The Before

Someone once said to me, “anger is always the second emotion” and while I nodded then, it wasn’t until recently when I was sitting alone on a pleasant winter evening that I realised what they had meant.

The realisation came like a breeze and the leaves that are dropped in it. Like the breeze, the realisation came unannounced. It made itself home, and then, the leaves fell all at once, ending their journey.

I realised I had been angry too. I had been angry for a while now. I had been angry at myself for leaving little pieces of myself in other people, and I had been angry at them for leaving parts of themselves with me. I was angry at them for leaving.

It made me furious — not knowing what they’d do to the pieces of me, or what I’d do to theirs. We were all linked in this interconnected web of the most pointless exchange in the universe, and I was angry. I was angry at its futility.

Then, the breeze picked up again. As it lifted the leaves, I dropped a piece of my anger on it, like I’d throw a pebble. To my surprise, it carried it with itself and didn’t look back. So, I did it every day. Every day, I’d sit there. Every day, the breeze would come. Every day, I’d chip a small piece into it. Months passed.

Until one day, the breeze came like it always did, and right before I picked a piece, I realised it was different. I looked at the piece I was holding, and I remembered who it belonged to so I smiled.

The breeze was baffled but it stayed for a while, waiting patiently for me to drop the piece. It didn’t discriminate between the pieces but I did. I held on to this one.

I scoured my bag and I realised the anger was all gone, chipped slowly into nothingness. Only pieces of people remained — pieces they had entrusted me with good faith — colourful and each different from the last. I let the breeze go.

I still get angry every now and then. So, I sit where the breeze arrives, and I empty my bag. I don’t know if the breeze visits the others, or if they threw the pieces of me into it ever, but I have it on good authority that if they were angry, they too would learn what the breeze taught me.

Anger may be the second emotion, but it was always the first to go.

Remember the band we used to listen to together? I remember we couldn’t decide on our favourite song from them. We couldn’t agree, and yet, not dislike the other song as much. I remember that soft argument, years ago.

Well, I’m here now – in the crowd – listening to them. I’m surrounded by strangers, squeezed in together. I’m surrounded by my friends, too. There’s just this massive group of people, swaying, misremembering the lyrics, mumbling, not singing, laughing, smiling, and just being happy, and very drunk.

Oh, they just played your song, and that’s what made me think of you, and how you’re not here, and how it’s been a while, and how I’d stopped counting after the first few months. It’s been a while, though, I’m sure.

Anyway, I couldn’t listen to the music without being distracted by the thought and the face of you, so I decided I’ll bullshit myself long enough for their gig to end. I decided I’ll believe you’re in this crowd somewhere. You could be anyone. You could be the face I can see far away between an array of silhouettes, or the person standing right behind me or standing somewhere close by but far enough.

I decided I’ll believe that because I’ve forgotten how you looked anyway. I’ve forgotten a lot of things. I like to think that, at least. Yet, there’s the song and the memory of arguing playfully. I can’t bullshit around that, I guess.

That’s what I learned in the crowd, listening to the band we used to listen to together in your car. I learned there’s no bullshitting around some things in life. I learned there’s no bullshitting around the moments when you felt pure happiness; even if they’ve passed.

There are a lot of things you learn about yourself when you reach a decent age, say twenty-three.

You learn your biting of nails under distress is a symptom and not a habit. You learn that your walking fast and talking faster comes from a place of its own, and it isn’t just something you do. You learn that your leg doesn’t just up and start shaking; there are reasons for why that happens. You learn your affinity to routine has an entire backstory behind it with characters you have nothing to do with anymore.

Then, one day, as you’re sitting by yourself at night, nibbling at your nails, waiting for the clock to hit thirty-past-eleven just so you can get in bed, you have another epiphany – So what? You ask yourself. What am I supposed to do with this information? You ask yourself again, louder this time. The apartment, however, stays silent.

