Thinking About Privilege

[This post seemed to have been both an academic as well as an emotional element. So, I have also posted this on the blog I use for academic opinions which is accessible at https://thepublicparticipant.wordpress.com/] 

I often wonder what privilege feels like- what it looks like. Having been a tall, light-toned, English-speaking, urban-dwelling, middle class, OC Hindu male in India, I have always felt envious of another person with a similar identity who probably had more money, a little more freedom and more lenient parents. I spent most moments of my teenage describing that marginal excess as Privilege. Today, a few years later, I have begun to understand how privileged I really am. 

If I had altered any of my aforementioned characteristics, I would have understood privilege a long time ago. But, by the relentless effort of my parents, the rigidity of social beliefs and my personal vanity, none of them have ever been altered. In my little time in Pune where the world showed itself to me, I have learnt to see things from the eyes of a person who is different from me in these aspects.

A shorter person is ridiculed more; a darker person is considered to be inferior; a person who speaks their mother-tongue is considered to be irrelevant; a rural dweller is considered to be dumb; a lower-class person is on the brink of civil death; persons of all the other castes are scorned at for inexplicable reasons; and a non-Hindu is believed to be full of malice. Today, I witnessed two events that reminded me about privilege. They were both relatable with the privilege that comes with being in the upper tranches of the economic classes.  

My friend and I set out to look for a florist who would sell us some flowers we were looking for. I live in an area which is filled with students and families with young children. It also has several street food joints which are frequented by each of them. Over the years, it became a market for mendicants and poor street hawkers who sell balloons, kids' colouring books, stationery and jigsaw puzzles. As my friend and I reached the end of a street, I saw a man carrying lots of balloons tied at the end of a long stick. He was going from person to person standing by the momo-stand trying to sell his balloons. When he finally approached us, he very softly said, "Bhaiyya, ek balloon khareed lijiye. Aaj danda hua nahin." 

I was going to refuse. My face twitched enough to say no. But, fortunately, before the words left my mouth, I looked up at the balloons. There were red ones, green ones and some glossy ones. "Who laal wala  deejiye," I said. 

He put the stick down to look for the red balloon. "Ye vala?" he asked.

"Haan" I said when it struck me that I did not ask for the price. "Kithne ka hain?" I added. 

"Bees rupai ka hain," he said, without looking at me. 

Twenty rupees was nothing for me. I momentarily recollected the amount of money I spent today on food which I could easily substitute for cheaper alternatives- I had the luxury to spend hundreds on fried rice and fancy ice cream desserts. I wondered if twenty rupees helped him purchase a necessity that I would take for granted. I may be overthinking, but, it is very much probable that he (and his family) was living on the brink of civil death and those twenty rupees delayed that by one more day. 

The balloon which we had purchased was tied with a strip of thin, elastic rubber- the kind which I remember reading about in Jeremy Seabrook's People Without History- made by burning rubber collected from garbage and burning it inhaling its toxic fumes. How much does it cost for him to buy those balloons? How much does he make on a given day? There are many questions that are haunting me in this moment. It is unfair that a man with little skill, no finance or insurance must compete with the competition of those who make enough to own a store in a prime area, earn enough to have functional bank accounts and also insure their businesses.

On a micro-level, all of us have to make financial choices that help us last longer. For the Middle and Upper Classes, making this choice is easier because they have more money and resources to fall back on. The risk of these Classes going off the brink is buffered by many factors. This is not the case with the balloon-man. If he makes one wrong choice, or if one of the variables he depends on changes for the worse, he sinks into a chasm of minimal existence. His dependents sink along with him. This buffer which stops one from falling into this chasm is privilege. 

The second event which I had witnessed was at the florists' shop. My friend and I reached the nursery from where we had to buy our flowers. The fifth shop which we had visited came the second closest to what we wanted. The nursery was spread across a very large area divided into several stalls made of tarpaulin and aluminium sheets filled with different kinds of flowers, saplings, wall-hangings and diyas. The shop we had gone to was being managed by a young man who was probably in his late-twenties. We asked him if he had what we were looking for. 

"Beej nahin hain. Par, pauda hain," he said. 

"Usse doosri shehr bhej na hain. Munkin hoga kya?" I asked. 

"Nahin, woh tho raaste mein mar jaayega," he said. 

"Achcha, kya aap beej mangvasakthe ho?" I asked. 

"Haan," he said. 

"Kithna padega?"

