“I love you”, he said into the phone.

She kept sitting there on the stool hearing nothing in the midnight silence

except the loud thuds of her heart. Her heartbeat went from normal to extremely slow

while she tried to take a few gasps of breath as softly as possible so he wouldn’t hear her.

“I really do”, he said a little more urgently.

In that one moment all her fears of perhaps being with the wrong person, of perhaps

thinking loving someone is wrong, of perhaps thinking she couldn’t possibly love someone as

dangerous to her as him faded into the dark night. Her entire body leapt in response to his words.

She wanted to say yes.

She wanted to say yes more than she wanted to breathe and she couldn’t believe she could

feel like this.

“Are you sure”, she asked softly waiting for reassurance.

“Yes” he says…”when it rains I think of you and it rains here every day.

It makes me yearn for you.”

She smiled and said, “I feel the same way.”

That night she slept feeling the passion of first love. She felt a rush, an excitement,

a thrill, a need to be with him so strong that it created a physical ache in her gut.

She slept with a smile on her lips and romance in her heart.

————————————————————————

At 7 am he woke her up as usual. Her phone rang and before she even picked it up she

Knew it would be him. As it had been for almost a year now.

“Rise and shine gorgeous!” She smiled and it was the best start to the day.

At 3 pm that afternoon he called her again.

“I was missing you,” she said.

“hey me too…I wanted to tell you something. What I said yesterday…forget about it. I mean

I’m really sorry but I don’t think I actually do.”

“You don’t think you love me?”

“I…I think so…I feel like that right now…I..dunno…maybe I do. But I keep thinking of her too.

I miss her.”

————————————————————————————

It had happened again. It was the thousandth time that he professed he felt something and

then retracted almost immediately. It was the thousandth time when he spoke about her. ‘But why?

But why did he have to woo me? I hadn’t loved him. In all our years of friendship

I had only seen all seasons with him as a friend. As he began to feel he had lost her, he had

turned the force of his potent charm to me.’

There was flirting, flowers, walks in the rain, moments where they had almost kissed

…he awoke the woman in her…he awoke her to her potential to feel

love and passion and she tried hard to fight it. But she had always known that as anything more than a friend

he would be dangerous to her. She was just a straight forward tom-boy who loved to read

and had never experienced much male attention. But he…he was the classic Casanova, not very

obviously good looking but attractive, dangerous, exuding sexual confidence.

In that one moment when he hesitated, her heart raced over the various possibilities…could she be in love

with him? Could she have a relationship just to find out? Would it break her heart if he

left? And then she knew she could never be second. Second to anyone.

This time as a tear fell down her eyelashes and cascaded her cheek, she said

in a steady voice, “I think you should be with her. You’re uncertain and your feelings for

her are pulling you to me. I think you should figure out which way you want the wind to blow.”

She said the words hoping against hope that he won’t choose to leave. She said the words with

extreme pride. Pride that hides the biggest wound ever…the wound of a heartbreak.

——————————————————————————

He chose to stay away for a month and they decided it would be best to not speak in that while.

Not once did she pick up the phone to call him. Not once did she make the mistake of texting

him. But every hour she looked at the phone hoping he would, as he had always done on

the hour. Every hour she looked at the phone with a lump in her throat telling herself it was

for the best…it would never have worked out…she could never be in love with someone who was

still hung up on his ex. But it hurt. Every hour yet another knife would slice up a piece of her heart

while she waited impatiently. He was as proud as her. He did not call that entire month.

Time flew fast. It also moved at a snails pace and was sometimes so excruciatingly slow that she would

wonder  whether she had given into the pain and moved into a still oblivion. But time did pass and with

determination she wrenched her heart free from him. She did it for herself because she could never

be second. The monthwas  finally over.

————————————————————————————

“Hey…how you doing?” He asked the moment she picked up the phone.

“Hi…I’m fine. How’re things with you? How’s the job and life in general?”

“Great…I met a senior manager at the office and they want to give me…” the trivialities continued

for a while until they reached an awkward silence.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry to put you through this. Thanks for being so mature… you were right.

