Padman, Padman: Whatta Period!

Watta day at office to leave behind the footprints on the sands of time- wait, why am I quoting H. W. Longfellow’s ‘A Psalm of Life’? It was one of my most adored poetry pieces of the Std. 9^th syllabus. Anyway, my attempt at sarcasm is quite often ear-bleeding, I’m told. I quite agree.

So, I’m at this café asking my best friend the potential names for babies and exchanging vigilant glances across the adjacent table only to deduce the girl’s trying too hard to please the guy- they’re on a Tinder date, my James Bond spirit shimmers in pride. Man, I really got to not divert away to stupid stuff during headaches- therefore Facebook login. There you go- another peer getting engaged, shoot! Fake saree candid, uh huh. Road trip pictures, wow. ‘Karni Sena to protest against Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s next musical he’s working on’ – I predict well, haha. A man posing with a Pad, a woman too, more than two people in fact- Scroll down. Scroll up. Pause. What?

I clearly remember being in Std 7^th when Mom was speaking with my Bua over the phone with Dad ironing his shirt. With the Chemistry book in hand, I saw her sigh an anticipative ‘She is yet to grow old’ and Dad frantically rubbed my back. About a week later, I return home midday crying my lungs out that my Wednesday sports skirt has blood stains. And that the school reception gave me a rectangular object to place under my underwear. But there was blood still. Maa checked, told me I had placed it on the wrong side, got me all cleaned up, fed lunch and put me to sleep. Oh, I had slept like a baby that day- for a straight 14 hours. I woke up only to find the bed stained. Maa placed the similar rectangular object on my hand, gave directions about placing it on the right side and asked me to call it a Pad.

Oh that time! I was among the selected unluckiest lot who had the most torturous five days of a month. The first day of the period meant a guaranteed vomit sessions, followed by a ten minute serious unconsciousness. It sailed into a feeling of broken back and soaring temperature through the second and third day and comparatively better through the remaining two. The time, however, genuinely promised royalty. No making the bed, no doing the dishes, no going to sports, no disturbance in sleep- Dad would massage my feet every time he was home. I generally felt good except for these times when my grandparents visited us and grandmother would discuss with Dad that being born a girl is such a pain. I was not allowed to join them for temple visits and was even asked to skip homework. There would be hush hush talks about that time of the month where it’s fair for me to appear dull and lost. I found it convenient.

That sort of got me to use the period as an excuse through school and early days of college. I had huge respect for people who gave me space when I would tell them about my ill health. They supported me acting special about it. I think I met a pilot who was invited to college for a session. While I showed her the rest room to change around, she mentioned she’s not well. Assuming it would be that time of the month, I expressed my genuine sympathy as to how brave of her to have made this. I swear, I had never felt that guilty before- she was shocked with my calling a normal, natural occurrence special. Her words still ring in- “As women, we already have a lot of challenges to convert to privileges. If we’re the ones to demean what goes into our making, we cannot expect the world to believe otherwise.” Something changed within that day.

It’s been 6 years I’m away from home. A total of 11 years, 2 months and 5 days of period pain encountered already- if I make it past 50, there’s still 26 more years to go before I hit menopause- might as well make peace with the system! I don’t say there’s a time when I look forward to welcoming them with open arms but we’ve kind of reached a settlement wherein we’re normal about it. There’s pain, cravings, cramps and acceptance. By now, I’ve travelled, worked, shopped, sweated out, and performed - all my schedules have check-boxed with the period schedule. Acceptance.

Except for the medical stores who would still go for a layer of newspaper wrapping followed by a black polybag before they’d handover pads with the looks of a scared drug dealer, except for the religious heads who wouldn’t suggest you being a part of some holy ritual because your impurities would dampen their already blackened spirits into darker holes, except for the ladies and gents who would shush you when you exclaim you’re on your third day of periods- it is supremely uncomforting to hear you talk about your problem that vocal and public, what has this generation turned into, a fanatic modernity?-  all acceptance except these.

