But then, there came an exception, this one woman, this one actress, this one diva who had me dropping my jaw on the floor, the moment I saw her — the enigmatic Rekha.

I still hold the memory of seeing her for the first time on screen very vividly. I was a just a kid of 11 and ‘Khoon Bhari Maang’ was up on the TV, and my mother said, “Watch this film, it stars Rekha, she’s very beautiful and elegant…” and she dropped all the lore of the legendary Amitabh-Rekha romance, Naturally, at that tender age, it completely flew over my head! But she also shared something profound: that this was perhaps the very first Hindi film of her experience where the actress was truly the 'hero' of the narrative. The cadence of her voice, the sheer poise of her performance, and that fiercely magnificent, diva-esque transformation after the intermission...I fell in love with the character of Aarti/Jyoti.

I was never one to be consumed by the stars, nor did I ever care to peer behind the curtain of their private lives. But then came Rekha—and suddenly, I found myself completely, beautifully obsessed. I watched Khoobsurat, Silsila, Suhag and so on. I began seeking out her words, her mind, her essence through her interviews. I was completely spellbound by her grace, the way she spoke, her eloquence, and her sophistication, which were completely fascinating to me. That was the first time I found myself influenced by an actress, which affected my way of thinking about some things in some ways. I related to her. I resonated deeply with her essence, not just as a performer, but as a person, as a woman.

She describes herself as a shy and observant person who doesn’t really put their emotions into words. In “Rendezvous with Simi Garewal”, she said, and I quote:

“I was never the kind of person who voiced my impressions or my feelings, I never told anybody what I feel, I still don’t.”

I resonated with it the most. For I, too, move through the world in exactly that way. To hold your world entirely inside, to let your thoughts and emotions breathe in the sacred silence of your own mind without the need to explain them to the world... there is an immense, quiet power in that. Finding someone as magnificent as her who shares that same sanctuary of silence, it feels like a quiet validation of exactly who I am. Her thoughts on love mirror my own: that love, in its purest form, is unconditional. It expects nothing in return; untouched by limerance.

The world looks at her and sees a tragic story, a woman masking the pain of unfulfilled childhood dreams and unrequited love, living in solitude. But I believe that nobody has a better view of life than her. She taught me that true peace lies in acceptance; that there is an understated ecstasy in embracing whatever life hands you. You don’t need to blank it out; you simply need to recognize the beauty it holds. You just need to keep living and loving.

In a world that constantly demands we explain ourselves, her life is a testament to the beauty of keeping something sacred for yourself. I may still remain indifferent to the glittering noise of stardom. But Rekha was never just a star to me; she taught me that you don’t need to shout to be unforgettable, that you don’t need to give yourself away to be whole and most of all, she taught me how to love.

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It was a typical May afternoon. The sun was relentless, the kind you don't just see but feel pressing against your skin. My grandmother says, "itni garmi isliye hoti hai, because in heaven it's winters, so God left his heater on", and without fail, every single time, we lose it completely.

Anyway, I spent some time in the afternoon with a friend. We sat and he ranted about the people in his cab. We laughed. I stayed quiet most of the time. I always feel like I'm carrying so many words inside me, but I rarely find the right place to put them down.

I sat completely at ease, tucked in the shade, watching the sky and the trees leaning gently with the wind, arms crossed, just listening to him. It felt like a "Call Me By Your Name" summer, if you've watched that movie, Ila. I love that movie, just... comforting.

And Ila, I had the longest hug of my life today.

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I want to be heard.

I want to be seen.

I want to be enfolded.

I want to be enfolded as I weep, I complain. I want to cry loudly, as my body hangs itself on them.

I want to be enfolded as I breathe my last breath.

I know I could run to my mother whenever I feel like it, but she won’t let me pour my heart out; she’ll try to make it stop, she’ll plead with me to stop, and I wouldn’t want that.

I don’t want to be told “everything’s going to be okay”, I don’t want them to “therapy” me, I just want a company for once. I don’t want my tears to be wiped by their hands, but to be seen, to see how I look with them on.

I want to wail on their shoulders, without them getting scared or worried.

I want to let my bones go heavy, and to trust that their strength will act as my floor while I fall apart.

I don’t want to be asked why I am crying, because, to be honest, I don’t have any reason; I just feel like it.

I just feel like there is a heavy rock that has been kept on my chest, and I just want it to be removed.

I want them to sit with me, to look at the ruins, and to recognize that this is not a problem to be solved, but a truth to be witnessed. Like the heavy, unmovable weight of a stone, it demanded to be felt, not fixed.

I want to let it out by means of bawling.

I want to let it all out, ALL OF IT.

Please lord.

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We seriously don’t know what to talk about, and even if anything comes out of our mouths, it is often met with utter silence, which feels like embarrassment is silently driving and twisting its knife into our ribs, which prevents us from ever speaking again. It feels like everyone has this “rule book” that tells them how to be, and we didn’t get a copy. So what we do is, we go into our secret gardens mid-chaos, and we think about all the beautiful things in the world, we look out of the windows to get sunlight into our cold faces, just to feel everything. We board a train of thought, travelling through coaches filled with everything that matters to us. We listen to birds sing our favourite songs, and sometimes, we return to the classroom just to admire a favourite face or imagine a swallowtail butterfly landing on our hands.

