I have been reading a book (One True Loves by Taylor Jenkins Reid), and it got me thinking about us. I am not surprised; every song I hear is something about you, every movie is a version of us that could never be, every book one you’d never read.

The husband gets lost at sea and is declared dead, and our protagonist deals with his loss that changes her fundamentally, only for him to come back some two years later when she has finally put her grief down and moved on and found love in her life with a man that truly loves her just the same.

And then the triangle plays out the way you’d expect. This overly simplifies the plot, but I do it because that is not what stood out to me. There were a couple of other incidents throughout the book that do.

First was when she sees her husband again after believing him to be gone forever. I felt a pang of jealousy towards this character, not because she had two men who loved her in a grand once-in-a-lifetime way, but because she was living out a fantasy of mine that will never come to be.

I find myself thinking of a thousand different scenarios of what you’d have to say to me if I ever saw you again. I have spent an embarrassing amount of time and my creativity weaving out scenarios, ranging from most probable to the most disastrous one.

Would it be in the streets of London if you ever find your way here? That might be far-fetched. Or in the familiar streets of Ahmedabad? That is more probable.

Even though my courage hasn’t aligned with the opportunity to come back home in the past two years, it is not impossible in the future when I inevitably do return to India.

Would it be in the streets at a red light, like that other time? At a party at Sharvil’s? Or at that one pan parlour (you know which one) where I’d be buying a Diet Coke because I don’t smoke anymore, but would find myself going to that shop instead of the air-conditioned departmental stores down the street.

I like to think about the look on your face. You say a million different things to me in these scenarios, but in each of them, my heart stops at the sight of you. My breath is stuck in my throat, and no words come out. My hands don’t reach out to you. My face doesn’t flinch in anticipation.

Not when you come to me and tell me I can’t believe it’s you. Or I am so, so sorry. Or what the fuck are you doing here, you whore.

I might have gone through endless versions of these, but none of them bring me any peace. None. I think that has something to do with the fact that I know, or hope, or wish, or lament, that it will never actualize.

I see this woman play out the utter impossibility of re-experiencing her great love with her husband after getting permission from her now-fiancé to do so, just so she can make the final choice. Not much appeal there.

But at the end, she says something along the lines of that after their time apart, they did not love the versions of themselves that existed that day. Hell, they didn’t even know the current versions of each other. They were two people so in love with their past selves, and even more with who they themselves were back then.

And all that made sense. You can love a past version of someone that doesn’t exist anymore. I think we all have read and seen a few different versions of this. How I feel it applies to us is a bit different. I mean, sure, it applies to you too, if there is any shred of affinity towards me in your heart. But it beyond relieves me that if you can’t love someone you don’t actually know anymore, you can’t hate them either, right?

I am not that person anymore, the one that had the conversation with you in that bathroom. Where you finally told me the truth, it shattered me. I didn’t even try to frantically hold on to the pieces to put together at a later time; there was no point. What, and especially, for whom?

The change was monumental, and for the worse initially. I was lashing out, and when I met him in the absolute height of my shenanigans, literally a week after? It made me confront what I was doing, and more importantly, why. And with him by my side, I let it change me for the best. I don’t like to think about a version of life where I did not meet him when I did. But I want to keep him so, so out of this. He doesn’t deserve to be infected by this mess which was us.

You have no idea who I am today, and the hate you have is not towards me anymore. And whatever the protagonist felt about being in love with the version of themselves that was with you couldn’t be farther from my experience. I do not love the version of me that you loved; I pity her.

But I know that can’t be the case for you. However, I will not get into that. I have been told by my doc that I need to stop thinking and prioritizing your experience; I need to focus on mine.

I have had to make peace with the fact that I do not hold any residual love, unresolved feelings, and affinity towards a version of you that you aren’t today, but a version that you never were. That conversation in the bathroom made it clear that I had no idea who you were even then. I held so much pride that no one could doubt the love I had towards you. But was it ever you?

I remember you as someone with kind eyes, unpredictable hands, a sharp mind, and unwavering and fixated devotion. I remember how fiercely you needed me to be yours and how at ease you felt being surrendered to me.

Well, wasn’t that all an act? A really convincing one. Ugh, you can’t seperate the disgust from the pity.

But that could all be a misinterpretation of a young mind; I need someone to drill a hole in my brain for still giving you the benefit of the doubt, medication and therapy isn’t cutting it.