Arunachalam Muruganantham’s a hero. I must confess I love him for his sense of humor and simplicity. While the world gets to live the story of our real ‘Padman’ in the Akshay Kumar starrer on Feb 9^th, I’m already swooning over a dialogue from the trailer which goes something like “I never study IIT, IIT study me now.” This guy’s making lives brighter- I take to the context of #Padman challenge where he asks people to pose with pads, reigning the spirits of how they’re not ashamed to hold one in their hands.

This isn’t a publicity #metoo stunt. It feels accomplished to see celebrities holding pads, men not shying away from standing by the spirit of normal womanhood, women steering it calm and clear in a similar fashion- Oh My! The last few days have been a treat to the eyes to watch this easy breezy wave of acceptance.

Oh, there’s of course miles to go- We got to reduce the usage of plastic and promote menstrual caps. But all new beginnings deserve applauds. I wish I was at home to pose with Maa and Papa holding sanitary pads along with me but work commitments…Since my sister’s going to be a doctor anyway, it would just be redundant of her promoting the PADMAN spirit.
Therefore, I come back home to wake my flatmate up to click me with a pad only to find the pictures coming bad. We tried a few angles and then decided I cannot be looking so dull (read cough and cold) with a pad in my hand. I shall go without one for now, sigh!

Now, before this sweet wave of kind gesture rubs across into “I’m holding a Pad and I support period, and the existence of women, and their right to live….and blah blah blah”, I take to my happy little victory dance because this right here, right now is Feminism in place. No shrieks, no hues- we’re happy in the company of our period being accepted. Period.

It’s 2 AM and I’ll sleep blessing Muruganantham again. And Twinkle Khanna for bringing the story to us. And my best friend who’ll hopefully take me for a whistle-filled Padman watch on Feb 9^th!

Wake up bright, dear world!

His Happily Hippie Ever After

Chumming or not, food and clothes always get me tripping.
So what if I end up bulk shopping right when you break out the news to me- I’m not even embarrassed when you are almost verbatim that my wedding collection has surpassed yours.
You are most definitely worried because I’d planned to attend four weddings the last year and treasured my obvious absence through all four of them- I wish I could tell you I’d make it to yours even from my death bed, it feels that necessary. But I send you a screenshot of my ticket bookings instead.
You see, all of us like keeping promises in words and fail all the more often. I wouldn’t like any such repeat telecasts and therefore, I pat myself affirming I’ll live the actions proper this time.

It shouldn’t be a big deal- you neither. Like it didn’t feel that way when you and I were just colleagues. I was crazy about the OnePlus phone series and one fine day, I see a bulky, chubby, loud man going nuts about how he got that same phone for free because he had some contact working at Amazon. It didn’t matter to me except I burnt myself down for I had no such convenient contact and I’d been saving up for that phone since ages. Anyway, I have hated you ever since.

Or maybe, even more when I’d see you taking your work calls, walking to and fro around the receiver, glued like you’re already making your seven vows of marriage before the holy flames. Why wouldn’t you sit at one place and talk? Eventually, I was told you’re a work genius and maybe the appreciation started to pave way somewhere. But the eating habits, my goodness- all the junk factories would have agreed to a free lifetime supply of food had they been aware of how much of a value you’re to their business.

And therefore, when I found out the only kind of drink you make do with is ‘Virgin Mojito’ and in spite of that extra unprocessed fat content stuck to your body, you got the ‘Jhinga-la-la-hoo’ tribal dance step spot-on, I thought you were cute. We talked relationships, you laughed at my fascination towards Fish and Rice, made me awkward with the proclamation of how I’ll stay a fake Bengali ever. I felt your nudge for literature and poetry gone but not lost, and you never denied. You made my stay really difficult sometimes because had it been under your control, you’d have sentenced me for being at a wrong workplace. You were so impatient with all my dreams and achievements it was downright too overwhelming to contain sometimes.

With our individual break ups around the same time, you said you’re glad it happened to me and forced me into the tunes of ‘The Break-up song’ and ‘Baby I don’t want dollar bills to have tonight’. I don’t think I’d found my most dependable dart board yet until you were pretty explicit about walking me through the swamp, one day at a time.

