I don’t really drink coffee – or tea. I’m still stuck with a spoonful of Bournvita I’ve been having since I was three. (I sometimes worry what I’ll do during tea-time once I grow up, when everybody would be relaxing and chatting over their teas and coffee. I think I’ll just stick to water.)
However, if I had the chance to, I would definitely make some for you. I think there’s something personal about making something – specially food – for someone. It’s more beautiful and intimate. Besides, I just really like the idea. I would very much like to have the company of someone who is not family.
This Sunday was surprisingly less busy for me; I literally got bored halfway through the day and decided I’d rather read my writing from back when I’d been a month into my ongoing writing streak. I read all the pieces in one of the three notebooks I filled, and I thought, “No, just NO.” The writing was pathetic, embarrassing, and I didn’t want to admit to myself that I’d written it only six months ago.
However, it’s not just the embarrassment of having written such poor words, but rather, what I wrote about that bothered me. Most of the pieces are non-fiction – random musings and all – and they’re mainly about me. I think I’m rambling about the importance of curiosity in at least five pieces, saying it over and over how I’m now quite proud of being curious and asking questions. I know embracing your qualities are important and all that philosophical crap, but I didn’t know I would find my own writing irritating. I just got bored after a while and was tempted to abandon the rest of the pieces but I couldn’t bring myself to do so; I had to read them and see whether there was any hope of something good in them or not. Only 1% of them will be making it further, sadly.
Other than that, I found I’d written about people a lot; or, to be precise, their absence. It had been not long since my best friend of eight years had ditched me for reasons still unknown to me (as of today) and I felt very lonely. We’d moved to New Delhi almost an year ago; I was briefly attending an ICSE school in Gurgaon before joining another school in New Delhi for my senior secondary education. Everything that had been happening for the last one year was temporary – the school attended, the friends made, the routine of daily inter-state travel. It felt like I had to begin all over again in my new school, and at that time I wasn’t aware it would be difficult. The loneliness I was (and still am, sometimes) going through is evident in those words, and I’m pitying myself, past and present.
At that time I didn’t have anyone to speak my heart to; no one who in any way resembled the best friend I’d just lost, and it is not hard to see that the words I’d written are things I would’ve otherwise said out loud. Those were the things I thought and believed, but since no one was there to listen, I put those things to paper. They don’t hold much value; they’re just passing thoughts. But it makes me restless somewhere inside. My loneliness surprises me. Maybe I’ve become used to it. I mean, I do have good friends at school and I love being with them, but I doubt how many of them will stay once high school is over, once we all step out into the world. This is all temporary too, and so I tell myself it’s better not to look for someone who will stay, among people who are just like ships that pass through the night.
And so it will be a good change to be with you and talk about things. You could tell me about your life that is so different from mine. It would’ve been a busy week for you, but I would listen nonetheless. I enjoy listening, and I know how important it is to listen, because not everyone gets heard. Trust me, I know.