But when you asked me to give long-distance a shot after I moved here, after being so against it, you had already been with her. You were convincing me to walk back into our relationship with no intention of telling me about her, or her, or her.

That is the worst acceptance I have had to come to. Not that you did it, I have the least contribution to the responsibility pie for that action, but that you were willing, begging me to walk back into this, without ever telling me.

After finding out the truth and all the lies (most actually, because I am convinced there is more I do not know), it is impossible to look back at any part of the relationship and differentiate it as a lie, cover-up, or genuine, if there is any.

The anger could be misguided by guilt, the love as overcompensation, the tears as conscience spilling over. You have taken control of the reality I lived, and I resent you more for that than your lack of self-control and love that was infinitely weaker than mine.

You could not say that about me. Man, I doted on you. I loved you in a way that you were incapable of. The version of me you hate is the one you got to love you, deceptively in a way no one has ever been loved. I couldn’t do it again if I tried, but I think that is for the best. Once was enough, more than enough.

I have changed, thank God and you. I like who I am today, I think I can say that. I am not sure if it matters, but I do. I have more forgiveness, reason, grace, self-empathy when I screw up repeatedly, and purpose. I have lived, truly lived. And I am living every single day, experiencing and taking in my experiences independently with a partner who shares them, contributes to them, without owning or manipulating them.

The last few pages left of the book. It is predictable, but a good read.

At the end of every day,

After staring at my doctor,

And laughing at what my friends about you have to say.

Nodding harder than I understand to my mother,

I keep your name out of my mouth in front of him.

The doctor would know her stuff,

My friends are funny nonetheless,

And mother does know best.

He loves me, I know for sure, but what more could he do

At night, when I am all alone,

Under the covers, shivering in bed?

Fighting a fever that’s not there,

My heart beating rapidly in my head.

I gasp to make the words to ask for promised help,

I close my moist eyes and finally respond to them,

And even though it’s only in my head,

I start every plea, every cry making clear:

I wish you nothing but the best.

In the middle of today,

I cursed your name when the nurse pushed another needle in my arm,

I looked through you in the cigarette smoke, the cloudy sky, the afternoon rain.

Though my faith is shaken,

And I can’t justify the divinity in this act of God’s play,

I strayed my way to the temple, like every now and then;

I find my knees don’t wobble for once,

As I kneel in front of Them.

I promise I never wish you real harm.

After praying for my family, him, my three friends,

I slip you in my prayers before I make my own way in.

I know you yet don’t feel the same, but

Like always, I want you to win;

I just don’t want to be a part of the game.

Come, be my muse tonight

And remind me how you fell in love with me that cold night.

But I beg you to be patient with me

For I’m a poet, who struggles to rhyme.

Let me take you in my arms tonight,

In this moment, trail the hatred you feel for me away from your eyes.

In the dead of the night, bring your lips to my ears,

Whisper to me in secret - you are only and only mine.

For I’m afraid to be alone in bed these days

till I count them down till my last time.

Teach me compassion tonight,

For I am bereft of hope and committed to my crimes.

Teach me goodness,

by telling me tales about your family taking flowers to the local shrine.

How you brew your morning cinnamon tea with a pinch of lime.

Teach me kindness,

Imprint some goodness onto me before I destroy my insides.

Or if nothing, finally,

teach me forgiveness,

By promising me you’ll visit my grave every second month’s fortnight .

Come over tonight,

And please, pull me out of my plight .

Look through me, inside me, like you do,

But let me apprise you,

It might not be the same,

It might be a muck, a pitiable sight

Of me clinging on to the last shreds of self respect, my tainted pride.

Let me bawl in your lap while you hold me tight,

Reassure me that you feel my warmth

And that the fire inside me has not yet died.

Look me in my eyes and tell me

That though I can’t win, I can still survive.

That I have it suppressed in me,

Whatever it takes to outlive this fight.

I’ve left my door ajar tonight

Hurry, I want to make history

But I’m afraid I’m running out of time.

Prompt : Last cry for help

I realized at 22, after moving abroad, that I didn’t know who I was. Or worse, there was no one to know, because I hadn’t grown into my own person at all.

I’ve never been alone, not truly. I lived in an Indian household. And because I was convinced I didn’t have much privacy or space, I was never sure why I was so lonely. I was like a piece of furniture that finished the room. Without it, the room would look odd or empty, but that is all I was, a space-filler.