Off late, I’ve really starting believing in the truth of us getting what we seek, maybe not always in the exact form we’d want them to be. And therefore, it is important to be on a watch. For all that you were to all that you’ve become, I can never put into words my gratitude towards every conspiring theory abiding to let this happen. It means the world to me when you play the cupid to my imperfect love. You give me the stature of family without any formality, you have told me a zillion times until now how your to-be-wife and I are similar in terms of independence and thoughts we hold. You understand that I care for you and you value it without any apprehensions. Our comedy show evenings, trips, rides and getaways shall always be about you getting to be the version you’ve always wanted to be.

I’m too young to be advising you about the new married world you shall step into but old enough to not let you forget that love holds the primary key between all equations. Compromises, regrets and failures exist to remind us that we’re capable of attempting- and that should never stop as and when we think fit. From colleague-to-acquaintance-to-friend-to-good friend-to-cupid-to-‘my last man standing’, may you stay the kind heart I’ve known you as, seems like forever now.

There are multiple reasons to never leave your side, also because you’ve a special responsibility of treasuring some of my biggest secrets password protected inside. To your big day advancing crazy and my incomplete shopping list yet to be check-listed, I’m already in a frenzy!

From Mr. Anirban Mitra to Mr. Anirban Ghosh, tell me later if the other side of the world is the same sunny?

P.S: Your to-be-wife and I discussed about letting you work after marriage, given we’re progressive and all. We shall think about it! :D

Breathe Your Flare of Fitness

“Do you think I’m fat?”
“I don’t think it’s about the bodyweight actually, do you think you’re okay with your current version?”
“No.”
“Change begins with acceptance. You start anytime you want to.”

It’s not an easy task sustaining one’s self- opinionated persona especially when there are a multitude of them around you. We have successfully managed to mess up our identities, 21^st century being the shield for all the wrong battles we’d pick primarily for an external display of our undying fighting spirit. Of course, we’re bound to lose because we don’t invest enough to understand our wants.
And therefore, it makes sense to proclaim “This is who I am. I’ll eat what I want to, when I want to. I’ll live the way I think fit. And I do not want any interference.”

As a nation, we’ve progressed to be only leading to regression. Homosexual marriages are not legal and we’re stuck over the alimony amount for divorces. We celebrate Independence Day in the same spirit of freedom which has got school girls being raped every day. The Dieticians all over the world are screaming about healthy living choices, be it food blogs or books or videos but our feminism will find rebellion in how our bodies and shapes shouldn’t be subjected to speculation/discussion, no matter what the purpose is.

I understand. I do because I’ve travelled that road many a times.

It wouldn’t make sense to me as to why I should listen to somebody else trying to tell me what to eat. As if parents force feeding their choices all through childhood wasn’t enough, there’s this other breed of concerned, aware, relevant people with degrees and consciousness about healthy living trying to impose their thoughts all over. I would be really frustrated if suggested with the idea of starting my day with two glasses of water, or including fruits in my daily meal. I mean, isn’t this one life all we got? Am I supposed to listen to all you crack-heads and control so much and just die? No, definitely not.

And of course, I understood a fit body as totally synonymous to a thin body. I won’t hesitate to admit that it felt bad to see ladies’ pose all confident and classy while I hesitated to even get clicked. I mean, the tummy shouldn’t show, the dark circles are too visible, the pimples give a really unclean look- I took to convincing myself that I’m not going to be starving to look like one of those, this is just plain crime.
And after a while when the guilt sunk too deep in, I took to starvation. My college was tough and I had stuff to do. This made up for a nice excuse to not have time to eat. There was a considerable weight loss except for the mind which was just growing impatient and more disturbed. I had a major loss of appetite and I was basking in the glory of how I’ve managed to control all my cravings given I wouldn’t feel the hunger at all.

The illusion continued for some time through office too- it was a different city, new people, new challenges and the realization of incapability to be able to handle all of those. The ego won’t let me ask for help and the pressure kept taking a toll on the whole system. My flexibility had reduced, I would be eating random and unchecked, at bizarre intervals. My body would struggle to lie every day that things are okay. It was around the same time I made friends with a colleague who happened to be a certified trainer and dietician. My arguments with him would often be based on how he’s ruining people’s life by giving them diet plans and asking them to starve. I took my liberty with all accusations and frustration of how I’ve tried all I could and I still don’t feel/look good according to me.