I do love her. And I was confusing my feelings for her with my feelings for you. You’re the bestest friend

ever and I’m sorry for screwing that up.”

Somehow it didn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt that much because in the span of the month she had forced

herself to stop loving him. She had forced herself to know that he thought of someone else and that even

if he came back she wouldn’t take him. But she also knew that they could be best friends again after

a while because he was proud as she was. So neither would be a fool to succumb to their feelings.

———————————————————————————–

Ten years later they are still friends and every time they meet there is an odd sense of nostalgia…

about what could have been. But they also know each other well. They look at their current chosen

partners with amusement knowing that they could have been better but also feeling content and lucky to have walked

away years ago knowing they could have been worse.

Disclaimer: Some characters, events and circumstances in this series are completely fictitious. Some are productions of my imagination but I’m having real difficulty separating those figments from reality. Some moments are very cherished parts of my reality.

I’ve tried hard to remember my toddler years. Really hard. I’ve had glimpses of situations and dialogues in bright colours but never quite remembered the beginnings or the ends of these. It always amazes me when in novels the main protagonist vividly remembers what happened to them when they were four. They can recall all those events with clarity that helped shape them into who they are when they step into the world as adults. I’ve read a little bit of psychology and I don’t know how true it is that your past can so deeply define your future. I think a lot of my early memories are simply random pieces of Lego that don’t quite contribute to the final structure but lie around just the same.

I would like to start this story from when I was eleven because I remember the most from that age. But then I figured if I am going to write this story it would be unfair to leave out the random bits I remember from earlier on. I mean there might well be some who are able to somehow fit these random pieces of Lego into the final structure. Who knows, they always say the picture is clearer from outside in.

I remember hating bitter gourd and spinach as a kid. I must have been five or six and I would sit at the dining table picking at my food long after everyone had left hoping my mom would finally give up and ask me to leave the table. It never happened. It was a rule. I had to finish everything on my plate before I left the table. Some days I would just gulp it all down like the most obedient kid on the planet and others I would cry and fuss and later sit at the table dragging the food off the plate into my mouth while dry tears shuddered through my body.

I still remember the dark starry nights when mom and I would sit on chairs in our big roofless balcony. We used to live on the first floor and there were apartment buildings with jus four apartments each. The two upper apartments had these large open balconies where at least ten kids could run around and play tag. My dad would be away a few days every month on exercise duty as he is an Army officer. Ocassionally, my mom and I would sit on chairs in the balcony and she would brush my hair. A hundred strokes. Everytime. She would brush it and I would count it.  ‘Why do you have to do a hundred mommy?’ ‘It’s because your hair will grow long and thick and shine’, she would say. And I’d feel so special and pretty. She once told me that trimming it on full moon nights would make sure it remains long and beautiful forever. We trimmed my hair that night. I haven’t quite done it since those kindergarten years.

I had a birthday party on that balcony once. I was five years old and a lot of my friends had come home. My dad was the co-ordinator. He conducted all the games and played with us and taught us little tricks and oh how we all loved him! He had dark brown hair, an easy smile, a boyish laughter and he was so tall. So we played musical chairs and blind man’s bluff and a game where your supposed to hop on one foot and then try to tag someone. That one was never happy for the catcher. My dad then made us play coin in the circle. He filled a bucket with water and then placed a bangle inside the bucket and drew a line a foot away and gave us a coin. The one who got it inside the circle or closest to it would win a prize! I think some other girl did and I did feel a little miffed. I was the birthday girl afterall. Then we cut my birthday cake and ate all the yummy stuff my mom had made and the parents came to pick up their kids. Mom and I then sat on the bed and tore open all the gifts, gossiped about the evening and divided the gifts into liked and disliked piles. I don’t remember how that day ended but it was simply beautiful. I had quite a few birthday celebrations like this till I was about 12. It was amazing being the birthday girl.

