Sunday, October 2, 2016

It feels like betrayal.
It also feels like the longest relationship I was ever in even if we were mostly not together. We were the best of friends. Although according to him, he loved me from before we became friends. Really. From when, I had asked. From as long as I can remember, he had said.
Then, as always happens, we became used to each other. Predictable. I have always maintained that if you can’t have a meaningful conversation with someone, you shouldn’t be with him. It’s the one thing I looked for, more than anything else. I didn’t care as much for attraction,  or for more material, measurable stuff like success (though the measurability of ‘success’ is debatable, no? I mean, what are the parameters?) although I will admit that I consider a sense of humour a definite plus. (And yes, he had a sense of humour.) What I did not realise is that conversations too become predictable. We still had them, oh plenty! But more and more we knew what the other was going to say.
Or at least I was predictable. I am. I sometimes think that I am predictable to the extent of being boring. These days I feel grateful. I feel like I should thank everyone who continues to be in my life in spite of the nothing I bring to theirs.
So after a little less than two years, we split. I backed off. I like to think that he created the conditions for it, even if I took the actual decision. But this is a never ending loop. Perhaps I created the conditions which pushed him to the edge. Then I used it to blame him. But that’s the thing about a loop. There are no corners, it goes on endlessly. So you can never stop and say this is where it all started. In any case, he did say I don’t see this going anywhere. That is a fact. Consequently, I did break away. That is a fact too. We’re great where we are right now, but the future is definitely apart, he had said.
Whoa.
It’s a cruel joke when life hands you the same cards a second time around and it’s a losing hand. Should I have seen it coming? Now, maybe. Back then it was a bolt from the blue. No, it was just a bolt. There was nothing blue about the skies those days.
We stayed friends though. The best of friends, like I said. Was that weird? Maybe, but I liked being unconventional. I had never allowed myself to be told how things should or shouldn’t be done. Things were done. In some way. It was ‘a’ way of doing things, even if it was not the usual way. And so we were friends. Of the best kind.
Then one day, while having tea at my place (there was always a lot of tea) and rolling a cigarette (and a lot of smoke too) he said we should get married. It had been two years since we had broken up, but what did that matter. He said we were so good together, we were meant to be together. In a warped way, I knew exactly what he meant. Yes, we were great together. Was that reason enough, I wondered. What about attraction? We hadn’t been together for two years.
A childhood friend thought I was mad to even consider it. We are great friends, she countered. Are you thinking of marrying me too?
Two more years passed. There were other loves, other crushes. But not the same conversations. Not with anyone else and not with him. That’s because he wouldn’t see me. Too hard being around you if I can’t be with you, he had said. So for two years we didn’t meet, didn’t speak.
Almost. I did call to check a couple of times if we could be friends again. The answer was a definitive no.
Then something changed. We met. Suddenly, it was okay to meet. Should I have wondered then? Then I jumped from the fence. I was tired and lonely. I was never going to find out whether it was a good or a bad decision if I never took a decision in the first place. (Isn’t that the point of sitting on the fence?) So I jumped.
It took us two days (maybe less) to settle comfortably back in our roles as if we had never been apart. It’s like I live in a time warp. Life stops and before you know it, you are two years older without having anything to show for it. You didn’t ‘grow’ two years older because you did nothing that could be called growing. You just are two.years.older. With a lot more grey to show for it, admittedly.
Then he was gone on work for nearly a month. When he came back, everything was the same, but something had changed. (In his head probably.) So we had the same conversations, we used the same words, but they had a different ring to them. Did I recognise the difference in the ring? In hindsight I think I did. But I ignored it. It was too unfamiliar, I did not know what it was. Or maybe I knew exactly what it was.
He feels detachment, he says. Everything is mechanical, and he feels nothing. Ah, mechanical. That was the tone. Our conversations were mechanical. It was as if we had had them before. Our movements were mechanical- whether it was making soup together or running hands through hair. It was all déjà vu.
I’m sorry, he said. It’s my fault, we should not have got back together. His face was stony, unmoving.
At least it was quick, I said.

For two years there had been an apparent sense of being loved. The reassurance that there was someone out there who wanted to be with me. It was a false reassurance, I realise now (as perhaps I did then too.) See, but that’s the thing about reassurances. They are so reassuring that you end up forgetting that they may not actually be true.
And for two years therefore, there was an apparent sense of loneliness. I was alone but not lonely. Not actually.
He thought he wanted to marry me, but he was wrong, he says. He calls it confusion. I see it as betrayal. All a matter of perspective!


In a single moment I have been left with two years of loneliness.


(This was written two years ago. Two years later, I am able to post it. I suppose that says something about time, and its healing properties.)

1 comment:

Paresh Naik said...

Just about as much enlightening, as it’s intriguing. I admire the balance with which you were able to articulate the unspeakable. Wonder in what light you’d be reading this piece now.