He seemed to have sensed that until confronting me about it one fine day. It led to a major breakdown but I knew I had help. And probably this is my chance to discover myself and recover. A Weight Loss challenge came up around the same time, I formed a team of two friends who were primarily into the challenge just because they valued me way too much. And I got them to promise that we’ll win this, no matter what. I took my motivation from the efforts my trainer would put based on his complete faith in me. Nothing would change if I wouldn’t follow his instructions but the guilt would never leave my side every time I would think I had a chance to get things right and I didn’t.

It began with dedicating myself to trusting a man (putting aside all the feminism and the anguish), start with getting the metabolism right, stick to the diet plan, work on hunger pangs, control even around sweets and fried snack and not miss the daily dosage of exercises. I started doing all of this with an initial thought of just winning the competition. However, by the end of 2.5 months, I was building into a responsible, newer version of myself who has begun to understand the importance of routine and a fit body and mind.

We did end up winning the challenge. However, there was a bigger one ahead: “You give me a challenge and I win it. But how do I choose to stand by what I’ve built after the time period expires?” There were multiples discussions with friends, colleagues and family crackling over how I would be back to square one given the target is accomplished.

I’ve to give it to my trainer and the dietician who chose to deal with me as a friend first. He got me to believe that certain situations and people will always be beyond me. And sometimes, I cannot do anything about it. However, that shouldn’t divert me from making the most of what I’ve got. I take the ownership of my body and therefore, only I should have the ownership of the mind and the thoughts I process too. It doesn’t matter what people say or think, I’ve a responsibility towards being comfortable in my own skin.

I’m in a space today where my bookmark list also includes health blogs. I’m a regular at researches regarding lifestyle and food habits. I run and exercise daily. My routine gets me to have a good sleep and wake up in time for Surya-Namaskar. I’m still adamant about my hatred towards gymming- the reason for Claustrophobia is now mentioned with a laugh at discussions. I feel proud because I get to advise my parents on how they should include boiled corn in their diet, they now listen because they somehow feel I deserve to be in that lecturing space.

Among the many transformations that I’ve had until today, I believe this particular one has made me a happier, patient, tolerant and a better person. It shouldn’t be about the world to make you define your choices, it should always be your willingness of heart and desire to go ahead and live your way. Sometimes, losing is winning. The circle’s going to be rotating all the time and we don’t want to get stuck at a phase. We are brave, brave enough to get up and roll with the circle. It’s one beautiful, rewarding life that’s meant to be seen and lived through the compassionate window of humanity and trust.
Never stop dreaming is the key to becoming what we desire for.
The roads traversed on this side won’t hurt; the journey shall be worth the self.

P.S: Start with breathing. J

The 8th Vow of Consent

The Exhibition centres have always been a favorite. The whole display of handcrafted jewellery, the artists putting to fine details their inspiration behind the oil-paintings and the charcoal sketches, and the captivating warmth around bumping into old acquaintances: I love dressing up to such events.

It hadn't been long when we met at one of the crockery stalls, Asha and I. A middle-aged woman, mesmerizingly justifying her nine yards of 'Banarasi Silk' draped graciously around, I almost curbed the urge of telling her how my Dad would have loved to meet her, given her striking resemblance to Rekha Ji. We immediately connected over our love for words and voices. And the next moment I know, she texts me the address of the venue I'm supposed to go visit as she would want me to host an event. She insists I should not give it a miss, not even for my love of sleep or some cosy self-admiring weekday sessions for this new home I was about to shift to, not even for my happening office commitments I was really looking forward to.

So, there I was, two weeks later, looking sharp and lost in my blue & white business suit. Maa says I look good in white and that I should keep some portions of it on, for all my big days, as a lucky charm. My mother has a degree in Psychology and right through childhood, I have always admired this profession and secretly dreamt of being able to host one of their Conclaves or Summits or Conferences someday. Today was the time.