We are actually exactly opposite of what you think we’re. We are a person that others turn to for comfort. They share, they pour out, sometimes even weep, although we have no idea how to console somebody who’s weeping, but we try, we listen. We see things, we keep them close, and we understand. We are filled with empathy, love and all kinds of emotions. We possess the power to weep with those who are grieving and celebrate with those who are rejoicing. We sense when someone feels lonely or left out, so we nod and listen carefully while the crowd is busy with itself. This often makes us a friend to all, yet a friend to none.

“He’s a wallflower…You see things. You keep quiet about them. And you understand.”

As for not fitting in or lacking the “right” words, to be honest, that doesn’t bother us. There is a strange, quiet perk to being a wallflower: we have the ability to drift unnoticed like a shadow among the noise. We are quite forgettable; it seems to make no difference when we are present, and it leaves no void when we are gone.

Our favourite places are the corners where we can enjoy our own company, well, indeed, we wish sometimes that we also belonged somewhere or to someone, we also feel the urge to feel infinite, well, for that we just have to find our ‘tunnel song’ or maybe it’ll find us.

If it resonates with you, congratulations, you’re a wallflower!

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But I don’t know why I went against the odds recently, and even after choosing ‘to die’, I spoke it at the very last moment, very odd of me to lose control (joining college has deteriorated my personality a lot). Weren’t my thoughts solely my own to judge, express, and analyze? Wasn’t I the only one to romanticize them? That’s why I choose to kill them rather than tell them to a third person. I’m a protective being and have the personality of a cat, a person who doesn’t speak until spoken to, and I think that’s not something to be fixed. Don’t think of it as a bad trait in me that needs to be changed. But sometimes I end up hurting the people who actually care about me, who actually wanna hear everything from me, and I’m just scared of that connection, so I go into my flight mode. And then they’d just stop caring and trusting, which ends up hurting me. Kind of feels like an insult to all my feelings and just the fact of simply being a kind human being.

From now on, after learning from my mistakes, if I ever ask myself, ‘Is it better to speak or to die?’, again, I’m going back to choosing to kill the thought(and will check twice if it died), like the old times. Not because I’m afraid or a coward, but just because I can’t afford to deal with the consequences of it anymore.

In that moment, I’m at my pace, and they understand that. There’s absolutely no pressure, no rush, just serendipity — feels platonic. They are like those bougainvillaea flowers that I like the most.

Me being quiet sometimes doesn’t mean I don’t show them or tell them how much they mean to me(first, they already know it, and I know it). I bring them handpicked flowers on the most random days, say hi a million times a day — that is my love for them. I can listen to them yap about anything; their yapping is music to my ears. I want the time to stop when I’m with them. I could sit and notice every single detail about them while they continue to tell me about how they wrote a particular part in the story they’ve been writing. I will be admiring the spark in their eyes, which comes when they talk about their favourite movies, without them even knowing it, and they might never see it, notice it or reciprocate it. But that can’t be something that’ll bother me ever. It’ll not bother me, right?

But I may not be the only one with whom they share all this; they have a bunch of other muses. Basically, I might not be home to them, but for me, they are the only place where I feel I belong, where I actually open up, and they actually listen to me. But I might not be the place for them where they can lean on and empty their hearts, that’s not a problem either, I’ve learned that my love for them isn’t defined by my role in their life, but by the profound peace they bring to mine. I’ve found my purpose not in being their shoulder to cry on, but in being the quiet witness to their joy. It’s the simple, overwhelming warmth that comes from just being near their light, and for me, getting to see them glow is more than enough. To sit by their side, putting my head on their shoulder, without them pulling themself away — quite a gift, but sometimes a secret part of me yearns for a different privilege, to be the shoulder they seek out in their own silence. But can’t get everything that I want after all.

So when I find them drifting away, the storm starts beating the hell out of my guts, I can’t eat, can’t stop thinking, and all of a sudden, all of my whimsy is gone. But then I realise that all of the time I spent with them is like a beautiful episode of a sitcom based on my life. Like a colourful chapter in my raw, dull and abstract autobiography, which eventually gets over, not because I wanted it to, but because it was destined to.

It hurts. It sucks. But life goes on. In the end, it is unrequited, right?

And oh, how I hate just existing.

Love was supposed to be the most meaningless thing ever, and yet so descriptive, definitive and relative. Love is so awful, painful, stupid, hurtful and yet so comforting, soft and healing. It is so confusing and yet so clear. So majestic, magical and amusing and yet again so dull, dreary and melancholic. So tempestuous yet so calm. 
It is so idiotic, silly, and childish, yet so meaningful, deep, and philosophical. It is so tragic, full of loss and lifeless, yet so spirited, zestful and full of life. Spiritual yet sinful. It is sometimes so loud that you can't hear anything but it, and then again, drop-dead comforting silence.
It can go from "the most amazing thing that can happen in my life" to "why did all of this happen to me?"  
It makes me doubt my very self and then also makes me feel like I'm the luckiest person alive — the duality.

What love never is — greed, punishment, limerence or lust. It might be silly and meaningless, but never purposeless. It shouldn’t feel like you’re losing yourself, it’s not an erasure — rather the homecoming of your truest self. It turns you and yourself from enemies to lovers. Love is never humiliation, confinement or a performance. It is a place where you can be as loud as you want to, as whimsical as you wish. It's not a pretence; it's a deep, knowing acceptance.

P.S. the piece could’ve also been called — “everything I know of love at 19” and perhaps I should eat more and think less :)

The handwritten version of it, straight from my diary:

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