d watch me with my books and my focus and my writing and my work, and he’d come to the room - fix the light and the fan intensity in the room and he’d leave. he’d encourage me to a snack when I was up late, reading novels and watching tv shows. because we were the same person. night owls. cut from the same cloth.

my mom called us friday night. i’d just returned home from a yoga class and I was beat. I sat at my table, eating when I heard the voice note my mom had sent me, telling me - bhaiya papa was asking us to come home. that’s something he never asked for. he wouldn’t normally disturb work or studies, and so I checked flights. there was one at 4am which meant I’d have to pack and be at the airport by 2 at the latest.

I spoke with my dad who said he’d let me know by tomorrow - how his health was progressing so I thought I’ll fly in the next day, with an evening flight. I didn’t know i’d miss seeing bhaiya papa for the last time by half a day.

bhaiya papa was kind and wonderful and took us to the stationery shop and bought all our books and lent me his watch when we got admitted for his surgery. what’s the time, he’d ask every time he saw me wearing it, as if he didn’t know it.

if you think about it - he didn’t really age. he was a healthy man two years ago and even though the disease took over the last two years, he continued being a night owl. he watched as much as cricket as he could manage, but when he’d feel too weak, which he did most days, he’d just sleep for most of the day. I knew he felt anxious. he’d relied on his body for so long, but now he was scared it wasn’t supporting him enough. he’d lost a lot of weight.

it’s so strange when someone you know passes away. first you lose their essence. their laugh and the way they talk and the way they towered over your life. they were the adult, and you were the child, and they’d decided everything for you. and now you were left alone - to pull the cart on your own. how deeply confusing.

as i get older, I think of all the moments you’d miss of my life. maybe, some kind of a wedding. I wouldn’t get to see you happy, and dressed up, and smiling your smile. your wonderful smile.

I’d miss your criticism and your negative remarks and your indifference at the things I cared about. there’s no longer someone in my life who tells me to call them when I need money, or when I need anything.

now, its strange to think of him gone. so strange. because in my mind he’s as alive as he was when we watched the tv together, when I walked all the way to the kitchen to carry his plate of food, when he told me to study well, and when he asked if there was anything I needed becasue he was just going dowsnatirs to the shop.

I turn thirty this year. its not like I spoke to him all the time, or even every week. but he was there in my life. like an everlasting presence. like a god. omnipresent. Ever-present.

what a thing it is to be alive. to have a family. to be close to people. to tell them how you feel and to cry and to be scared. may I never take this for granted.

he was a little scared before he passed. he’d been strong his whole life. a spectrum of emotions is good. we tried to be strong for him. he still made decisions. my family knew the inevitable, and we knew he was suffering and yet the idea of him not existing seemed like the strangest thing on planet earth.

like the Himalayas not existing. like the towering thing in your life, one life - gone.

Because I grew up with him, I’ve always known how his mind works. how financially conservative he is. how cautious and thrifty with money. how particular and handy in the house. I know what he’d if he was here. he’d say move forward, I’ve made you all capable enough. and it’s very true, he has.

when I turn thirty this year and look at my life, I see how it blooms like a garden. flowers at my desk and a million books. a lamp from home, and a strong table that someone who loved me gave me. I’m strong and self-sufficient and I put work first, and I always work hard because it’s part of my DNA. I prioritise my comfort, and I love my rest, and I’m saving away well for a strong future I’m confident of building. I’m good at organizing my life and working hard for my goals, because I was allowed a childhood where I could focus on academics and was given every chance to dream higher, aim better, and reach new heights.

nothing will make you feel like a kid again more than losing a parent.

part of you knows that it’s a well-constructed delusion of your mind. turns out they’re not very generous as you’re imagining them to be. turns out their love language isn’t physical touch. they fell in love with you a long time ago, too - with another well-constructed delusion of you - this time that they had created in their mind, and that all fell to pieces once they got to know you. once again, reality beat love to death.

how long does it take someone to move forward? to be able to say - actually, I’m not in love with anyone. there’s no one that makes my heart beat faster and makes me want to hold hands even when they’re sweaty. there’s no one who’s day I’m interested in - and oh, actually, that awful movie about aviation - I don’t even rewatch it anymore so I have an excuse to think about him.

it starts the moment you realise that he’s not thinking about you at all. that of course, you’ve landed yourself up in another perfect little unrequited affair.

I know how I love now. I cling like a child. Like someone who’ll watch you when you use your phone in bed. And look at you, with a face full of yearning. Like a body that’s adamant about making sure you’re always feeling better than I am, that you’re happier, and more fulfilled. I’m someone who’d give you the bigger slice of the cake I like, especially when the cake is scarce, especially when it’s my favourite flavour. I’d trade my happiness for yours, because seeing you happy would be my happiness anyway.

