*Inspired by true events around me*
When Radha and Harshitha were 12, they conducted Bhagwad Gita competitions in their school. Harshitha always teased Radha for taking it too seriously, for going the extra mile to get everything right – the verses, the tone, the pronunciations. Despite Harshitha’s teasing, Radha always won. Every year. When Harshitha once asked her why this meant so much to her, Radha had told her that when she went home with the award, her grandfather’s face coloured with rapture. She sought solace in that and so she persevered year after year.
It has been 13 years since. Radha and Harshitha are 25 now. Radha lives in Germany. Harshitha lives in India. Yesterday morning, as usual, Harshitha expected a good morning message from Radha, as it had become their daily routine.
But Radha’s message read “Thata passed away last night. I am okay.”
Harshitha was at office and a WhatsApp call was immediately made. Naturally, Radha explained the details of her grandfather’s death.
Harshitha reluctantly asked, “Are you okay?”
Radha choked up and replied, “I am”
Very little was spoken.
Flashes from the past had stirred the deepest of emotions.
They stayed on call for a long time, sharing moments of silence – it was all they could do.
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The Netflix Party icon changed constantly from Ice-cream to Cookie to Chocolate to Popcorn to Ice-cream again, with Ram spellbound by the brilliance of “Once Again” at the end of it, while Sathya dozed off during the interval.
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It was Devi’s birthday, the first she had spent alone, lost, and stranded in a new city chasing bigger dreams. Although she wasn’t a big fan of birthdays, there were certain traditions she enjoyed and cherished. As a ritual, two things occurred on her birthday.
1. A friend would show up with excitement flushing on her face and very pretty sunflowers.
2. She would write a note to herself on what the year had to offer, the things she had learned and let go, how proud she was to have made it through so much, the blessings she could count on, everything she was looking forward to, and revisit what Devi a year ago had written and laugh.
She was a beautiful writer, absolutely captivating.
To keep up with the ritual, she sat down and penned her thoughts. It started with “Turning 25 has been momentous friends” and ended with “My friend drew me this pretty thing – a sunflower with 25 between the stem. The idea was upwards and onwards from 25. Let’s see how it goes.”
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12:47 pm: Bro, drink water.
5:12 pm: Thanni Kudi Mudhevi.
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There was a foreigner who had graciously volunteered to help Nivi secure the last room in the building. As an expression of gratitude, Nivi had made a mental note to invite her for lunch once she fully settled in. Nivi had spent days cleaning the room, arranging the furniture, colour coding the curtains and bedspreads, decorating it with fairy lights, setting up frames and posters and whatnot.
The room was now a piece of her personality. The space breathed her essence.
So, she had called up the foreigner on account of repayment for her sweet gesture and invited her for lunch. The foreigner had agreed instantly and visited the very next day. When she walked into her room, she was surprised at how Nivi had shaped an empty, strange, room with love and life. She had inspected every corner and for the most part, the room was gleaming with light and colour.
Except, except, a series of Polaroid photos that caught her attention. They were so real, candid and adorable in every sense.
“Nivi, your room is very beautiful but these pictures are beyond words. Are they your friends and family? And why are all the pictures in black and white? Makes it sad for some reason. You miss them a lot, don’t you?”
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They were a group of 17 people. Everybody envied them. Some wanted to be a part of the group. Some wished they had a group like that. Some wanted to figure out the dynamics. “Imagine 17 minds”, people would say, followed by “Blessings only. I wish I had that” and they would all pause and smile at each other. Nevertheless, if they had to be honest, at some point in their lives, one or the other had thought the friendship would fizzle out, distance would come in the way, or their worst nightmare – they’d be left out.
But on nights when g-meet links were passed around, alcohol choices were discussed, and loud cheers resounded across screens, every doubt, every trouble had faded away into the air. A few drinks down, one of them would suddenly start humming “En Iniya Pon Nilave” and the entire group would join along “Pon Nilavil En Kanaavae”.
Not everybody could make it to the call, but Raja Sir always did.
And in that instance, everything would be blurry and one thing clear – they were home.
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The trail was so familiar that the car had naturally made its way to a house where two friends once smoked up every Wednesday and discussed philosophy, politics, love, sexuality and everything that concerned them in great detail.
It was a Wednesday.
He was locking the car only to realize the house was empty.
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They say love waits for all of us in places where no one is looking. Sneha hoped that perhaps one day, her lover Parvathy would come to realize this, that it was right here all along, lingering uncomfortably, waiting to be seen. It was in the letters that were written but never sent, in photographs nobody knew even existed, in nightmares that subsided only when they slept together, in a sip of coffee that would hit a little extra when fingers would grace, in a vulnerable conversation after exactly three glasses of wine, and in all the mirrors they would catch a glimpse of each other, afraid of the intensity and feelings that would creep up when they looked directly into each other’s eyes.
It was even in Parvathy’s visiting card that had always peeped out like a reminder of a love that struggled whenever Sneha opened her purse. She had kept it as a celebration of Parvathy’s firsts.
What she taught was a fairy tale of love, longing, and desire, had come to an end on a rainy day when Parvathy had looked away, mumbling “I don’t think this will work out.”
Hearts were broken.
Sneha was drowning in misery.
She needed help. Only, she never knew how to receive nor allow people in. The only way Sneha knew to cope was by pushing people away. She would stop talking to everyone, cut contact, never appear in social gatherings, and live in a pile of work. It was who she was and how she functioned to get back to what people would call “normal”.
She just needed that space to put things into perspective. Vanishing was her getaway.
10 days later when her best friend Akshara would call her up for the umpteenth time, Sneha still wouldn’t respond. Minutes later, her colleague would walk up to her table with two boxes of her favourite ice cream and a note.
“Somebody sent you ice-cream”.
The entire office would stare at her with their eyebrows raised, giggling, and a lot of “Ummm”, “ey ey ey”.
They would all share the ice-cream leaving enough for Sneha as she rushed to the restroom with the note. She would sit on the commode, take a deep breath and eagerly open it.
“Parvathy illana Nithya Menon varuva.
We know you are stubborn.
Petromax light than venumnu adam pidikadha.
Eat ice-cream and sing I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice-cream.”
Jokes apart, hehe.
Thangam, we’ll find somebody who wants us as much as we want them. That time, things will be different. I wish I could do something, anything, and take away all your sadness. Hold on da Pattu.
And don’t forget what you always say,
Namba Than Gethu.
Namba Mattum Than Gethu.
I’ll see you next week if you let me, that is.
Love,
Akshara.
Sneha had laughed and then bawled.
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It was a lazy afternoon for the rest of the world but Arjun was bursting in joy. His eyes had teared up for a graduation ceremony taking place somewhere across the seven seas. When he heard the announcer say “Vikram.V.M’, he went on to press random keys on his laptop to immediately start a screen recording, capturing a moment with pride swelling in his heart.
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Hello, I can’t hear you.
Hello, I can’t see you.
Hello, your voice is getting stuck.
Hello, I can hear you but video is stuck.
Hello, Hello, Hello.
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Cute.