So, this happened. Sometime in the second half of December 2018, I found myself on the dance floor of a close friend's wedding party. With a girl I loved. She was dressed in beautiful blue. I was all elbows and angles. She could dance like the devil in the pale moonlight.
That is when it happened. When I twirled her awkwardly, trying to hide my own embarrassment, while trying to not take my eyes off her, she laughed. She wasn't laughing at me, or with me. I had heard that before. At the end of bad dates and unsuccessful interviews. It was now flowing out of someone I loved.
I loved her when she first told me she liked me. I loved her when she was kind enough to ask me out. I loved her when she held my hands, and told me 'its alright', as my introverted anxiety-ridden self decided to bail on a party. I loved her when she loved me. I loved her when she no longer did. I loved her when she had a boyfriend 3 years ago. I loved her when she broke up. I loved her when I told her I loved her. I loved her when she said "I don't want to lead you on." And I love her still.
Ours was not a love of passion, or fire, or any other adjective that you find in a Mills&Boons romance. There was no intimacy. Perhaps that was the sign. But, for anxiety ridden, socially awkward dork like me, it was enough. I loved her in Neruda's words, 'like certain dark secrets/between the shadow and the soul'.
Later, when we were going home after the wedding, she remarked, "Next time, I want to come to your wedding." I turned to look at her. In that 2-minute distance which the rickshaw travelled between Marol Maroshi and the Metro, she knew. She knew that I knew.
I knew it 8 years ago. When she first asked me out. She danced, glided through the hearts of boys around her. I did not take lunch breaks or talk to anyone in the office. She could charm her way into a party and hold conversations. I couldn't talk my way out of depression. She was all action. I was all words.
Yet, I tried. I hung out with her friends. Who became my friends. I became the nerd who cracked dork jokes. I went on a trip with her, and her then-boyfriend, to Goa. Simply because some of the other guys bailed, and she did not want the only other couple on the group to feel weird. So, there I was. In Goa. The single guy travelling with two couples. I would find every excuse to text her and talk to her. I invited her to movies I had already watched. I would deny her a chance to pay for the tickets because I considered them as 'dates'. I would sit there in the dark, by her and steal glances. I would tell her every 'big' thing that happened to me at work. In the stupid belief that she might just be impressed, and finally notice what I wanted her to see.
Before I could come to terms with it, 7 years had passed and I was on a dance floor with a beautiful woman. Confident, defiant, and sure of herself in front of everyone else. With me. Still awkward, embarrassed, and seeking her approval. That last part. That was what I had become.
A day later, I got invited by another close friend to a new year's party. I bailed at 10 pm. The music, people dancing and revelling, and drinks brought back something I did not want to remember. It took me 7 days to get these many words going.
She is still a close friend. We share secrets I cannot tell anyone else. I can still laugh at her, with her, and not feel awkward. Everything I am, in some small way, is because of her. And for her. But I know, it was not enough. It is the one thing I am sure of.
Thus, goes the story of my love. It never is enough.
Camus once said, "The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy."
These were the best days of my life. These were the worst days of my life.
PS: I called the friend who invited me to the New Year's party and apologised. I didn't know I had it in me to be courteous.
That is when it happened. When I twirled her awkwardly, trying to hide my own embarrassment, while trying to not take my eyes off her, she laughed. She wasn't laughing at me, or with me. I had heard that before. At the end of bad dates and unsuccessful interviews. It was now flowing out of someone I loved.
Ek aadat si ban gayi hai tu/Aur aadat kabhi nahi jaati
I loved her when she first told me she liked me. I loved her when she was kind enough to ask me out. I loved her when she held my hands, and told me 'its alright', as my introverted anxiety-ridden self decided to bail on a party. I loved her when she loved me. I loved her when she no longer did. I loved her when she had a boyfriend 3 years ago. I loved her when she broke up. I loved her when I told her I loved her. I loved her when she said "I don't want to lead you on." And I love her still.
Ours was not a love of passion, or fire, or any other adjective that you find in a Mills&Boons romance. There was no intimacy. Perhaps that was the sign. But, for anxiety ridden, socially awkward dork like me, it was enough. I loved her in Neruda's words, 'like certain dark secrets/between the shadow and the soul'.
Later, when we were going home after the wedding, she remarked, "Next time, I want to come to your wedding." I turned to look at her. In that 2-minute distance which the rickshaw travelled between Marol Maroshi and the Metro, she knew. She knew that I knew.
I knew it 8 years ago. When she first asked me out. She danced, glided through the hearts of boys around her. I did not take lunch breaks or talk to anyone in the office. She could charm her way into a party and hold conversations. I couldn't talk my way out of depression. She was all action. I was all words.
Maana ke main tere deed ke kaabil nahi/Tu mera shauq dekh, intezaar to dekh
Yet, I tried. I hung out with her friends. Who became my friends. I became the nerd who cracked dork jokes. I went on a trip with her, and her then-boyfriend, to Goa. Simply because some of the other guys bailed, and she did not want the only other couple on the group to feel weird. So, there I was. In Goa. The single guy travelling with two couples. I would find every excuse to text her and talk to her. I invited her to movies I had already watched. I would deny her a chance to pay for the tickets because I considered them as 'dates'. I would sit there in the dark, by her and steal glances. I would tell her every 'big' thing that happened to me at work. In the stupid belief that she might just be impressed, and finally notice what I wanted her to see.
Before I could come to terms with it, 7 years had passed and I was on a dance floor with a beautiful woman. Confident, defiant, and sure of herself in front of everyone else. With me. Still awkward, embarrassed, and seeking her approval. That last part. That was what I had become.
A day later, I got invited by another close friend to a new year's party. I bailed at 10 pm. The music, people dancing and revelling, and drinks brought back something I did not want to remember. It took me 7 days to get these many words going.
She is still a close friend. We share secrets I cannot tell anyone else. I can still laugh at her, with her, and not feel awkward. Everything I am, in some small way, is because of her. And for her. But I know, it was not enough. It is the one thing I am sure of.
Thus, goes the story of my love. It never is enough.
Camus once said, "The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy."
These were the best days of my life. These were the worst days of my life.
PS: I called the friend who invited me to the New Year's party and apologised. I didn't know I had it in me to be courteous.