Which is why moving on is hard. I adorn my body, my house, everything I know that would make you more content, right before you arrive. I don’t take this easily, when I’m in love I’m too invested. I think about my meticulous habits and think of these reels where women are taking care of their families and I wonder if I’ll ever get to use my planning and organisational skills to manage a life with you.

I had a hint of a life like this once. And it was my favorite part of the party. I’d clean up after everyone was home or asleep. I’d go take out the trash and remove the wineglasses and the ashtray and take your wallet and keys and put them on the table. I’d fold your clothes and do everything a lazy person would avoid because the love in my heart would fuel my life. When I’d get in bed, I’d be happier. Happier that the house was cleaner, that I had someone to call home.

Is this how we prove our worthiness to each other? My parents wouldn’t call me domesticated because I still can’t cook, but I can do everything else.

I can love you too much. I can make it work. I can fly a few hours to be with you, even when you don’t make time for me. I can fill the days with my feelings for you, paint the sky pink and purple and take you to my favourite place in Delhi and ruin it for myself forever. I think of good weather and I think of you and I think about how you’re not texting me every waking moment, even though I’m amazing, and I realise that’s enough to make me want to stop.

I read somewhere that grief is the privilege of being in love, and I guess you’re not that affected by my absence because it wasn’t love for you at all, was it? It was boredom and curiosity and delusion, and those things fade away.

I’m such a fool to fall in love with you,

I’m been such a fool again.

when we talked about this reception, it wasn’t that stressful. you’d had a hard day at work, but you listened as I chattered off a page of details, telling me yes, you’d like a minimal sort of gold, as a nod to your family, your mother, your heritage. I’m honestly not sure how it’ll look, but I’d hate for it to look awful, so it’s your decison, you said, and normally I would have ignored your taste, but this time, I knew better, I understood that this needed to mean as much to you as it meant to me.

I wore a pale pink saree with pearl drop earrings, something my mother picked, but I also wore flowers in my hair. part of me was worried that it would be too much, so I had tried hard to make sure everything looked tasteful.

what do you think, I asked when I met you - you looked around as if noticing everything for the first time, and said - Looks decent, doesn’t it. I mean it’s not too much, but it’s clearly a party.

something I’d hated at every wedding I’d been to - was when couples would put up screens around the space and play photos or videos of themselves together, cued to music. I’d always found that cringey and badly produced, and an array of selfies on a screen just felt like it would not match the simple energy I’d imagined for our reception. but strangely enough, when we sat down that night, part of me wanted the photos up there, videos of you bringing a birthday cake that close to my face, videos of us in the mornings - drinking tea together before we went our separate ways for work. and so we did a montage. I picked every moment I’d have hidden from my family on a social platform, and I cued them all to music, looking at our happy faces, your generous smile, holding my hand, making me feel like I didn’t need to be anyone other than who I was. at the end, I was lucky that I’d picked someone my parents liked too.

we danced with our friends. my hair looked really beautiful. and I wore your mother’s old watch, the simple brown strap, the gold dial, the fingers moving through the afternoon to the evening.

we kept it simple, like you’d wanted. indian food, and drinks and gulab jamun to end the night. you spent time learning the names from my side of the family, greeting people warmly, dispening a kind of social energy i’d never seen in you, in all the time we’d been going out.

your friends took a lot of photos. you’d always wait, for me, to fix my hair or my saree, and then you'd pull me close, holding part of my waist, leaning your head against mine, and smiling despite the tiredness, the fatigue, everything else.

it’s your day, you’d said in the morning.

it’s your day too, I said.

I know, but everyone’s going to be watching you, so I want to make sure you look and feel your best. I don’t want to share the spotlight so much, I want you to really shine today.

in the end, it was beautiful, and simple and memorable, and it ended. I came back to my parents’ house, and I remember feeling the happiest I’d felt in that home. the sun had gone down, but my chest was still blooming. you were awake and alone in your hotel room, watching the match on mute, looking at our photos. we’d both hated the cliched things couples always did, but for our wedding montage we’d picked a cheesy telugu song.

I’ve promised myself to not think about work so much. To take back some of the time I’ve already forfeited. But it’s hard to settle down and write at the dining table like I used to- there’s always too many people around and too much noise, and when I feel relaxed, a part of me wants to get in bed and sleep.

I feel sort of happy and stable despite the ebb and flow of how people treat me these days. I can tell I’ve reached that place where I believe in myself more so it’s easier to put what other people think at rest and to call it just that - their unnecessary reactions.