You realise this is as important as knowing that you have a scar on your lip that you got as a kid when you stood up to a bully. There’s nothing you can do about it now. The scar is there. There are a lot of things that are just there. They’re there for you to look, and they’re there for everyone to notice, but they don’t change anything about your life.

So, you take a step back, and another, and you keep going back to stand exactly where you were when you began. Then, you start doing exactly what you were doing. You begin to pull in longer hours. You begin to exert yourself beyond control. Unstoppable. You wake up, and you do so much in a day, people lose their breath as you tell them about it.

You have always been this way, you realise. If there is contentment – even if there’s just an ounce of it – it is in the flow. It may work differently for everyone, you think as you go through the motions, but this is how it works for me.

As all of this is happening, and as you’re unravelling, and as everything is rewinding as if someone was to rewind a clock, you learn one last lesson for the year – don’t fix what’s not broken.

Maybe it was a feature and not a bug, you convince yourself. Maybe you’re so used to putting out flames, you’d rather set yourself on fire than have nothing to do anymore.

In the twenty-third year of my life, the most important lesson I learned was that my head was my own responsibility. Every thought, every moment, every instance where I sit on the floor, letting everything go is my responsibility. I’ve learned that picking myself up is my responsibility. I’ve learned that although the world should be kind to us, and although we should be kind to the world, it should not be an expectation. It cannot be an expectation.

I’ve learned that I cannot expect the world to treat me kindly, especially where one species of thinking monkeys has convinced themselves of their superiority so well that when we say “world”, we immediately think of ourselves and no other part of it. It’s all so abstract, it might just not matter at all.

I’ve learned that my fear, my thoughts, and even the narrative I spew for myself to convince myself of myself are my responsibility. No one owes me happiness, and neither do I owe anyone just that. Although kindness in all the things is absolutely necessary, I’ve learned that it is a mission failed so often, we might just consider it a lost cause. I’ve learned that it is not a lost cause as long as we keep trying.

I’ve learned to expect the world to fail. I’ve learned to expect the world to fail me, to fail itself, and for myself to fail it every now and then. I’ve learned to set the standard so low, even the smallest things make me happy. No, not happy but peaceful.

In the twenty-third year of my life, I’ve learned that happiness is fleeting. I’ve learned that the world is just how it is, and just how it will be, and we will keep doing things, and things will keep happening, and it all keeps going, and it is at that point I learned, I don’t want to be happy anymore. I would rather be peaceful, flowing through the motions, going through another day, trying to do my best, failing, maybe trying again, or sometimes, just letting it all be.

I’ve learned I cannot control everything. I’ve learned that the best I can do is try and control my head. I am, after all, my responsibility.

Hope can come in like an easy breeze as you wake up early, stretch and make yourself a good cup of coffee. Hope can come in like an unfamiliar feeling of power, growing from within you as if you were possessed.

Hope can come in like the first drop of rain after a scorching summer, or like the first ray of sunshine after a moist week of rain. Hope can come in like Satie’s bittersweet compositions playing in your ears as you walk around in the dark evening, illuminated by the lights of people waiting to get home.

Hope can come in like taking that last flight home, or to the love of your life, or to a friend. Hope can come in like an apology that was overdue and is a testament to restored friendship.

Hope can come in as a friend calling you, telling how they’ve finally dug themselves out of the little hole they had found themselves stuck inside. Hope can come in like a litter of little puppies making their “”vicious”” barks at you after a football game with your friends.

Hope can come in with you getting out of bed, on time, and doing what you’ve always done as well as you’ve always done it.

Hope can come in a lot of ways but it doesn’t. Hope comes like a smack right at the back of your head. It comes as a smack so loud, the entire universe hears it.

Hope knocks you, and says, “”Get the fuck up and move forward. The world is still okay, and you are too. It’s not perfect but neither are you.”” Hope comes like an epiphany, a lightning strike, and a moment out of nowhere.