I couldn't have been more honored to be a part of this Conclave which saw panelists like Amit Abraham, Sudhir Kakar and Asha.


Asha. Doctor of Philosophy in Psychology.
Dr. Asha, the woman who looked like Rekha Ji.
After the 3 hour panel discussion dissolved for it's first break, I just instincitvely rushed to hug her. We became close friends after that.

She insisted I call her Asha, and not Ma'am or Aunty.
I made her agree to calling her 'Dr. A', she said, "I know you want this title for yourself someday. This will be a good reminder to keep working towards it."

I would be frequent to Asha's clinic whenever she would be in town, and almost unapologetic about keeping her away from meetings due to our phone conversations, or Whatsapp.

Asha loved exploring the crockery, every corner of the world she would travel. However, like one typical Indian, she would always leave it at bargaining. She said she keeps no crockery at home because the empty sounds of dishes and plates hurt her. By now, I could tell there's much more to her than what she portrays, I had no option other than waiting for her to disclose her story, I was much younger.

At 43, Asha is pretty much living her life out of her ambitions and desires. She looked happy, I would try asking her why  she doesn't consider marrying again now that it's been 11 years since her husband died. She just let that suggestion pass everytime. I got to know why.

Asha was married to a businessman at 20. Coming with a family background of Professors and Educationalists, Asha wanted to pursue her Career ahead. What turned out instead was something common in Indian household, her husband didn't agree. In 1995, there wasn't much she could do about it except wait for the inflicted cries of manlihood on her to fade out so that she could bear some more the next day. She would bleed to unconsciousness in bed and beg him to let go, he would call her names and bring her to the oven flames and throw crockery at her and force sex.

Asha bore children 6 times and none of them survived.
She says she lived a life of prostitution and slavery for 12 years, except she wasn't even paid for it.

So, one fine day when she got a call informing her husband met with a spot death in a drunk driving case, she didn't even go to fetch his body and perform the last rituals.

She fled the city.

Dr. Asha today is a famous Psychologist. What she's made out of her life is commendable. She says her primary aim is to get penalised in India what she suffered everyday for 12 years: Marital Rape.

The UN Population Fund states that more than 2/3rds of married women in India, aged between 15 to 49 have been beaten, raped or forced to provide sex.
In the present day, studies indicate that between 10 and 14% of married women are raped by their husbands: the incidents of marital rape soar from 1/3rd to ½ among clinical samples of battered women.
Sexual assault by one’s spouse accounts for approximately 25% of rapes committed.

Article 2 of the Declaration of the Elimination of Violence against Women includes marital rape explicitly in the definition of violence against women.
While marital rape gets documented in hospitals, cases are rarely registered, since it is excluded from the India Penal Code’s (IPC) definition of rape, says an analysis by Dilaasa, a counselling centre based out of K.B. Bhabha Hospital in Bandra.

Sometime back, when Union Minister Maneka Gandhi said that even if there was a law against marital rape, women won’t report it, doctors and counsellors point out that Ms. Gandhi may not be off the mark, but that she missed the complete picture. Nayreen Daruwalla, director with Sneha’s Program on Prevention of Violence against Women and Children, said, “They do not report [marital rape] directly, but talk about it along with the other problems they face, such as husband not giving money."

What's extremely disgusting to each of our self-pride and worth is the scenario where we are ready to attack anybody who questions the rights of women to dress appropriately so that we could prevent rapes in India, however, most of us won't even accept that Marital Rape makes for 25% of the total rapes committed. Let alone the men, as women, we are just not aware of this term. In our heads, marriage is an institution, just like religion or education. Therefore, how can anything that's under the cover of marriage not be legal? How can unconsented physical relation not be sacred?

Each of us is fighting numerous battles, and nobody has the right to judge anyone for the account of their behavior.
But are we not going to understand if a child see his father forcing his mother into bed without her agreeing to it, are we/are we not helping raise a potential future rapist here?