Some part of my heart is broken. I worry about things at home. But I cry easily- I make sense of a small thing when I allow myself to cry and let my body release what it doesn’t need to hold on to, but in some ways, I feel like a newborn child, tender, growing, trusting, and fresh to hurt. I’ve let my old wounds be washed away, I’ve forgiven people and prayed for forgiveness myself. I see myself in so many people I’ve left behind through the course of my twenties, and even though I have the wisdom that they had before me, feeling like them just builds more tenderness in me.

I know how to hold someone now. How to kiss their hurt away. I know how to take care of myself and how to work hard even when I want to be lazy. I see myself in my parents, but I want a different kind of life.

I want to go somewhere where I can try something new. Even if I don’t look too polished or professional, I’d rather use the years when my mind feels supple to do as many new things as possible. I want to stretch my idea of myself and be so much more than I thought I was capable of being. I want to cook and drive well and do the hard yoga classes, and find someone to love who won’t want to leave me. I want to be happy alone and happy with someone. I don’t know if it’s all possible - I just know that I’ll keep trying.

**

For starters, I’ve always known I’ll end up happy and in love. Just like a fish knows it belongs in the ocean, just like paint knows it belongs on a canvas. Since then, life has been a happy accident, bumping into someone or another until I ran into you.

Or that’s what I thought.

I think of the tender way you held me. The texture of your shirt against my cheek. A gentle hug, your hand and your watch cupping my back.

Love is about categories. Why did I put you in the wrong one right at the start? You were supposed to be lumped in with the nice guys with consistency issues and I made the mistake of putting you with the caring guys who did too much for me. Therein lies my mistake.

My brain lies to me. I know it all too well. And I tell my heart it’ll take time to forget you and that wounds heal, even the ones you can’t make sense of, the ones without the answers - of too much love gone missing like my luggage from the plane. my feelings are a yarn of wool, forever tangled and every time we talk I try to decipher a clue that’ll help me move on from this. it doesn’t come easy, the answers all sound like a broken record. I think of you every time it rains and our future together, unsigned, unclaimed - lies in a pile of things at my house.

How can I be sad about losing something that would’ve only been bad for me? I wish this was simpler to feel. I’m trying to flush you out, even while I hold out hope. I’m thinking about trying to connect when you’re pulling away. I’m a fool for mixed signals, I could never tell the traffic lights apart. We were a picture perfect frame until the train got derailed and I started thinking about how I could explain that two people could be in love and not together.

I let the storm of my feeling pass. but even the breeze whispers the same thing all over again. I think of you, and of me, and of us, and all the time we spent together, and I wonder how much time needs to pass before I can enjoy the weather without thinking of you, every single time it rains.

driving around with you. that question, that beaming smile. missing our metro station. walking beside each other in kochi, holding hands. buying beer and finishing food off my plate. watching you at ease in my room, in the sheets I sleep warmly in. selecting flights together. a sweet old splitwise tab with memories of where we ate.

the rain in sunder nursery. the park near the station in baroda. the lotuses. and the clock tower, and the chai. the tears when we’d say goodbye. meeting your friends and watching you glow up. meeting my friends and watching them understand.

watching you say, ‘my girlfriend’, a video call at midnight on new year’s eve. getting out of the car to hug you better. two glasses of juice in the car. taking photos of each other. watching you laugh with my friends.

saying, I don’t like being away from you, and you saying, me neither. walking around dilli haat, and watching you talk to that old lady in tamil. listening to your playlist in the car.

why did we quit when the cracks started showing,

we’ll never know.

were you a lesson, or just someone I lost.

he liked when my hair got wet and started getting wavier with humidity. he took photos of me. eating, sleeping, when I wore something new. after we broke up and we met for lunch for the first time, we strolled inside a bookstore and he said, do you want a photo here? he found underrated oscar noms and watched them before the awards were announced. I was a fan of the ceremony of it all, but last year - our first year apart - I sat in bed, slowly watching one film after another. and when I watched anatomy of a scandal for the first time I thought how much he would have loved this film.

he didn’t abandon me (in some ways). I knew when he imagined his future, he saw me in it. I never had to make room for myself in that vision. but there was also a lot that wasn’t working. why is it that no matter what story I write I keep arriving at the same thing?

since we’ve been apart, I’ve fallen in love and wasted my time and gotten my heart broken again. every time you get your heart broken, you think - my heart is monkey meat. my heart is a pulpy mango. my heart is sore, thinking of you. every time my heart is broken, I miss all my ex-boyfriends together, (as few as they are) and I wish he was a part of my life, and I could still enjoy all of the great things he did for me. but not for a second do I think - oh, I’d like him back.

that’s how I know I tried. few men can say that at the end of relationships. we’ve always known men are disappointing at the end of things. but they’re a true failure when love and understanding and support and action all has to merge together. I’ve never seen a genre of people who give up as easily as this one when they need to emotionally lift a spoon.