Hope comes in like hope should — precisely when you need it, exactly how you need it, and never a minute too late. Hope knocks a lot, like the noisy neighbour who’s just trying to make conversation over a random favour.

Hope comes in when you open the door. Didn’t you hear it knocking all this time?

The world runs on little acts of heroism and honesty. Fuck Netflix, and fuck your Sunday binge. Don’t tell me about a half-assed opinion on a world issue you heard about yesterday on a Youtube video. Tell me about what makes you tick. Tell me it bothers you when the piece of chalk makes an odd sound when it strikes the board sometimes. Tell me about that puppy and that little blister on its back that almost makes you feel real, physical pain when you see it in the morning. Tell me about the bum you sometimes strike a conversation with, and how he smiles at you with his broken teeth. Tell me about how good it makes you feel when you can afford that meal in a fancy restaurant. Stop using the big words, the magnanimous vocabulary, the terms, the terms. Stop the terms. Let them go. We’re all an inch away from hopelessness so stop feeding me your bullshit. I don’t give a shit about being positive all the time, and those jingles, and how the sun shines every day. Love, I take three hours to get out of bed sometimes, and I own it. I know it’s something I have to deal with on a daily basis, and I am positive about it. I am positive I get up. I always get up. So, I don’t deny it by pretending how beautiful the world is because it’s not. The world is ugly; the moments are beautiful, sometimes. We live for the moments. Your obliviousness is annoying. It’s annoying. It’s annoying, and I’m tired. Be honest to yourself. Lend a hand. Help a stranger. Take a flight for a friend. Move. Get up. Fix things. Try again. Fix yourself. Try again. Get up. Do all of that. Do something. Maybe then, maybe just then, I’ll hear about that video, and that issue, and those words filled with sunshine and rainbows but until you have nothing to show for it besides your naivety, spare me the trouble, and swipe left, and swipe left, and swipe left, and keep pretending, and keep pretending, and keep pretending. Keep watching the videos. We’re all an inch away from hopelessness, especially me, so spare me from it, spare me from it all, and let me be. Let me be until you can be heroic, and until you can be honest. I’m not sure if you heard, but the world runs on those, not long words of empty concern.

We’d tell them how all of us woke up every day and got out of bed intending to save the world. We’d tell them how by nine-fifteen in the morning, we’d give up on our quests, and hope we at least saved ourselves. We’d tell them how much of art we loved, and how much of it we made, and how much of it got unnoticed every day. We’d tell them we still enjoyed all the art, and we listened to everything, and we watched everything, and we read everything. We didn’t care, and we had no taste. The idea of taste was dead.

Everything came crashing down. Everything we knew was breaking down, and everything broken was being put away. It felt like nothing we knew about ourselves, and about the world was right. I stopped tracking things. My calendar, my to-do lists, my routine, my life ceased to exist. “I exist because the system exists,” the kid screamed inside as one by one the system came undone. “I exist because the system exists. If the system didn’t exist, we wouldn’t exist,” he kept repeating, almost chanting, as he had always done. Life became calmer but never slower. It was all okay now; it was all fine. The kid was still scared though, and he didn’t stop repeating those words, so I held him from his shoulders, and I shook him violently — something I had promised I would never let happen to him again. “I exist because-,” I interrupted him. “Look around, kid. The system is gone. The system is gone, and you still exist, and everything is okay now. Everything will be fine; we’ll be fine. The system is gone. It’s all gone, and we still exist.” I gave him a tight hug. I wondered if that was the only thing he needed all along. I held on to him one last time, as tightly as I could, and then slowly, I let him go.

I’ve thought a lot about a lot of things lately. I’ve thought about how I feel about how I’m feeling lately. Maybe, this aloofness, for the lack of a better word is a mistake, but I’ve realised that any mistake I make is my own personal privilege. I just want to sit and have some coffee and not be troubled by the world burning anymore. I’m tired of putting out fires all around me anyway.