"40-50 rupey mein aapko 80-100 beej miljayenge. Aap pauda nahin lenge?" he asked, with a smile of hope and an attempt to please us. 

"Achcha, theek hain. Kab tak laa sakthe ho?" I asked, disregarding the offer to buy the plant.

"Agle hafthe tak aa jayega," he said, a little withdrawn. 

"Haan, tho, agle hafthe hum aake beej khareed lenge aapse," I said. With this, his demeanour changed completely. His arms were folded, his back was slightly slouched and he was nodding like I had given him an order. It gave me an impression of complete naivety innocence.

"Theek hain," he said. 

"Tho, bhaiyya, hum agle hafthe aake beej aur pauda khareed lenge," my friend said at the end. He nodded and we left. 

As soon as we left the stall, my friend said, "If we don't tell him that we will buy the plant, why will he get the seeds? The plant gives him 140 rupees and the seeds get him 40," she said, gesturing the disparity with her hands. What she said made sense. Any sound businessperson would not be that Quixotic enough. But, the doubt that I had was: Did he possess that wisdom to think like my friend did? I would not be too hopeful about it from what I saw in the man. 

After we left his stall, we walked to another stall. We wanted to try our luck at finding the plant's seeds. This new stall was visible from the previous one although it was a little far away from it. While we were negotiating with the manager of this stall, I saw the late twenty-year old look at us from his stall. His posture was one of insecurity and anxiousness. He slowly walked towards this stall to see if we were purchasing from them- contrary to what we promised him. If I had not seen this, I would have probably accepted the new stall's offer- something that showed that the manager was experienced in the art, strongly linked to the market and aware of the simple services that his customers would require. I did not buy it. 

This episode reminded me about how more knowledge about the market and its demands would have made the twenty-year old's business better. It also made me wonder if there was any power play involved when his posture became one of strict obedience when I told him what I wanted. The anxiousness he showed when we were speaking to a competitor made me wonder if he, too, was one of those people who were on the brink.  

When I was a child I would hear my parents say, "They should find some work instead of begging on the roads. They should polish shoes and sustain, if necessary." Today, most of the poor people I see are not begging on the streets. They are trying to sell all of the items which I have mentioned above to make an earnest living. Has it really lead to more income in their pockets? Has it helped them create a better standard of living for themselves? I do not have anecdotes or data to answer these questions. But, what I observe is that people refuse to buy their products because they apparently lack credibility, quality or presentation. It is difficult for a street-vendor to compete with a retail seller- just like it is difficult for a retail-seller to compete with a Metro Cash N' Carry. In a country where skilling, market linkage and financial do not properly reach the Middle Class, it is impossible to think about how they would reach this section of the population. The market and the competition are entirely unfavourable to the balloon-man- who has invested his value into the balloons which -as it seems on most days- remain unsold.

During my previous internship with UNDP in Karnataka, I went to the Pattadakal temples for a brief recess. What I saw there shook me. Outside the gates of the temple, there were close to 6 old women who had wrinkled faces and wore old, light sarees. In the heat of late Summer, they were selling a product that is usually bought in decent numbers- buttermilk; packaged in old Kinley bottles. The old women were walking to every tourist to sell their product. Beside the gate to the temple, there was a middle-aged blind man who was selling guide books and picture books about the temples- grand remnants of a glorious dynasty. Neither my friends nor I purchased any of these products. 

When we were leaving the temple, one woman determinately walked up to the window by which I was sitting. She offered me a bottle for which she was charging 20 rupees. She was looking at me with an affectionate smile while holding the bottle out towards me. She was hoping for me to buy it. I refused to buy it. What stopped me was not my disinterest in buttermilk but the manner in which it was packed. If the same product were packaged more neatly in some other bottle or container, I would have purchased it. It made me question what I was working on- "Am I targeting the right section of the society in my work?" My brother told me that the work I am doing would eventually benefit all of them. But, does the old woman have that much time? Does the balloon-man have that much time? 

These are not problems that are new to our society. They have existed for decades. They have been dealt with, too. The problem, here, is not poverty. The problem is an information gap that we are not attempting to bridge. Some of our policies aimed at creating safety nets and fostering human development policies must be designed to reach this section first before its benefits are consumed wholly by those higher in the ladder. I believe that if the balloon-man could be better informed about how to sell his balloons (or substitute his product), if the florist could be taught how to make more money in the business; and if the old lady could be taught about the importance of packaging her products better, they will all witness a better standard of living. While so many people live on the brink everyday, time is not a luxury anybody has to help them make their lives safer.  

