#shayan das

Last night I saw a group of friends laughing at the café and ended up smiling myself. The other day, there was a couple kissing under the flicker of streetlight, and I thought to be gentler with me. For when you've been alone for more than half your life, you don't expect to be included or cast your own light; rather, choose to reflect like the moon that never formed a constellation. When you've been on your own, it seems that even the wind that brushes past your skin has a purpose, like a stray dog that thinks every kind hand that offers it food is home. You make two cups of chai every evening and pretend there's someone to converse with, or keep one earphone dangling, hoping someone would care to listen. You keep your cellphone silent not because you're agitated with the numberless messages, but because it hurts less not knowing there isn't one. You mistake your heartbeats for footsteps not because someone's arriving but because you think they must have.

"So, what of next year's resolutions?", I heard my friend ask the other day and found myself stuck in a quiet storm, stirring the ache of all the changes I'd wished for but never lived this year. New days, new weeks, new months, new years, how often I've chased the illusion of 'new', convinced that everything would start from the very beginning only to find myself, each day, pleading for the following day, begging each week for another week. How dearly I've celebrated the turning of each year, like prophets ushering in salvation, only to discover the freshness of the same calendar fading by February, the corners dog-eared, and promises so solemnly sworn becoming ghosts lingering in the silence of unkempt rooms. As if the trees that shed their twigs in autumn do not grow the same leaves with the same roots in spring, as if when flipping pages in a book, the story never retains its plot, as if the mere change of a night could unshackle the chains of a lifelong sorrow.

But I've lived, thrived half my afternoons wondering whether mom would prepare my favourite dinner for the evening; put up with distances hoping it would make the brief meetings monumental; got through half my exams pondering about the things I would do the night after the last paper; fought extra hours expecting it would help me sleep better. Lord, I no longer wonder why 'tis so easy to give up when you've got nothing to hope for.

I discovered self-love that very day when I extended my arms to embrace your delusional form and ended up embracing myself.

"No, I won't eat," 5-year-old me would say and slam the door with vexation after being rebuked by his mother. "You eat alone," he'd cry in response to the persistent calls, knowing at the same time that mom wouldn't take a single bite, leaving him hungry. After an hour or two, mom would be back with the plate, feed him with her own hands, and home would be where it was supposed to be. The pollen grains, I learned, dare to fly, soar, and flutter in the wind only 'cause they know there will be flowers to catch them.