Part of me needed a sense of comfort last week so I re-watched the last of us. I watched a show where everything was destroyed and could get worse at any given moment, and it felt better to watch that on screen than to face the real world where I’m often faced with the idea that I might be a failure by quite a few conventional measures. I liked seeing the dilapidated buildings, stranded cars, roads overgrown with vegetation- I liked knowing that in case the world fell apart, what I’m doing at work or with my life in general wouldn’t matter at all. The world would still be in pieces or alternatively everything can go well, without my contribution so maybe I can take it easy on myself.

Sometimes I feel like my existence is frivolous because I write on the internet about boyfriends and love and friendship and living alone, all subjects that subjectively matter a lot to me but then what do I even have to offer to the world except my gentleness and my fragility and my tears and my warmth. I try to not put my artistry under too much pressure, because what good is pressure on someone like me - someone who’s already trying their best at trying to survive and create a strong safety net for her future. Pressure would only make me more self conscious- and trust me I’m already noticing too many ways I’m failing already.

when I’m sick I crave the comfort of someone who’ll love me unconditionally. someone without a critical eye. someone who’ll know the right soup order and know that I’m just crying out of catharsis and not due to a mid life crisis. I like crying when I’m sick - it makes me feel like a kid again, and I miss my mom - my first caretaker, the first person who understood without words being spoken, the first one who applied kindness and gentleness without any judgement. It’s shocking how self reliant I can be most days - needing my own space and little communication with everyone but then for a few days I crave the kind of intimacy that’s only created by crying into someone’s shirt. I miss your shirt.

my heart is monkey meat. my heart is sore. my heart is a week old mango, rotting in the summer. and you’re responsible.

I’ve been thinking about your back for a week now. Every night, as I methodically get ready for bed, I think of your hard back, facing against me, my body clinging to yours, asleep in the best way, like one of those orthopedic pillows. How parts of you had turned soft with time, love does that to a body. certain things were easy with us. parts of our relationship didn’t need that level of explanation.

I hate the explanations. I don’t need them. before you, I’d never really had someone who’d cared for me as much, as family. truth be told, I didn’t spend any time sobbing once you left. I was too busy propping myself against late capitalism, against reality, the bills and the loneliness tend to add up, and I’d hate to ask for help. I needed to make sure I could stay afloat with you gone, and afloat I stayed, as gracefully as possible. I started making the bed, hitting that tasklist and did piano lessons and a million new things. I made friends and gave all the leftover love I had for you to this beautiful cat, and I started to get my affairs in order.

slowly, my life looked different. like the same backyard, in a different season. the sun was hard on me, but I missed it when it was gone. in the past, I’ve written people away. mostly because I’ve realized their need for closeness has been manipulative, but that’s not a crime I can charge you with. you combed your hair the same way every day you showered at my house, watched the same documentaries in bed and slept the same way - your face, trusting, vacant, beautiful. that’s harder to imitate. harder to say it was all superficial.

I miss being asleep beside someone. it happens so rarely now, that I trust someone to hold me in bed. that I allow them to wrap their arms around me, nudge their nose in my neck, cramp their arm, and sleep soundlessly. I slept so well with you. dreamless, beautiful sleep. some part of my body needed no reason to come up with nightmarish scenarios as I slept, head wedged between our two bodies.

you’d wake up first. usually, but I cracked an eye open at six every morning and watched the sun come up on your face. if I moved too much in bed, you’d pull me closer and I’d think, no one’s gonna love me enough to pull me closer in their sleep unconsciously. I’d hate to think this will turn out to be true.

we took photos of each other in bed. As people who adored each other, we framed the face we loved so much and saved it in our galleries for months to come. when we woke up, we’d laugh about how long we’d slept, how much of the day had passed us by, how over-rested we felt so we needed to get out of home immediately and do something insane like go to a club or do four shots in succession.

at the heart of our naps, was some sort of twisted unconditional love. that thing that families use to twist your arm and make you marry someone they approve of, but never think you’d be happy with. you made me feel small, but you took care of me too. I wanted to run at the first sign of conflict, but I always came back. I gave too much of myself away, and you never gave enough.

I’ve been thinking all week, about what I’ve been missing and mourning. why is it that your body, asleep in bed, was such a space for comfort for me? was it because you never treated me like my parents did? was it because you didn’t make the mistakes I detested in my childhood? was it because you picked me before I picked you?

I can’t tell, I’m not sure the answer will arrive this night itself. so far, I’ve been wishing for your body against me every night. just to sleep beside. just to hear you breathe against me. just to hold and cling to, and smell. but mostly because the nightmares keep reappearing, and I’m too busy to not be well-rested.