Rape is a crime, we agree. While we celebrate our Independence Day on one hand and we drown into the news of a school girl being raped on her way to her school's Independence Day celebrations, we do feel we haven't inched closer to be able to deserve freedom.
Aged women being raped, married women and teenage girls, men being raped, infants and pregnant women being raped: It's time we move beyond the discussions on 'how to prevent rapes' to 'how to prevent the growth of rapist minds.' Those filthy brains are nourshing themselves somewhere, someplace watching rapes in the sacred pretexts of marriage happen.

Let's begin with accepting the existence of Marital Rape, let us not support it, let us help cut down on building rapists, let us get it penalised.
Let's live the duty we owe to ''the India.''

The Woman You Got To Find

Did it hurt while in the shell inside, you heard the world deciding over whether you should see the light of the Earth or set free by putting a 'No Entry' label to your birth?
Were you taken aback when you were questioned as to why you behave like a girl, or not, for that matter?
Did they laugh at you in school when for the Cricket team you nominated yourself as the Captain?
While making your first tea for family or a random set of strangers, were you nervous because you knew their expectations of you being a perfect housemaker is building up?
Wearing make-up or keeping your hair short and untidy, walking out in a gown or a skirt or a saree, did you feel they're noticing it all proper, to tell you later about it what's in store for your safety and what the world might eye?

In the coffee shop, across the newspaper stand, in the football ground, over the bridge: were you struggling all by yourself, in anguish and hatred, to prove You're much more than what they think you're not?
Did you run over yourself trying to outdo You because you know you're not just that?
Were you able to convince yourself that you are like their sons they've always tried to mould you into?

From Miss Popular in college to Miss Outstanding in office, could you manage to brainwash them that it's not always just about the looks?
Were your attempts in cracking a deal put to vain because they declared you're trying too hard to outdo the men?
With a partner, they'd agree you need him. Without a partner, they'll say you are disloyal and too big a dreamer to value love.

If you say you love marriages, it makes sense. When you talk Margaret Thatcher, and Mary, and Para Millitary Forces, and Robots, and Computers, and Boxing, and Weightlifting, they won't agree you know enough. You're just trying to pace up, you see.

From the size of your waist to the number of followers on Instagram, from the price tags of the items in your cupboard to the list of books you recommend in your lectures, from being a CEO of a top-notch organization to the wife and the mother, dear Ladies! You are worthy of everything you see around.
And if you desire to be the choices you make, you got to remember that Capabilities shall not be used as privileges.

You are beautiful. You are smart. You are funny. You are intelligent.

Do not get offended by the order in which these are put forward before you to rejoice in.
Do not hold it up against you when somebody says you can't do something.
Do not race up to choose in haste, just to prove you can do it in the best manner possible. They're nobody to show you your set of available choices.
Do not cry about feminism because to support women rights, we don't need to revoke the streets declaring we are one of them, pleading and victimised.

Not every man disagreeing to you disrespects you, not every person doubting you knows you enough to trust you.

You are precious. Sometimes, a little too much and often not enough. But you are worth to die for.

Regardless of what you think of, you are a diamond enough to live without the baggage of comparison and fear.

All you need is to find that one woman who's craving for it and set her free.

Maya's Spring

Maya's going bonkers tonight.
Like always, she has misplaced her Ghunghroos yet again.
She's been this careless ever since her dance lessons began. While she's in the school teaching the kids, she would forget the stationary at home. While at home, she will leave her lunchbox near the kitchen sink. And not to mention her dancing school, she's always running late.

Maya. She's 25. I met her 7 years ago. Her Mother was at our place asking Mom for some jewellery and money as they needed to marry their only daughter off. So, Maya took her seven vows with this 38-year-old divorced trader. And I never heard of her ever since, until three years back.

Campaigning for 'I Am Malala', while we were around in villages with the sanitary awareness and child/woman welfare programmes, I was introduced to this set of female volunteers who would help us hold the event. On the third day, there were some success stories being shared before we would wrap up the campaign. Our lead told us about this little girl with two kids, daughters, who was running around the village, sweating her way out to send her kids to school because her aged husband wouldn't allow that. His business flopped and therefore, the only remaining options he went with were drinking and getting violent with the ladies. His 21 year old wife even tried fleeing the village
with the daughters but failed miserably, thrice. It was around that time that this organization found her.