No, my parents aren’t to blame. They had three children; their parental responsibilities had to be dutifully divided amongst the three of us. This could not have been mathematically equal, even on the best day, let alone every day.

I could be patient, it would be my turn soon enough.

Well, they had three of us. I just had one set of parents. How childishly unreasonable of me to wait my turn to do my part? (My mom likes to remind me that I was, in fact, a child after all.) So while I waited, I took the devotion and love I had to offer (which was a lot) and poured it into other people.

Looking back at it now, I robbed them of the chance to take care of me, to love one of their kids the way they would have wanted to. And I hate that it took me losing my sense of feeling loved to stand defeated in front of them, and let them take care of me, to love me with compounded interest. It served me right, when it was finally my turn, I could no longer feel it.

About love and feeling it, I am convinced I loved every boy I have claimed, in my own right, as much as my brain was capable of and my heart knew how. I don’t call it childhood innocence or not knowing better. But there was an undeniability in how clearly I got to know love better.

I was sixteen, and so was he.

I got to know love beyond how I understood it, or heard it in music, or saw it in movies and shows. I got to know it beyond understanding and reasoning. My brain wasn’t capable of what my heart felt. Looking back at it, neither of us had grown into ourselves enough to have something to hold onto as we lost ourselves in a six-year-long relationship that didn’t change us forever. It stunted us from ever becoming our own people, which was so much worse.

We fell in love fast. Tumbled.

I built myself around him—his likes, his dislikes. Gotta give it to him, he was able to compartmentalize his life so much better. Before I realized it, he was my centre of gravity. And that is too much to put on a young boy who doesn’t (and didn’t need to) have a solid footing himself.

We didn’t grow upwards. We sprawled into each other, growing in a way where the crevices of our brains molded against each other. But it was our coming-of-age years. The cyclone we were being exposed to, in and outside this relationship, would shape who we become for the rest of our lives and where we ended up.

But we were doing it as a pair. He was my centre, my core, and my whole life went up and down in a whirlwind around him. For him, I was his bunker. While his world seemed to constantly disintegrate and rebuild around him, I was his constant, portable and on-demand comfort and validation.

We both could not move from the places we had made for each other. There is so much nuance to this dynamic that I cannot bring myself to unpack in one article, which is why I want to stick to just one layer—identity.

The reason we even lost ourselves was because we had no idea who we were.

I knew one thing about me, and one thing only: I had so much love to give. I wanted to love someone with all my will and beyond my means. And he needed it so much. He needed the love I gave him.

Not because of his family. They were a very affectionate one. I could see in his eyes that he felt guilty, and not worthy of the unconditionality of their love. And no one should be made to feel that way, even by their own hormone-drunk mind.

In the only way I knew how, I loved him for everything he was. Not for who he became or wanted to be. For, and not despite, the mistakes he made along the way. Without compulsion, obligation, or familial duty.

It gave him acceptance for the love around him, which I believe will help him heal, even today. At least I hope it does. This is why I will never regret it. Despite the codependence, control, and abuse that followed, I don’t regret it.

We both developed issues, we all do at that age. You learn to grow out of them, tame them before they take control over you. Even our issues developed as responses to each other’s personalities and personal lives. That is to be expected. We took most of each other’s time, attention, and energy—listening or sharing. At the risk of going off on another tangent, here is the gist of it:

I cried a lot.
He got angry a lot.

Not because of, or at each other at first. But soon enough, we were.

A lot happened in those six years, things that should not have happened. Incidents I can’t forget, and others I have little to no recollection of because my brain refuses to let them resurface. One-and-a-half years down the line, I am not ready to recollect or deal with them, even today. I know he knows he shouldn’t have. And I know that doesn’t change anything. But I know he knows.

I like to fantasize that he felt bad. I choose to believe he wanted to hold onto me for as long as he did because he knew that as long as I was with him, I loved him enough to forgive him, and that made it easier for him to live with what he did.

Well, I loved him despite not forgiving him. I don’t have love for him now, and I still haven’t forgiven him. Knowing that now, he should’ve let go of me a long time ago.

I found myself letting my actions be played out in anticipation of his responses. Micro-acts of surrendering. Here are a few.

On our second date, he asked me what my favourite chocolate was, and I asked him to guess. The next day he came with a family-sized bag of KitKats for me, hopeful eyes asking if he had gotten it right. And though I liked Cadbury better, I squealed and hugged him and accepted them that day, and every other time he got me one.