Cathartic Rediscovery of a Lost Self

Often, in life, you are told about how good you are at the things you do. I have been told that often. My brother warned me several times to not let this make me feel invincible. But, as my friend rightly said, when you are told the same thing multiple times by multiple people, it is difficult for it to not get to your head. I am slightly ashamed of admitting that, in the past few months, I had begun to feel invincible. I must also admit that this feeling was subconscious- beyond my understanding or control. So, when I started my current internship, I had a firm reality check about where I really stand: NoWhereExceptional, SomewhereNormal, NoMatterWhatTheySay- 500016.

I believe some of my actions in fortunate circumstances have created an impression about me that has always been beyond my understanding. As I grappled to understand this aura of mine, I put myself in a liminal state. I forgot who I was and I was unsure about who I should be. A word I recently learnt seems to perfectly describe my situation- depersonalization. I started feeling depersonalized. So, I began to chisel my personality according to the posts I held and the expectations I had to fulfil. It is probably why I have not blogged in a long time despite having many things to blog about. That is, perhaps, the smallest consequence of my depersonalization. I have very likely lost a lot of things that would have otherwise come my way. I have also very likely lost the faith of people closest to me. So, today, I vow to not let my circumstances define me. I vow to let myself define myself regardless of the circumstances.

Although I have been thinking about this for some time, I chose today to take my oath for a few specific reasons. In the past few days, my internship has given me the opportunity to look at myself in a new mirror. It is a perk that accompanies new places and new people- they don't know you. They only know the version of you that you are presenting before them. So, when I presented my current self before them, I noticed a change in how I behaved with them juxtaposed with how I used to behave with my other bosses. The difference was simple. I am less original, more apprehensive and less confident in my demeanour and in my work. I also seem to have become slightly lax about recognizing authority. Where I would usually stand when the boss walked in, I don't seem to be doing any of that in this place. I am unsure if that is because of the general atmosphere in this Office, which is entirely different from the atmosphere of Offices I used to work in. What made me feel worse was that somebody else had performed better than I did in finishing a task that involved writing and graphic representation. It saddened me to think that I have lost my moxie to write well and think creatively (This post probably bears testimony to my loss). So, today, I chose to go back to being someone who was not afraid to bend the rules slightly to present the same report in a better way. It was received much more warmly than my previous submission which stuck to the rules. Why did I ever choose to bind myself by irrational rules?

I met a friend of mine today after more than a year. We spoke a great deal about the maladies that the Fourth year of law school had brought upon us. When I told her about my maladies, she remarkably related them to particular points in my life; those which involved people who she did not know and which we had spoken about more than a year ago after which we seldom conversed. It was mesmerizing and cathartic to see someone remember everything that had affected me in the past 4 years even though we hadn't spoken in a year. I thought, in this time, that was hard to come by. One of the maladies that came with the Fourth year was an unwavering belief that people don't care enough to listen to my miseries. As a consequence, I shut others out, I shut myself in and forgot how to open those doors. The key was lost in a dark room and every now and then, I found myself scuttling around to find it. Today's meeting cracked the door from outside. Some light has entered this dark room. I believe I shall sneak out snippets, now. I guess this blog post is one such snippet. Soon enough, I shall break this door if I can't find the key.

I downloaded an app called "Mobycy," today. It allows you to rent a public bicycle from a designated area and take it for a ride for as long and as far as you please (Nominal costs). I set my foot on a cycle pedal after 3 full years. I rode for 5 km and for 34 minutes. The experience was ethereal. I rode around in the locality to explore its nooks and corners like I did in my fourth grade when I had first learnt to ride a cycle- the last in my friends group to have learnt it at the age of 9 years. It reminded me of my spirit of curiosity- a willingness to get myself into trouble in the exploration of the unknown. The heaviness in my legs after I got off the cycle reminded me of how gravity feels after you subjected yourself to a stronger force- like buoyancy. It is probably not the same as close collisions with vehicles and riding into shady meadows, but, I tore the edges of my pyjama while cycling. I would ordinarily feel annoyed. Now, I feel young. I think I kept myself bay in fear of losing marks, impression and time. I made my life monotonous. I lost my "Geronimo" element. Today's cycling tells me that I can get it back. I will get it back.

