Pyaar (Im)possible?

I suppose platonic love to me was always one of those things that everyone knows is wonderful, but still doesn't really KNOW it. It's like "Oh, but the Eiffel Tower is so pretty!". Everyone knows it, yet ones of us who have never been there, don't really.  It's a concept, a fact. It's a theory that none of us have really tested.

Until last week, when I suddenly realized how filled my life actually was with it.

It was a humid Wednesday evening in my exceptionally stuffy hostel room. I mindlessly laid on my bed with one of my best friends (For further convenience, I suppose at this point I should name my two besties, since they'll inevitably come up in further posts. I have decided to call them S and J, and on this particular evening, I was lying with S).  Some minor incidents at dinner had yet again caused me to launch into an explicitly detailed rant about the same guy for the billionth time, and my friend listened on without any complaints. When my second bestie (J) barged into the room, I let go of the last bit of sanity I possessed around the girls, and launched myself on her, clinging onto her waist like a koala. She didn't object, and in impeccable bestie fashion, her first question despite having zero context was, "What did he do again now? Should I go kill him?" I launched into a rerun of the rant, and soon, I was being given reality checks (and borderline being scolded) for wearing my heart on the sleeve, whilst simultaneously being asked on my choices of murder weapons. After hearing their opinions out for a quarter of an hour, I decided I wanted the same opinions from slightly more mature people (because of course, Denial is a river in Egypt); to ground the lesson in. I called up Didi. She mostly skipped over the part where she reprimands me for being so sensitive and straight over jumped to discussing 18th century torture devices with J. Heinous punishments were devised for the guy, none of which did anything to soothe the internal battle I was waging with myself. I decided to level up a bit more and called up Dushtu Dada next. Dushtu Dada: who was the last person I could rely on to feed into my delusional fantasies, even if it was the tiniest bit, considering he had always been the most daredevil of my whole circle of elder siblings (That's really not saying much considering the rest are hideously nerdy, me included). The conversation that followed (Minus the minor detour S and him took to discuss what sex with the devil would look like); was the one that finally sunk in, because even he refused to back up my fantastical delusions.  A small snippet of the phone call ought to give a gist of what the entirety of it sounded like (it FELT like stabbing myself; that much I can confirm):

Me: "Well, I am trying to take the high road here. If him being horrid can trigger the horrid in me, that will go against everything I have ever known and stood for, right? And I don't want to be petty like that. I do not...I do not want to be that!"

Dushtu Dada: "Honey, no one is stopping you from taking the high road. That's fine. But at this point, you are literally flying off of it. You are mentally sitting on his lap and feeding him. He knows what you are feeling. He knows you are feeling shitty. It's right there in the things you post and words you write, it's literally out there in the world. He chooses not to see it."

His words struck hard, and suddenly my heart lurched to my lips. I didn't have it in myself to fight back because hearing the truth, which I had already known at some level, from his mouth left me speechless. There was also the mortifying realization of exactly how bare I had laid myself. It had obviously born amazing effects on the stuff I wrote, whilst simultaneously twisting and destroying the things I felt. Something churned in my stomach and after ten more minutes of frustrated groaning into the phone which Dushtu Dada tried to placate by saying that this wasn't a unique experience, I hung up the call, feeling better in no way possible, but with slightly greater clarity into what the solution to the whole situation ought to be. It had always been right there, reiterated time and again by everyone I knew, but I had Sidestepped it for the longest time in search of a more "convenient" Alternative. It hadn't worked, and when the stuffy night did not help me in getting a minute of sleep, I realized it was the only card I had left to play, with the hopes of getting out of this fiasco without a scrape to my heart. A small part of me however insistently whispered that it was a little too late for that. 

Next morning, however, I was back to feeling as confused as ever. The plan had been obvious, the execution; not so much. In an attempt to compose myself, I brought out one of my mom's fresh Kurtis. It had been sitting neatly folded in the wardrobe for quite some time, and it smelled like her. It smelled like home. The perfume grounded me a bit, and I got ready to leave for class. 

As usual, I was a little early. I occupied our standard row of seats and opened up my kindle. My heart squealed so loud at every tender thing the hero did; that I did not even notice when the guys arrived. My attention was finally drawn when a squabble ensued in the front row, as "he" tried to exchange the seat in front of me with somebody else, perhaps a little... too adamantly?