My mom started finding all these KitKat wrappers in my bags and began getting them on her grocery runs on days she felt I was sad. I had so many KitKats over the years that I actually found myself reaching for them on the same shelf the Cadbury was kept when I was shopping alone.

I found myself choosing my battles. I teased about music, because the cost of it wasn’t too much, an annoyed glance, a roll of the eyes, and it was a victory. And when you are in such a situation, you celebrate every win. I seldom did the same with clothing, necklines, and silhouettes, because the cost of it was him raising his voice at me. With natural progression, arguments about people were hands on me. It became clear within a year that it wasn’t worth the fight.

And between these borrowed victories and bargained wins, we lost altogether.

The breakup wasn’t unexpected to either of us, but the way it unraveled, I could not have imagined. We had tumbled so far down, gained so much momentum, that the crash wasn’t just fatal, it was absolute. But this article isn’t about his loss. It is about mine.

Losing him made me confront my lack of being. No, it was not the night of our messy confessions. It was not when I slipped into the arms of a friend for comfort. It was definitely not when I kept wanting to talk to him every night about how hurt I was because no one else understood how my mind was perceiving it.

It was when I went shopping and my friend pointed out that I wasn’t even picking out skirts to try on.

It was when a date asked me what I would like to drink, and I realized I had never really explored what my drink was, since I always just sipped on his.

It was when a friend invited me to watch a K-drama and I told her I had never watched one before because I once saw him roll his eyes when someone recommended it to us when we were seventeen, and I just laughed along with him. I never really watched one myself after that.

It was every day I refused to let anyone take photos of me because I wasn’t used to it. Or look myself in the eye in the mirror because I couldn’t stand to look at the person who wasn’t worthy of even his love.

Well, at almost 23, I am in the mental state of 16 again.

I haven’t figured it all out yet, that’s about seven years of work. But I am so aware of myself now, I have no idea how I never was.

This Saturday, I drank white wine and ate mouthfuls of Maltesers with my sweet boyfriend (insane how that happened when I was sure it wouldn’t) on FaceTime as we watched a Korean drama film about love lost. And though I couldn’t help but feel reminiscent and nostalgic, I’ve never been happier.

They frown at the idea of you,
Refuse to show up for dinner,
Or go to school.
At the slightest hint of your steps,
They run up the stairs
And hide under the bed.
Respectfully, get that shock off your face.
It’s the same way they usually did.
They are still the same; there is nothing new.
They’ve grown, learnt some better manners
That I’ve made sure of.
But make your way away from our door,
Because even today—
There is no scream guttural enough;
Well, it never rattled you anyway.
There is no whimper pitiful enough.
Never did one thaw your heart any day.
They can never dress right
Or sound the way that would evoke love that isn’t there,
Then why the fuck can’t you just do what you said
And stay the hell away?
Why on earth do you want to see them again anyways?
Do you want me to tell you you’ve won?
Broke my heart? Maimed my voice? Crushed my spirit?
Or do you wish to just hear an “it’s okay” or “good game”?
Do you want that gasp of relief by ensuring I’m breathing alright?
Well, either way, my words refuse to come out to you anymore.

They are mine before I was yours,
And they have continued to stay with me the same.
Even in grieved silence, by my side in solitude.
Go away from my window; I see you, but I do what they say.

Poet’s note:

My words not only make up my voice or act as a medium for my emotions, they are my inner self. The words that come out of me, in any form, are in a way me and mine just the same.

I had this recurring image of my words as my children. I felt such a fierce, maternal instinct to protect them. They did not deserve the abandonment and neglect they faced, and I refused to give said person access to my words, for their innocence to be exploited ever again.

I don’t usually cuss in my poetry; I’ve believed it to be lazy writing on my end, for the most part. There has to be a better way to word those complex feelings, those outbursts of emotion, right? As poets, isn’t it up to us to figure out how? But here, it felt necessary. The anger was not reckless or reactive, it was protective. I wasn’t just standing up for myself, I was standing up for my kids. That allowed me to vent in a way I never had before. Writing this was truly cathartic.

I moved cities a lot growing up,
Dad had one of those jobs, you know.
Never lived enough in my hometown,
Switched cities, and then states.
Moved from a house with a verandah
Into a humble apartment in a small town,
To a bigger gated society in a capital city.
Grew up and grew out of places and people,
And as a rite of passage, when I could, left the country too.

