Excerpt from a short story, that appeared in an anthology of stories about Indian Women. I was 15 and it was a Tuesday afternoon. For months, we had exchanged glances and shared jokes in front of two seventeen-inch monitors in computer class. It was on one of them that I saw his girlfriend's photo, he was practising his Photoshop skills on it. That's when I understood that just because someone constantly flirts with you, it doesn't mean he loves you. Yes, that's what I had thought, “He loves me.” It took me a decade, one filled with numerous minor flirtations, major heartbreaks and a variety of relationships - from the nearly perfect to the utterly dysfunctional - to understand that love is bigger, better and more wonderful than I could have ever imagined at 15. And I wanted to experience it for real. I had looked for it, at places and through channels that books and movies promise you'll bump into your true love - libraries, parties, coffee shops, airport terminals, common friends – and conceded defeat. Serendipity had failed me. I was 25, just the right age in our magnificent country to let your parents find you a groom and live happily ever after. Suddenly, an arranged marriage seemed romantic. "If the basics are right," my mom said, "the rest will fall in place." In no time, she was ready with endless copies of my kundli and to tap into a social circle that spanned the whole globe. My horoscope was enjoying many cross-continental journeys that I had always dreamed of. I loved my mom but once again, I had begun to look up to her, as though I was 5 and not 25. She could find me love, she could do anything. What a great feeling it was! But as great feelings go, this one didn't last too long either...
No comments
Post a Comment