It wasn't exactly anything huge, yet my heart suddenly lurched in my chest, and I immediately felt like throwing up. My friends' voices faded in the background and my mother's scent emanating from the collar of the Kurti suddenly didn't remind me of home anymore, it reminded me of my mother. In the blink of an eye, it felt like I was seeing all of myself through a slightly cracked red hued time glass. It felt like Deja-vu, just not through my own flesh this time, but my mother's. I was suddenly not my father's daughter anymore-brash, confident, decisive; I was my mother's: talented but misunderstood, swallowing subtle disrespect because it could only ever be a joke, crumbling inside with an impassioned face. As I sat there, numb, I was suddenly gripped by the inane fear of this being a repeat of history. I had clutched my dreams a little too near and dear to my heart, and though the incidents bore no semblance of likeliness, I was seized by the panicked feeling that I was yet again walking down the same road that all the women in our family had: accepting minor, chagrined insults with no protest to protect everyone's "peace". Was I to be one of these "women" Or was I to be "The woman?" Was all of it an Overreaction? Perhaps. Was it His fault? Definitely not. It didn't feel like that to me then, though. 

Before I could realize what, I was doing, I had shot out of my seat. My friends didn't get much time to pull me back; I had already rushed out of the row to the aisle with my bag hung over one shoulder.  The sound of my heels clicked loudly in my ears as I walked over to a different seat, more than aware of the pairs of eyes following me. My stomach churned and I was flushed with red hot awareness, but even through the haze I knew I was doing the sane thing. When I sank into a new seat, I exhaled a breath that I hadn't realized I had been holding. A gaping void in my chest stared back at me, taunting me that I had yet again proved everyone right; that I indeed was an overdramatic somebody who loved creating a scene. I resisted the urge to burst into tears and buried the part of me that had suddenly been dug out from the grave of my high school; the part that screamed in my ears that I was unwanted and hated everywhere. 

The din in my head had been so loud, I didn't notice S had changed her seats too till she flopped down on my side with a loud thud. I reprimanded her for coming with me, but a part of me had never been more thankful. An hour alone of class might have sent me spiraling into dark places I did not particularly wish to visit. 

And after that, the execution of the plan had never been more crystal clear. My heart whispered to me that it couldn't take any more of this; and I had never been more grateful for my platonic connections. People I could give my heart to and knew they would keep it safe and warm. People who did not leave me alone to overthink. 

People who understood I wasn't dramatic and oversensitive; I was just somebody who had been thrust into adulthood a little too quick. And I was trying to be better. I was trying to tame my emotions, which somehow seemed to always soar a little too high. 

Nevertheless, I also found myself yearning for home a little too much this week. My parents came to visit on Saturday, and I had to clutch my hands at my sides to stop myself from lunging for my mother's neck for a hug. I have always screamed I hate physical intimacy, yet suddenly I craved for nothing more than a hug that could pressure the cracks in my chest into fixing themselves. These impossible cracks: ones I had ignored as they grew wider and wider. A snarky remark about my dress; an ignored greeting, an averted eye contact, a Sidestepped white-flag that took a night's effort on my part, an open declaration of hatred said in the way of a joke, a personality created to fit in a box that felt more comfortable: I had ignored all of it, till the crack had finally given way to something black and dark and liquid that ached. Insurmountably. And I had no idea what to do with it. And I was baby enough to admit that it made me want to hide in my mother's chest and never face the world again. 

Ironically, the world saw none of this. I knew exactly what the world saw. It's what I showed them. It saw an impeccably dressed woman, insufferable in all she is, laughing and bantering away with a confidence that was oh-so-envious. It saw the haze of a girl in a group of three, going about things as everybody else did. She wasn't special, she had a life as grounded in the dark crevices of reality as everybody else's was. She was like every other girl out there; she didn't wallow in misery in the dimmed lights of her room. I suppose that's what it is with us, isn't it? We all strive to be unique, to be different, even if it is by the littlest bit from each other, so much so that we shield our grief as unique too. We let it eat away at us, because we believe it to be unique and one of a kind, when it's not. In this hideous race to NOT be like others, the opposite happens, and we do exactly others do: We hide our grief and lock it away in vaults. We debate on which grief is superior; the poet's ache or the realist's concerns, and the answer is never conclusive. I am no better, I suppose.

However spring is here, and the greens and pinks and whites dissolve a tiny bit of my heartache. Flowers resembling cherry blossoms have blossomed all over the campus trees, painting streets in pretty shades of blush pink.  It has also brought along an unbearable humidity, one that makes me scared of what summer will bring forth. We have been sleeping in the Air-conditioned common room with twenty other people, on mattresses scattered across the floor, for the bedrooms positively feel like the realms of Lucifer. Classes have been interesting, if not draining. Our end semester examinations start in a few weeks, and the professors aren't being subtle about reminding us about it constantly. And that's life for now,

I suppose I will see y'all next week? Toodles!

Signing off, 

Shaona