Like Me, Like You

I don't like hiding it when I like someone. I like telling everyone that I like this amazing person. That their existence makes me glad to have existed. That it's a love story. That the way they walk, talk, move their arms, gaze out at the ocean; it completes me.

I like celebrating that of the many that could've crossed their path and of the many that did cross mine; ours crossed at all. I like recognizing how small the probability of that happening really is and being ecstatic that it did happen. I hang on to their words, I stare at their eyes when they speak and I steal glances over my shoulders when we part ways. I put them up on a pedestal; I am kind, forgiving, patient. I exalt them. I boil over with joy and their name grace my lips candidly but constantly.

I don't choke them. I don't suffocate their dreams. I don't hold their hands and ask for forever. I never demand to be loved back. I play my part and revel in my own feelings; mostly self-inflicted heartache.

Perhaps my love story is not about them at all but about the alternate realities that I create based on who I am with them. A purely selfish endeavor to discover the many facets of being me. Learning, un-learning and re-learning along the way.

In romantic love, I seem to prefer those that are invariably poisonous for me. What surprises is though, how scared people are of being loved. How anxious and uncomfortable they get when they are loved by someone they don't understand.

Hate on the other hand seems a lot easier to accept. People don’t question your intentions when you borrow money and don’t return it; they nod their head in belief when you cheat them and curse their stars when you snatch a promotion from under their feet. But if you love them, they start to look at you with slanted dis-believing eyes; they question your motivation.

It is exhausting loving someone who is blinded by the halo surrounding them. Selfish, just like me. It’s a harmful cycle.

So I float. Up, up and away. Trying my best to devotedly, unconditionally, vigorously and blatantly love me.

 

Nani

My hands were tearing up ruti and using it to mop up vegetables and chicken curry from the plate in front of me. A bit of this, a swipe of that, the food did not taste like anything. I was just hungry, shoveling the food into my mouth, too tired to taste. Suddenly I looked down at the plate, my fingers moving, the food being mushed together and I had a dejavu of the time I saw my grandmother’s fingers do the same. I was staring at her plate the same way. She was eating haphazardly, old, ill, slightly delusional. The food seemed difficult to chew, barely enough to keep her big body alive and well. But it did.

My nani has always been a big lady, as far back as I could remember. Everyone said that I got her bone structure. Staring at my plate and remembering her a thought suddenly crossed my mind; what if I turned into her when I grew older. Big, wrinkly, dark circles around her eyes, mopping up gravy with unleavened bread, disoriented and slightly delusional. I panicked.

Then reality hit me smack across my face.

I can only hope that I turned into her. She has been a wishing well of love for our family. Growing up, I have never seen her kitchen closed for anyone. There was delicious food for anyone who walked in through her doors at any time. She has always opened up her house, her kitchen, her life to people in need; helping, encouraging, pushing. Every tradition, every festival was only festive when we were at her house.

She is my favorite. Her children worship her and take care of her unconditionally. She has never gossiped in her life and had taught me all the essentials; how to pickle EVERYTHING, cook the best gorur mangsho with whole spices and pretend-knit for a school-play. She was the superhero who had covered my baby cot with her anchal all night for a week after my birth, saving me from villainous mosquitoes. Not once has she told me that I was getting old, I needed to get married or have babies.

She was the one who made me; the dark-skinned little misfit with self-confidence issues feel like a princess; while the rest regaled over my cousins who had milky-white skin.

To my Nani, I am grateful for your shade. I will always be your ‘Rajkoinna’ and you will always be my best.