Leaving the building wasn’t too hard; it never was.
Leaving the people was; it always is.
Packed up rooms that made up my house,
And bid farewell to those that felt like home.
Two big and a small suitcase were just enough.
Moved into a tiny room that was too much.
The books to stack the shelves were at my parents’,
The photos to adorn the wall in the bin two months in.
This wasn’t a house, nor a home—
Just a room, well, the first ever, of my own.

A small bathroom, a smaller shower,
A grey dresser with a matching table,
A bed with a blue wall,
And across it, floor-to-ceiling windows,
Overlooking my small English town.
Not one building over fifteen stories,
Always a bit too noisy, never enough light.
An almost busy highway with cars, trucks, and buses.
Not a moor, bridge, or daffodil in sight.

I hang my coats on a rack,
Arrange my shoes in a line,
And fill up the cabinets with spices, though I seldom cook.
The coats find their way to the floor,
One shoe behind the bathroom door.
Thank God spices don’t go bad too soon.
Photos, tickets, and receipts creep onto my bulletin board.
And I got gifted a small potted plant that faces the road.

I forget to water the stupid plant,
And I don’t look out that window that I love.
I have earphones in when I step out the door,
Only because I always walk to and from work.
I manage to always tumble onto the bed with my bag on.
And though I’ve been told there is a rhythm to my step,
Once I take them off, I can never recall to what song.

And now it is time
To pack it up again—
Cardboard boxes, bubble wrap, moving day.
I have to leave the place the way I found it,
Wipe down any evidence of life,
Pack it, donate it, or bin it.
I sit on the floor next to the bed, one and a half years in piles.
Oh, how I hate this small bathroom, but I do love this view.
I adored the color blue enough to tolerate that shade of grey.
I love the life lived under the pins on the board,
But I love the life yet to be lived a lot more.
And though I know this is neither my house nor my home,
I am going to miss my room.

[Taking the stupid plant with me whenever I move]

I don’t think about you more than a little

— not on dates, dinners, or nights in.

Contrary to what you might want to believe,

I don’t wish harm upon you often.

But, oh, forgive me, God!

I don’t feel remorse when I do.

At the end of one of those days, when I lay in bed,

body drained but quivering, heart homesick and lone,

I try to trace the outline of your eyes,

the portal to peek through the curtains of my childhood home.

My mind resists, or maybe it’s just been a while,

because there is not a speck of dust in the air, the floor mighty neat.

The lights seem to be turned off, the windows bolted in,

furniture hollowed out and covered in eggshell sheets.

So I press my ears against the cold stained glass

and strain to recall the sound of your voice.

But all I can hear are your hollow lies,

even in the confession of your sin.

Yet, I seldom find myself empathizing with the heart

which felt more mine than my surrendered own.

But dare you mistake my empathy for frailty, never again.

For any forgiveness that I have toward you is purely performative.

It’s been over a year and a few men;

I’m across an ocean and two continents.

And though I may have love for you, and always will,

I have no grace for you in my heart.

Not seldomly, or often.

Not even a little.

Not a bit.

Not at all.

Or I’ll be buried one evening on a sweet spring day.

All days between November and January are auspicious,

and well you know my birthday falls in May.

Aisles will be filled with wooden chairs, don’t let them drag in that cheap plastic.

No roses or jasmines, lilies would do and so would carnations.

Some folks would be too busy to show,

but everyone would hear mom cry clear as day.

They’ll surely ask you to say a few words, and be sure I will listen.

Knowing you, it’d be wise to think ahead of the words you’d like to say.

Rising or setting just as bright would be the Sun,

Oh what a beautiful winter morning,

or a sweet spring day.

Well, people part for reasons far worse than ours,
cosmic, karmic forces pulling them lifetimes, not just lands apart.
Be mindful, be humble, be grateful that you and I are both alive,
for we didn’t really die the way we swore if we weren’t by each other’s side.

My heart beats on, however wearily, once upon a time.
It’s too cold for the birds to chirp, but the sun does shine.
The speakers in the shops continue to harmonize;
the sky does clear up here now and then,
and though there is music in and around me,
most days I can’t find anything to rhyme.

Well, you should know how much I hate lying.
I should have started off by saying I hadn’t written poetry in a while.