I will soon have my own soundtracks playing in my head as I walk and I will soon start punning, again. I will soon smile like all of life resides within me and I will soon start laughing wholeheartedly. I trust that in some time, my soul will stop being a silent spectator and join me in celebrating rediscovery. 

The Bandi Man and the Balloon Woman

Mr. Fredericksen sold balloons to kids. He made a living out of it. Him and his wife lived a happy life. I can't say the same about the woman I met, today. 

M.G Road, Pune seems to elicit emotions in me that few other places do. You will find hawkers and vendors of all kinds- stones to watches, books to phones, thrift-shops to Van Heusen, street food to McDonalds, kids to septagenarians. Today, I met two old people on that street. I probably helped one and expressly denied it to another. I am upset about the help I denied. 

I had gone for a talk at the Loft House on Antibiotic Resistance: The Only War we Need to Fight with a friend. After the talk, we headed towards Pune Zarthosthi. On our way, we saw an old man, lanky, with few teeth all of which were stained. His knees were bent and his statute was low. He was selling some sort of edible jelly on a bandi. It was cut into several slabs randomly arranged on the bandi. He covered the jelly with a transparent sheet weighed down by 250gm weights. Before him, he had a blunt knife to cut portions of the slabs and a physical balance to weigh the portions. He was selling these portions on square-cut exam question papers from the nearby junior colleges or coaching centres. 

I stared at it. Three years after I came to this city, I thought I finally saw someone sell it. I thought right.

I went to the man and asked him what it was. He replied with its name in Marathi. Of course, I did not understand it. My instincts pushed me into trying it. He cut a slab-portion and weighed it on his scales, meticulously. He then cut a thin columnar cuboid from the bigger slabs and added it to the slab-portion. The man cut all of this into smaller cubes which were convenient to eat. We got 8 cubes for 20 rupees. 

I put a cube in my mouth and there it was: a soft, smooth, viscous jelly exploding with the tastes of jaggery, coconut and milk from a pregnant cow. "This is Junnu," I exclaimed to my friend. It didn't matter that it was different from how it is made at home. It didn't matter that it had coconut instead of elaichi powder and cumin. As I explained my excitement to my friend, the old main looked at me and my hand gestures with intrigued amusement. He had a subtle smile on his face. It didn't take us a minute to finish the 8 cubes. I asked for some more. He cut me bigger portions and charged me 40 rupees which I happily paid. I thanked him and he responded with a warm, meaningful smile. 

Now that I think of it, how different are all of us, really? Different society, different language, different amount of money to spend; at the end of the day, we eat the same food and feel happy about the same things. Must we create conflict among ourselves in the space of this little 'more or less?' 

My friend and I ate a lot of food after the Junnu. We had lots of food at Zarthosthi and we had lots of food at Pasteur. 

Outside Pasteur, an old woman was sitting next to a helium gas tank. Balloons of different colours were tied to the nozzle of the tank. One of the balloons which was metallic purple in colour was shaped as a dolphin. They were all tied with a long, thin thread swaying to the gentle wind. We wanted to buy a balloon.

We asked the woman how much she would charge for a balloon. She muttered a monosyllable. Her voice was hoarse and low. She had to repeat herself thrice before we understood that she said bees. Twenty. We bought two round balloons. One of them had butterflies on it. All this time, we had a softy in each of our hands. She gave us two balloons and suggested we buy 5 for a hundred rupees. Usually, a person would understand that such a proposal would not be receive a positive response.

But, I would dare say she was a usual person. She was old, sufficiently old for one to question the purpose of her selling balloons in the cold night. She was ill. She was in dire poverty. Hundred rupees would indeed work miracles for her while, in comparison, it would be a trivial expenditure on our part. Yet, we refused. She tried to sell the metallic purple dolphin. We refused that, as well. Finally, she asked us what she really wanted. 

She pulled her five fingers close to each other and inched them closer to her mouth. She wanted food. We had two softies, arguably a luxury for most, in our hands. We had a balloon costing twenty rupees in our hands- A sum that could earn her the ability to provide for a lot of things; and a sum that would not give me something I don't already have. Sure, we paid her the money due. Seldom do we in the higher classes realise what a little extra disposable income can do.

Beggars can't be choosers, I am told. Is there a more despicable thing to say? Why, aren't poor people human beings who have the same desires as anyone else? Would they not want to save some money or earn some extra income to last beyond the night? Abhijist Banerjee and Esther Duflo make a strong case for looking at poor people as daily human beings in their book Poor Economics. In their numerous studies, they show how their desires are not different from ours; and how in the failure to recognize this, most of our welfare policies fail to bear fruit. 

