Ode to a Third Year

When I began college, I hated it. I hated the Spirit of Stephania. I hated the Cafe. I hated Societies. I hated my classmates, my batchmates, my seniors. I just wanted to go back home. College grows on you. It give you the comfort of weedy lawns and red brick. And the faces in college grow on you too. And there's a particular chocolate-face that I will terribly miss.

I'm trying to remember when I first met Miss Palakkad Iyer (PI. or Pie. or ∏.). I have a feeling it was for the first yearbook meeting. Or it could have been before that. I can't seem to figure it out. But I did meet Pi. One day for the first time. And it was normal. Another third year. Another face. I liked her.

Shobhna has turned into my favourite third year. The one I'm going to most miss stumbling into college. Because she loves to dig. Because she's the best goddamn editor the yearbook will ever have. Because she puts her heart and soul into everything. And yes, she hates college. And yes, she scares the shit out of me when she says "God, I can't wait to get out of this hell". And yes, she hates Mallus with a vengeance. But Shobhna, without knowing it gave me something to do that I loved: editing. And then she laughed at all my jokes and brought out the cartoonist in me. And then she told me her stories and I found myself telling her mine. Heart wrenching ones, embarrassing ones, funny ones, they all poured out. I found myself caring about the yearbook. I found myself missing her when she disappeared to sniff out dirt and rocks. I found myself standing in the middle of the cafe hugging her while she cried. I found myself giving her the details of my love life -even the ones that hurt me most- easily. There isn't a single third year apart from her that I can honestly say, is my friend (Well, of course there's Ess but that's another story altogether). There's not a single third year besides her who doesn't make me feel like a damn Fucch.

Shobhna, thank you. The hugs, full frontal. The little bits of gossip. The photographs of your life (gory and otherwise) that you managed to share with me this year. The love (that came endlessly). The giggles. So so much more that if I started listing all the things out, I'd develop insanely strong finger muscles. You effortlessly swept away the low self-esteem I had when I stepped into college. You, with your advice and your facebook stalking. You. God, it's crazy how much I'll miss you. Yearbook to me, will always be Shobhna.

Oh and, though you know this already, I love you, Shobhna. I love you, Choco. I love you, Palakkad. I love you, Editor.

I love you.

PS : Sorry for the lack of grammar, coherence and general sensibility.

Fears.

She broke him today. It hasn't hit him yet. I know it will.

I was always jealous. In every way. More than I would admit, even to myself. But now I shall. I was jealous. I am jealous. When it took me a day or more to build up his self esteem again, she'd come and in a split second he would crumble. The days that I couldn't get into the core of what was really bothering him, she'd appear out of hibernation, leave him with a five minute phone call and he would be on cloud eleven. That's all she needed, and the power she had over him made me jealous. And angry. I was outraged that she would let him be so weak with her. I was outraged that she didn't see how, bit by bit she was pulling him apart. I was outraged that he wouldn't just leave her already. But he wouldn't, couldn't. Love is so fucking irrational. And then came more jealousy, that she controlled him, the one i was trying to protect. And all the barriers i had constructed to keep him from harm's way, she brought down with a little tiny breath. She kept saying, "I'm not good enough for him" and she wasn't. No one is. He's the most loving, caring, considerate person with her, and she just decides to take his heart out and step on it, over and over. She didn't know what she had, and she'll never know how much he loves her.

If ever, i get her in my hands this is what I shall do. I will grab her by the wrist and stand her in front of me. I will slap her with all the might i have inside me across her face. And again. Again. Again. Until it become blue. And then I will shout out to her a million reasons why she isn't good enough for him. And between each reason, i'll slap her again. And when that's over, i will drag her by the hair and bang that head of hers on a stone wall. And then I will break her neck. That's all.

And now, I'm going to make sure he never falls in love with her again. Twisted, mind bended, confusing, irrational, dishonest bitch. And now i feel guilty. Because if he reads this, he'd not approve. And would not make him feel any better. Only worse, only angry at me.

I'm the best friend. And all I want is for him to be happy. I am selfless as I ever could be with him. I worry for him, I hurt for him, I cry for him. It makes me worry what he is to me. Friend, best friend, more? I worry what would happen if i let that possibility become real. Everything would change. Every move of ours would be different. And what once was, fifteen years ago can't be relevant anymore, right? But I push these fears away and focus on the one at hand: the fear that he will be irreparable, like i have become. I will stay close. And fix him. I'm the best friend.

How I wish, how I wish you were here.

We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,

Running over the same old ground.

What have you found? The same old fears.

Wish you were here.

Frail

I feel sometimes like I have lost the passion to write. I used to write so much before, and now it feels like a river that has dried up into a stream. I'm so preoccupied with feeling inferior that I no longer have the confidence to write. My thoughts get stifled inside my head, with no paper to pour them out to. My vocabulary seems inadequate when I read the writings of my peers, my knowledge stunted, my imagination just a flickering candle in the wind. I want to write freely like I used to. Without worries of whether it was good enough. I want to write for me, and no one else.