An Amorphous Archive

An Amorphous Archive

"It's funny how much of your childhood is about proximity."

- Jenny Han

The following write-up is a personal essay that I had submitted as an entry to an inter-collegiate essay writing competition. The theme was 'keeping secrets'. It is a non-fiction narrative with some fictional elements. As you might have guessed it rightly, this article has been nicely and quietly published here for attention as it could not make it to any of the top three places of the competition that deems them worthy of recognition. YP, one of the few valuable humans I know suggested that I publish this and let the 'worms out of the can'. Some lines embarrass, some speak the truth, some are make-believe but mostly all lines are visceral. This was originally written on 16th February, 2024. 

Him and I

“He smiles at me, and I am suddenly seventeen again – the year I realize that love doesn’t follow the rules, the year I understood that nothing is worth having so much as something unattainable.”

- Jodi Picoult, My Sister’s Keeper

At the Dravidian border, we grew up as kindred. Neighbors always had each other’s backs. The city’s cold didn’t affect my wild heart of the salad days. My grandparents raised me; bathed me when I fell in the gutter one day and always had chucklesome stories to say. 

The cows, the Banyan tree and the open field; we owned it all, him and I. We paid the price of innocence and fun to own it all. He was my secret.

Our age? Tender. Our disposition? Naive. 

He was a year older to me. We grew up in the same neighborhood as toddlers. Going to his home was nothing different than leaving my own home to enter my other home. His mother always brought a cup full of Bombay mixture as soon as I sat on the couch next to their main door. My visits to his home were always in the afternoon. His sister would then come out of her study room and ask about my day at school or about how beautiful my dress was. My Amama loved to dress me up in dresses. As I would munch on the mixture, he’d come out of his room and walk straight into the kitchen to fetch his snacks. I don’t remember what that skinny dude ate those days. Probably air. Then, his sister would mock him a bit and get back into studying. His mother would talk to us both about school because we went to the same institution with one grade apart. After I finished my snacks, I’d rush into the kitchen to wash it at the basin but a long gentle hand used to intervene through my elbow and take away the cup. She didn’t do the same to him, he always washed his utensil. Yes, I got the princess treatment. After this, both of us used to go to our friends’ houses and call them out to play. We always shouted their names on top of our lungs at their doorsteps and never took the privilege of gently knocking at the doors. We used to play hopscotch, hide and sneak, role-play and building blocks till evening. We used to cycle too. Among everybody else in our friend group, we were young and I was the youngest. We were more closer to each other than with the rest probably because both of our homes owned puppies, we loved to tease the short tempered kid who was always getting screwed by his father (sometimes his screams and other times, live demos) and we liked each other. We were so young that the secret could possibly be overlooked as insignificant. The impact, however, of keeping it within for all these years has left me perplexed. It was one noon. Amama had given me the new orange frock which she had tailored herself. I put it on. I had two ponytails. Renu (our pet) kept barking as I ran out of the house to go to my second home. I finished the usual drill. Ate my Bombay mixture. He did not eat anything that day. We decided to go up to the terrace and start a role-playing game of a teacher and student. I always wanted to be the teacher. There were never any disagreements between us, over the characters. A few minutes went by. We were sitting. He stuttered a bit. I waited. There was a little gibberish with a pinch of silence. His words somehow coalesced. Then, he asked me if I liked him. We were only in primary. I knew we both were found of each other. I agreed. He confessed too. It didn't impact me that much because our conversation didn’t have the word ‘love’ but I was able to predict something. Something I too had yearned for. A declaration. 

He asked if he could kiss me. I was head over heels. I did not want to say no. I was scared and there was some feeling of guilt within me. His mother was always the kindest to me and I doubted if she would ever be happy with me if she found out that I was in love. But, there was an excitement too. I wanted to do it because I had once seen my uncle and aunt kiss each other. They were the only couple in my entire family to declare love like that, rather through loud arguments or shopping or food. I looked at the sky. Then, across the coconut trees that covered the speedy highway. Then, at him and down at my vibrantly shining frock. I folded my hands. Stood up. He stood up too. I looked into his eyes, saw nothing dramatic or surreal. I agreed. He smiled. He had brushed well. Now we know why he hadn’t eaten anything. We kissed. We were so young. It was our first. As we heard his mother calling us down for some fruits, we immediately snapped out of that moment. Nobody ever found a hint about us. No neighbor ever saw. With houses quite distant and at that time of the day, no uncle or aunty possessed good vision or nap time control to catch us. 

A few months later, my parents decided to take me home. To the city. I rebelled. I hated settling with my parents. The love they had for each other was nothing like that of my grandparents. I never felt warm by it. Something always hurt. My mother’s reason was that ‘I would be a burden on my Amama’ while my father just believed my mother. I cried and ran in and out of the rooms. Nobody listened. They heard. My grandparents were already convinced by my parents and hence they tried convincing me. Amama hesitated to let me go. I could sense it. My bags were packed instantly and I was put in the back seat of the Santro. They both sat in front. My friends, neighbors, Amama, Thatha and him kept waving as I kept staring at the memory through that big glass behind the car, with pinkish moist eyes. I could see my Amama tearing while forcibly smiling. She must’ve hated my parents. I didn’t move one inch until we reached that building that I was supposed to call a ‘home’ in Indiranagar. I was still for 2 hours in that car. I don’t recollect the scenes afterward. There were no dogs. No neighborhood friends. No chirping of sparrows. The sky was shy. The honks were frequent. Everyone did not know everyone. The school was an hour away. The kids spoke only in English. Amama’s love had always made the food delicious. Always. Unfortunately, I never tasted my mother’s food the same way. Amidst all of this, I kept him closer to my heart. My scores were increasing comparatively in that new school but I couldn’t celebrate them heartily. 

I only ever looked forward to the summers, weekends and long holidays because my parents would drop me at Amama’s home. They would not stay for longer than a day as they both had work. Him and I, we never spoke or guffawed like we used to after I left. Both of us hit our own renaissance periods gradually. Some maturity or change bestowed, I guess. Our interactions reduced word by word. I grew quiet. We stopped visiting our other homes. We just saw each other at gatherings. No city boy ever impressed me like he did. When COVID hit, the writer in me flourished and he was all about calisthenics. He ventured between yoga and workouts. We followed each other on social media. We appreciated each other’s talent just like any well-wisher. We never exchanged numbers though I had his sister's and his mother’s. Though he used to  wish me on my birthdays online, I rarely did on his. From 2021 onwards, Amama started organizing New Year’s Eve annually. I got to see him only on those days. We would only be aware that we were close by but never came closer. We only spoke two sentences; Happy New Year and Thank You. And with a smile. He was always the life of the party. So, it was always guaranteed that I would see him on 31st of December no matter what. 

The only person other than me in this world who knows the first person I loved and kissed is him. I am glad that it was him. And now, all of you independent writers know as well. This secret is probably the only memory I have of us. I hesitate to spill this anywhere or take it back to him, fearing a new change could damage such a reminiscent moment. This secret is bipolar in nature. Somehow. It makes me feel joyous for being loved and sometimes, bewildered for not being able to understand where we stand. Either way, this secret will only be ours. Forever. The future scares me. It comes with oh-so-many restrictions on love that it becomes confined only to the chosen ones. Hence, I am disabled to dream of us. Either together or apart.

I hope that we rekindle this secret one day. I hope we choose one among these two: gulp it like swallowing a raw yolk or cook it into a tasty Sunnyside up.