All of this was in my head. Yet, I refused to buy her food. She didn't stop gesturing her hunger for food even when we walked a few steps ahead. Yet, I did not buy her food. I have no answer why. I don't know what came over me. I will not fall prey to attributing this guilt to the first reason that pops into my mind. Probably, I didn't because I didn't want to. Probably, I didn't because I did not feel like paying beyond what I already have. Does it matter? I do not feel nice about what I did.

Is there hypocrisy in this? I willingly buy food for a kid or adult who beg for money and do little else. But, I would refuse food to an old woman who was trying to work for her money. It is perhaps a lesson for the future.

The balloon is grounded at home with an empty box of Pears soap. When I look at the butterflies on the balloon gently sway to breeze of the fan, I can only wonder how much the old woman needed what she asked of me. 

Whatever You Are!

There is this constant tingling in the heart, one that nobody can name.
It is not excitement, for I already have it.
It is not joy because this tingling is not perpetual.
It is not anxiety because there is nothing anxious about this.
It is not peace for this is too restless.
It is not restlessness for it is peaceful.
It is not fear for there is no courage.
It is not doubt for there is confidence.
It is not love for that exists, regardless.

I don't know what to name you.
You are a spark, but what are you, really?
Are you the awakening of something buried deep?
Are you the return of something old?
Are you my realization of something very very pure?
Or, does it matter, what you are?
You give me joy.
You give me bliss.
I don't think I should worry about what you really are.
Whatever you are, whatever you may be, you are mine.
That is all that matters, nothing else.

Magical Things

Years had gone by since they first met. If I remember correctly, they met in College. Or High School. Either way, in the bigger picture, it only adds to how much they loved each other. Years had gone by and they were going to get married to each other.

He was on his way to College, one day; the last days of his College life. Him and his friend were riding a bike. From what I remember, he loved those bike rides with his friend. I don't know what happened, exactly. I don't know if his friend was riding the bike at rash speeds. Or if he was. Or if neither of them were. I don't know how the weather was. I don't know where exactly they were. All I know is that a truck hit them. He took a serious blow to his head. I don't know what happened to his friend. He didn't survive the accident.

Three grief-stricken hearts stood next to his photo, at home- The mother, the father and  her. Tears left their eyes, one after another. There was silence in the house. Everyone who had come to offer condolences were silent, too. He was loved and cherished by all. Nobody had any words to offer. People came and people left. Nobody left anything but their tears. Hours later, a kid walked in with his mother.

If I remember correctly, my English teacher from 9th grade once told us that kids don't really understand the gravity of the situation. They are always lost in themselves and reality doesn't quite bother them as it bothers grown-ups. It is true. I think it makes them lanterns of joy.

The kid walked into his aunt's house. He didn't know why he was there. He didn't know why there were so many people there. He barely knew the person in the photograph. His mother instructed him to behave properly. He had to. But, it was getting late. His patience was wearing thin. He wasn't able to watch his favourite cartoons, all day. He wasn't allowed to play with the toys he usually played with at his aunt's place. He couldn't talk to the aunt or the uncle. He didn't know her, the third Woman sitting there. But, he was sure he couldn't talk to her, either. Or was it so?

She went to the kitchen to make something for all the "guests." He stood by the door and peeped into the kitchen, curiously. He stared at her and what she was doing. A spoon of this from one dabba and two of that from another. His gaze shifted onto her, entirely. "Who is this?" As he kept asking himself that question, she turned towards the door and saw an innocent, curious face staring at her. In the few hours that he had been there, that was the first time he had seen someone smile. She was still crying. But, she smiled and knelt down. "Hello," she said. He replied with a childish, "hello!" She asked him his name. He replied. He asked her what her name was. She replied. She asked him who he was. He gestured towards his mother. But, before she could tell him who she was, she went to answer a call. Their brief meeting ended. The kid, who didn't understand things entirely, went back and sat next to his mother. He thought he saw a friend in her. "The only fun person, here."

Towards the end of the day, as the people in the room lessened in number, he started insisting that they left, too. The mother, obviously, wouldn't do that. It was a time for her to think about somebody else and not the kid. She noticed this. And so, the fun person walked to the kid and asked him if he wanted to play. Why would he refuse? They went to the terrace and thought about what they could play in an open area filled with incomplete pillars  poking out of the ground. He decided to play Hide and Seek.