It took almost a year. The team helped her get a divorce and the daughters were sent into the custody
of an NGO, the same place where their 21 year old mother was appointed as one of the care-takers. When I had the opportunity to meet her, I happened to ask about her dreams. She was ecstatic in explaining to me that in village, they would show all of Shah Rukh's movies on a Projector: Swades, Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, Baazigar. And that she loved the character of Maya from Dil Toh Pagal Hai. She wanted to dance, breathe carefree.
She also hoped to romance Shah Rukh some day. She felt he was the first and the only man until then who could make her feel beautiful about herself.

Thus, I discovered our Maya.

I was back to college because the campaign ended. But we have managed to keep in touch.
Maya calls me DidiMa even though I'm two years younger to her. She says I feel like a mother each time she hugs me.

I spoke to her this morning. Their NGO is travelling to Nainital. And Maya's performing her first solo contemporary dance act. She's nervous, and she misplaced the Ghunghroos yet again.

Tomorrow is a big day for her. She told me she's got a dinner date after the event. I asked her to wear Red, she was adamant on going with Gray. We fought the discussion out with, of course, Maya giving in.

She was getting late for her final costume rehearsal and therefore rushed into the final words: "DidiMa! I will send a Whatsapp picture. My Summer seems to have found her Spring. I love you."

Yours Truly, Unrequited.

Unrequited, like it's essence does not promise returns.
I am not sure how it turns out to be fulfilling all the time: There's anguish, and regrets, and demands but a whole lot of abundant acceptance.
These friendships often never intrude the uninhibited zones.
And happen to leave behind a plethora of lifelong mystries.

Why did my best friend who walked me through my first ever school competition wasn't that heartwarming when I returned with the winning trophy to hand it over to her?
Why after explaining the difference between a 'Fast' and a 'Best' friend she had to give up on me the exact moment I was about to let the world know she's chosen to be my savior?
Why did it hurt when on the Friendship's Day, the wrist band she gave me was exactly the same like for the others?
Why would her lunch suddenly finish up right before I would rush to join her and expect to eat from each other's tiffin boxes, just like the old times?

Our crush for the same guy with dimples, my Mom trusting her more with handling my tantrums, my sister getting jealous of our Friendship, my Dad asking her to never leave my side while I'm on my bicycle -- her holding hands and being the support shoulder to a common friend, being ignorant of the fact that I feel abandoned, her sharing the class notes and hand made cards with the entire school and juniors but me, not waiting up anymore to wish me before I enter my allotted classroom for mid-term examinations, not even calling me by the name she used to.

My first friendship with my best friend who taught me all about it ended with the two of us just deciding to not cycle to school together anymore. I asked Mom to send my sister and I, just the two of us and nobody else.
I felt my possessive bits wanting to go hug her and bring her home to savor our favorite 'Orange' ice-cream. By then, she had already found a distraction in other friendships.

The last time I saw her was before leaving the city. I was returning with my Dad from school with all my certificates for the Board results. Dad congratulated her for scoring well in the exams. She did not take the sweets he offered her, though. That's when our eyes met and I meant the goodbye.

Until recent, I had been living friendships just like a ritual. There might be procedures but not necessarily the devotion. And one fine day, when the Sun shone bright, I was told I would be always valued as a friend because no matter if all the other chips go down, the friendship will keep us together.
The Light I thought I was following all this while said Friendship is particular and a certain way.

What I have been feeling now is Friendship is irreplaceable and a replacement, a security and a complete give-in, a promise and defying each one to make some more, a stay and a walkaway.

Like your favorite flower in the garden of Life, it shall surround you with the perfume of belongingness. But Roses will give way to Tulips one day, and Lilies to Forget-me-nots. That's the deal, you cannot expect them to hang on.

When I choose to see things both scared and carefree again, my Virgo asks me to not lose faith.
I will be made to stay in the Friendship so that no other definition binds me, to not let me be.