Someone once told me I needed balance. “If only you had balance,” they said, “you’d do so well.” We’ll never know whether it was their brevity and trust in my understanding of things or if it was my naivety but I never really understood what they had meant. I know now that they had meant a balance of thoughts; a calm in the spiral which is perpetually visible on my face. They wanted me to slow down for once, and balance the inside. It is only recently that I’ve realised that they never meant for me to be stretched in all possible directions but to take a deep breath every now and then, and let it all be, then let it all go. They wanted me to slow down for once, and all this time, I kept thinking I wasn’t quick enough.

There may be love, but is there understanding? There may be communication, but is there comprehension? It may feel exciting, but am I always on edge? They may show me different sides of things, but am I always on the wrong one? They may have their beliefs, but are mine irrelevant? I love laughing with them, but do I sob alone? There may be affirmations of love, but are there more apologies? There may be happiness now, but was I happier on my own?

Winter arrives early every year for some so as to say a little hello before it’s truly here to stay. The frost creeps slowly as to say a quiet hello; the cold covers every thought as to make it’s lonely presence felt. With an early winter inside, the words freeze too and need some thawing and some warmth to break out of their inanimate state. Winter arrived early this year, like every year before, and I’ve been busy thawing. Until a morning, some mornings ago, when the words glistened as they appeared from beneath the ice and made their presence felt. They came like a warm hug from a loved one I hadn’t seen in ages; they came like a cup of coffee in a warm cottage while everything outside remained frozen-cold; they came like the strong rays of sunlight heating the haze away, almost instantly, as if it was never there.

It was late, and the day had been long, and I had a cup of coffee in my hands. I rushed towards the gate; I took a sip. Before I knew, the coffee spilled onto my shirt and my jeans and my shoes. It seeped into my shirt instantly. My skin burned like it had never burned before. You see, I had one of those special cups; the ones you need to secure firmly and with absolute attention. A little looseness, and it spills right out; it did. I started thinking of the person who handed me that cup. I was furious, it hurt, and I blamed them. I considered going back to ask for more but I realised I had walked too far, and it was too late. I looked at my shirt. I looked at the stain. I zipped my hoodie on, quickly, before someone could see, and then I looked around once more to make sure no one noticed. No one did. You see, the stain on my jeans wasn’t big enough. It was dark and the end of the day, and it was all grey anyway so I continued walking, pretending it was all okay. With an empty cup of coffee in my hands serving as some kind of reminder, I walked slower than I would. I was tired, and the day had been long, and as I was about to unlock my door, I looked at my coffee-stained jeans. “I could’ve checked the lid”, I sighed. I unlocked the door, and I stepped into the quiet apartment. Then, I kept the empty cup on the shelf, carefully.

On an ordinary evening I realised the simple truth of my life; I realised I cannot suffocate the writer. I cannot suffocate the writer no matter how hard I squeeze the life out of him. I realised he’d always have some left. Irrespective of how I treated him, he didn’t stop. He kept writing; he kept creating; he kept thinking. He carried on, even when I didn’t ask him how he was for weeks. When I told everyone he wasn’t there anymore, he made sure to make his presence felt. He’d hide a metaphor or giddy idealism in my words, slyly. Oblivious but obvious enough for everyone to see that he was still writing inside me. Yet, I ignored him, and I ignored the words. Until an ordinary evening, when I found myself in the city traffic and the busy streets unable to hear anything. I found myself in my own head as the words got deafeningly silent, and then, loud enough so I couldn’t ignore them anymore. I heard them all, louder than the streets and the cacophony of the city. On that day, I realised the words had kept coming even when I stopped listening to them. I learned they will continue to come, especially if I stopped listening to them.