She turned towards the wall and waited for him to hide. And so he did. She looked everywhere for him before she walked to the pillar she already knew he was hiding behind. He let out a hearty giggle. Probably the first giggle that house heard in some time. This time, he counted and she went to hide. She willingly let her leg slip out into the open so that he could find her. And so he did. More giggles and more laughter. It was a silent house no more. She laughed. He laughed. I really don't know how the aunt, uncle, mother or father felt about the kid laughing that way.

As the sun set and the mosquitoes came out, the kid and her went back into the house. He no longer saw a friend in her. He made friends with her. The kid and the woman were friends! So, he decided to do something for her. Standing before the Aunt, Uncle and his parents, he told her, "I will sing you a song." She smiled and asked him to sing. It was a song he had only started learning at Kindergarten. He turned to his left to look at her and started:

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are gray
You'll never know dear, how much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away

I'll always love you and make you happy,
If you will only say the same." 

It has been 15 years since that happened. Everybody who was there in the room remembers that. The Aunt always believed that her son's spirit was in the kid. I don't know what it meant to the woman. But, even today, she remembers it exactly like how he sang it that day. She recollects it with the widest grin. The kidman, however, did not remember that he once sang a song that might have made somebody's day until he was told about it when he grew up. He only remembers the Hide and Seek he played and the friend he made, that day.

He told me that a few months ago that when he last met her, he wasn't in a very good mental state; what with being overworked, stressed and burnt up, physically, mentally and emotionally. He felt confused, lost and cluttered about what his life should be. He then said that her daughter, barely around the same age as him when he had first met her, told him that she would sing him a song. She sang:

"Look for the bare necessities
The simple bare necessities
Forget about your worries and your strife
I mean the bare necessities
Old Mother Nature's recipes
That brings the bare necessities of life."

 Kids really do have some magic in their ability to understand things just sufficiently.

Monotonous Mumbling

I walk out of this Guest House every morning. I notice that the softy-shop at the corner is closed.
I come back every evening and notice that the shop is open. Its owner stands right next to the freezer. He wears his spectacles and stares into his old phone. Occasionally, he fits ice-cream scoops into a cone.

The same watchman welcomes me into the office every morning. He gives me the same keys to open the same door as I do, almost every other day. An empty office invites me in.

I walk out of my Office and the tea shop at the corner is brewing tea. The hotel behind it has a man standing at the door. The same man whom I see everyday. The same man in the hotel shows me to my seat.

The number on the bus I take is the same, everyday. The ticket costs about the same. The time I stay on the bus for is the same, everyday. I get on at point A. I get off at point B. The same points of reference tell me when I need to stand up and go to the door.

I walk back home and the diner next to the bank has the same old ambience. The man at the counter is invisible, as always. A man shows me to my table and takes my order. He is a mellow man. He doesn't smile much but he could light a candle with whatever little he did.

I walk by the shoe store. The same kid who tries to attract customers is standing there. The sweet shop has the same man standing at the counter. The coffee stall on the roadside has the same woman standing there. The stationary shop has the same couple running the box. The same three people keep switching places at the Guest House reception. 

I come back to a room that is exactly the same as how I left it.

It feels like home when everything stays the same till I settle down. The monotony is like home. The monotony is like the song that plays on the car radio every morning; you would feel odd if you missed it.

The other day, the man at the ice cream counter was at the tea stall instead of standing next to the freezer. The man who took my order at the diner was nowhere to be seen. I felt uneasy. He then came to the table. He seemed to have dropped his matchstick smile, somewhere. I felt a bit cold. The bus I took, yesterday was not 102. It was a 11. I got dropped off somewhere else. The same things don't catch my eye. Now, I see a grill roasting chicken out in the open. I have co-interns, now. I don't think the Office bothers to invite me, anymore. I feel unfamiliar- like when you go back home but your mother had your room rearranged. New. Lost. Unsure.

I feel comfortable reading the continuous, plain, disconnected sentences in the same tense, at the top. These other sentences, though? Well, there's too much going on, too, suddenly, isn't there?

"I'm sorry," he said.