We had moved to New Delhi. I was six or seven and went to school by bus everyday. My dad would walk me to the bus stop every morning at 6:45 and wave my friends and me good bye. I studied at Army Public School. It was humoungous. At least for a short scrawny kid it was. I’ll never forget this incident. I got into the bus at the end of another school day and my friend asked me to hold her ten rupee note while she put on her coat. I put it inside my coat pocket and forgot about it. We chatted and sang songs and played silly pranks all the way home. That evening I showed dad the ten rupee note and told him that I’d found it on the road outside the school building and I was going to go to the Lost and Found department to turn it in the next day. He said ‘good girl’ and that was enough for my heart to bloat with pride. I don’t know why I lied. And such a silly lie too. We walked to the bus stop as usual the next morning. The minute the bus arrived, my friend came running to the door and yelled anxiously ‘do you have my ten bucks? I’m really worried because my dad got angry with me for losing it and…’ I never heard the rest of that sentence as I was just horrorstruck by my dad’s expression. My cheeks were flaming red with shame and i couldn’t meet his eyes. His eyes. They had the most disappointed, sad and ashamed look in them. I saw myself stumbling downwards in them. All day in school that day I kept wondering what explanation I would have to give my dad in the evening. Evening came and my dad didn’t say anything about it. He didn’t mention it at all. Everything was normal. But I don’t think I’ll ever forget the expression on his face.

A new boy joined class right after the half yearly exams. We were in class two. He was made to sit next to me. For an Indian kid he looked quite angrez. He had sandy brown hair, very fair skin and was different from every other boy in class. He had a black pirates patch on his left eye! So cool and intruiguing! Even cooler than my glasses! I had been the only kid in class who wore thick glasses and everyone ooed and aaahd about it. But this boy simply stole the limelight! I remember the first conversation we ever had was about blue whales and how they were the largest creatures in the world. I don’t know why I remember that conversation but I do. I remember us talking about it excitedly and animatedly trying to one up each other with information. I used to be one of the most participative students in class but this boy added an element even there. Now everytime the teacher asked a question his hand would always shoot up too. I think it made me want to study harder. We became fast friends. His house was just a ten minutes walk from mine and he would come over some evenings to play in my back garden. We used to try and catch cotton balls that flew from the cotton tree. I think I liked him. He invited me for his birthday party. I was the only girl invited. I can’t begin to describe how cool and elevated that made me feel. After a few months we moved away but I always remember him and his black pirate patch.

A new city, new school, new friends and a new house. I used to both love the new and dread the new. When I was a kid it hardly mattered as every kid was a friend and we only wanted to play and there were no groups. I used to play with all the colony kids in the open spaces between the blocks of houses. There were at least twenty or more of us. We would play gallery and tag and hide and seek and all sorts of running games. Thats the beauty about living in India; you always have kiddie company and people to play with after school. One of the girl’s had a birthday coming up and she had tiny invitation cards in her hand which she gave out by calling each one of us in turn. I know it didn’t happen on purpose and being so many of us it was easy to miss out on a name or two but she didn’t give me an invitation card. Oh how it hurt my tiny little heart. I tried standing around putting on a brave face and smiling at the rest. Nobody noticed my agony and then I ran home the first minute I could slip away. I cried like the baby I was. My mom was horrified (she always was when things upset me) and kept telling me it was okay and that we wouldn’t invite that kid for my birthday. She had totally made up her mind that the kid was a villian. Bless her. My dad took the sobbing for just about ten minutes when he’d had enough and said ‘whats the big deal, she must have forgotten and there’s no need to cry. If she’s a friend go ask her what happened and if you can’t well there are many other birthday parties to go to.’ I don’t remember what I did but I do remember the hurt of first rejection and feeling like the odd one out in a crowd. It might be silly today but not at seven it was not.

Ah memories. Once you start tapping into them they come pouring out. I always think that everything has a purpose, a lesson to teach you but somehow with memories I can never quite figure out their purpose. The one thing I know about memories is that they’re hard to share but I hope that as I get to know you and open up more I’ll be able to tell the bad ones, the sad ones and the ones I’d dare not mention. I think I have had a very colourful childhood and there are so many more stories to tell. I’m hoping you’ll help me piece it all together.