You wonder about the crush that you had on that boy when you were thirteen years old. Did you actually have feelings for him or did you like him because you had to? What about all those celebrities you were attracted to? Did you just pretend to like them because everyone else did? You wonder if you can even have a crush anymore.
If you could see the world through my eyes
But then, you can't
And I don't expect you to.
I've always seen colors
In places I wasn't supposed to.
He proposed within a week as he was flying to the UAE. We were in a long-distance for 5 years, where we got to meet only a month each year.
My closet is a library, with nested closets filled with epics and love stories of that my heart wishes it would recreate, in this heteronormative world.
My closet frees me, my closet restricts me.
All I did
Was press me
Closer to himself
And hold on
To his thick long hair
Not ready deep down
I am essentially one of those borderline pessimistic realists, who would never get their hopes up in the fear of having their hearts broken. I remember telling myself on the night before the day that I will not let the verdict affect me, that no matter what I will not be disappointed and that I will not let myself feel defeated.
I look down at my rainbow socks, I used to cover them with black school stockings. I stare at them like I stare at my abyss and get caught up amidst flashbacks.
I open the app, and receive the texts from this guy who obviously was on the other side of the LoC, in what is called Pakistan Occupied Kashmir in India, and Aazad (Liberated) Kashmir on his side. I answered that I was on the Indian side, in Sopore.
As our friendship developed, we felt transported to our own magical world; where, in being our true selves, there was no denying the powerful energy connecting us to and the love we had for each other.
More often than not, we tend to fall in love with a depiction of how we feel about our selves.
You could say I get anxious when I feel people looking at me. Strangers sizing me up and down with their gaze. Desi aunties staring at me with slitted eyes, as if they know it is I that ravished the neighbour's boy.
Vincent and I met in person in the first week after I had moved to Paris. We met twice in that week and my heart was already lost to him.
Self love? How can I force my mind into loving a body that it cannot relate to. A mind that fails to find space in its vessel. It’s a terrible and violent act.
“I’m not a refugee. I am an immigrant,” you tell them but it doesn’t matter because you’re still different, and different is all they care about.
I always say that before I met Spoorthy, I did not understand what love was. Her love changed me, my anger, Casanova-nature, rudeness, and my all-time decision of not marrying anyone. I never used to believe in any relationships and always said that money could buy anything and everything. Her love taught me to smile, care for everyone, listen to others, and give other chances too.
Our first date was a dinner that lasted 3.5 hours; we were both amazed by how easily the conversation flowed and that our interests, values, and humour aligned so well.
She ignores my remark and continues to dream about her second daughter marrying an upper caste boy and raise sons. The last time I let the truth slip out, she laughed it off as a cruel joke.
It was not until one month later that we decided to actually connect and say "hey". But from that one "hey", things just spiralled into this wonderful chaos and we found ourselves entangled and drowning in this insane attraction.
Growing up, I always saw myself as British Asian. That was the culture that I was born into and existed in. But this identity conflicted with itself. British and Asian are two words that felt like two entirely different worlds, and it seemed almost impossible to be both.
Sweeping pieces of my heart from under the bed, the table and shedding the bits that get stuck to the broom is old. But damn, it felt so much worse after us. Your complex cage set me free and returning to you felt better than seeing the world.