He was sitting at the counter with his friend, one day. A girl he was acquainted with approached his friend. She was fair and tall and lively with twinkling eyes. She resembled her. As she spoke to his friend sitting next to him, he saw her talk. For once, he didn't want to know what was being spoken about. His eyes were stuck. He noticed every single gesture her hands made, every single curve in her smile, every single time her eyes rolled and possibly, the thoughts that flowed through her mind in every instance. The girl who came to the counter didn't matter. The girl she reminded him of mattered. She resembled her; in her smile, in the curve of her nose, in her walk, in her skin tone, in the twinkle in her eyes, the calmness on her face, the melody in her voice. Did his mind drop into an eerie? Of course.

'Archived Chats (1),' the label read. It was too valuable to block and too precious to delete. 'Archive' seemed like a safe door to him, back when it all happened. Months down the line, he felt like opening the door to see what was really left when the storm subsided- one broken soul and one that lived in denial of one. Did he have to open the door? Of course. He had put it away for far too long.

The pain he was once deaf to, the pain he was once numb to slowly, in every word they sent to each other, crept into his mind, his heart and then into his conscience. Now, it bore down heavily and there was nothing he could do about it. He knew how she used to feel as she knew how he used to feel, once, about each other- absolute trust, immense faith, reverence, undaunted love and cherished affection. He broke each and every string. He knew what he was doing when he did it. He knew why. To him, it was all justified. Perhaps, even today, if one asked him, he would say it was justified. Or maybe not. Maybe, he would silently walk away on the inside. What they held was like a father's promise to take his 4-year kid to his first airshow; or to that Spider-man movie which the kid absolutely wanted to see. He broke the father's promise and she did what is expected of any kid with a broken promise. In that time, he behaved like a parent caught up with his own life to pay heed to his child's ruckus. Now, he regrets letting her cry making her cry. Did he think it would not come to this? Of course. He was too blind.

A week went by since he saw the girl walk to the counter. Time has no meaning to him, anymore. What is a year could be a month and what is a week could be a month, as well. A week went by. But, the thought of his sin didn't leave him. It only dug deeper. And with every wall it passed, he scrolled upwards. With every scroll, he felt the pain she must have felt then. He read through all the chats he had. He then opened his mail inbox. He read all the mails they sent to each other. He felt each and every message like he did the first time he read them. Treasures don't get old. Did he want to go back to it all? Of course. But, how fair was it? Not at all.

He read all the rainbows, all the storms, all the butterflies and all the worms eating through. He remembered how she said he stayed for the rainbow and left during the storm. After all these months, now, he found himself agreeing to it. He was, of course, "justified."

Happiness, sadness, anger, anxiety, regret, despair, helplessness, bliss, grief, excitement and a lack thereof; from months ago.

After all this time, he accepted it. He was wrong. He had to apologise for what he did. Did he? He can't.

The image was that of  a cheerful, lively, lovely girl when he thought of her, once. But, now, he couldn't help but spot those lonely tears and a glow that vanished. Were they only in his head? He couldn't know. But, he was sure they weren't. Months down, he knew she was better. Could he apologise for what he had done and pull her back into the pit? Could he apologise to one whom he led to believe that there is no such thing as love? Could he apologise to one he gave reason to never break her walls again? No. "Be selfish. Let's see how far you will go," she once taunted, in the aftermath of him letting go. He now realized that being selfish cost him a lot.

One night, a month from the day he saw the girl walk to the counter, he saw the moon, glowing bright- the same moon which he once associated with her. What he once felt very close to his heart was now really that far away. And he wouldn't dare to try and reach. He stared intently at her with an apologetic, regretful face. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry," he cried behind his eye-lids.

He dreamt of her, that night. He woke up twice. He dreamt of her all three times. In the first dream, she was still crying and waiting for him to come back. This time, he did. He held her hand. She cried more and then smiled.

In the second dream, the two of them were going somewhere. They were happy and he truly believed in what was going on. Towards the end, when it really mattered, she left. She drove away and he stood at the crossroads, alone. He felt it.

In the third dream, they were in a bus, holding hands. The bus was going to some place both of them wanted to go to. Or maybe that bus was their forever. And that's all it was. It was going somewhere with both of them smiling at each other. It was a dream he could die in. But, every dream ends and so did this one. Or perhaps, he ended it for himself.

Today, when I asked him about it, he said he hopes to run into her sometime. He hopes for her to talk to him; just so that he could tell her how sorry he is. He said he didn't expect forgiveness; didn't expect anything. He just wanted to tell her how he felt, like the very first time he told her he loves her.