The other day I was walking down the mall with a bag of groceries in my hand. Just then, I happened to come across my reflection in one of the many glass doors. I paused and looked at myself. I looked at my tired eyes, and I looked at my shirt and jeans, both coffee-stained. Then, I looked at my face, and I realised how much older I had grown. I walked away, carrying a weight heavier than that bag of groceries in my hand. Then, not knowing why, I walked back to the reflection and I looked at it. I looked at it as hard as I could, and I realised how this was the first time I had been in my early twenties, and how this is the only time I can be this specific iteration of me, and how, just as I missed my younger self a second ago, I’ll miss this self running through the mall with deadlines, external and internal, running behind me. It has been a lot easier since then—looking at my own reflection. I don’t feel so old anymore; I feel young; the youngest I can be today, possibly.

If you asked me about my ideal cup of coffee, I’d tell you that I like it lukewarm—too hot and it burns the tongue; too cold and it feels underwhelming. My ideal cup of coffee, I’d tell you, is heavy-bodied that feels nothing else but rich. Rich, not only in its consistency but in the flavour, with hints of different ones trying to take the stage. Flavours which get added with the journey the beans go through from plant to the cup. I’d tell you, I like a cup of coffee that has a hint of unexpected flavour or fruitiness; added perhaps, due to their exotic origins and stories. Lastly, I’d say, that I prefer a medium to dark roasted blend just because how open they are to their true nature and taste. Then, I’d sit and look at you, smiling. I’d take a minute and a few sips and I’d tell you, that is exactly how I like my friendships too.

On my recent weekend trip to home and back, there was a lot of turbulence due to bad weather. The turbulence was, however, not limited to the time I was in the air. It was ever-present in conversations and relationships during the couple of days I had in Dehradun. If you’ve ever been in violent turbulence, you’d know how easy it is to think of the worst case scenario. It’s easy because neither you nor the people around you are piloting the flight, and it is very easy to lose faith when you’re not in control. When we’re not in control, even a little shake feels like the end of the world, but it’s usually not. It’s just our survival instinct kicking in and trying to save us from sudden death. On a very turbulent weekend, I learned that because it is easiest to think of the worst case scenario is why we should cross it off first. There’s always space for a little hope and a little tailwind to help us reach wherever we’re trying to go. We just have to let the turbulence pass as we move into calmer skies.

When I think of love, I don’t think of much. I think of you, me and our table for two. I think of the walk to the restaurant, your hand in mine. I think of the eyes on us and us giggling at them. I think of the love that was lost somewhere between when I first felt it and when I lost myself in what only felt a maze of wrong people. I think of finding that love back whenever I find you looking at me. I think of the certainty that comes with your smile; a smile so effortless, it makes me smile back almost instantly. You know, I think of love a lot these days, but I don’t think of much when I do. When I think of love, I think of you, me and our table for two.

Lately, I haven’t stopped for a second to think, and not stopping for a second to think means the writer inside gets starved of inspiration like fire gets starved of fuel because you see, when you stop, you let things be and when you think, you reflect, and no good words ever came out of motion only progress so I don’t claim these are good words but these build toward something; these words are a message from me to myself to remember to stop for a second, to stop and ask myself one question and one question only, “What’s the hurry?” And so, I take a breath as that question mark ends the sentence that had carried on for way too long. And so, the writer finally gets a moment of his own, ironically so, at the end of a sentence.

Have you ever watched a kid fall down on the ground? I’m talking about the really young kids who still haven’t gotten a sense of what the world is like and how a fall could hurt them. These kids, they just fall down, you know? They don’t stop. They don’t put their arms forward, haphazardly trying to grab onto something. Kids, they just fall. Then, they take a moment to process what just happened to them, and then they choose whether to cry or laugh. It’s never too sure which of the two they’ll do because you see, kids, they’re not afraid, and they’re not busy trying to save themselves before things happen to them, and they don’t plan ahead. They do whatever is happening at the moment, and they do it effortlessly. You see, it’s us adults who are afraid of diving headfirst and getting hurt. I wish I could fall like a kid every once in a while.