Some days, walking is painful. The pain is ever present. I worry that I'm too young to feel this way. She tells me it will pass. Sometimes, I've a tendency to take half a tablet. Not all tablets can be split, but some can, and she gets upset with me. "You're not a child, and you need the correct dosage," she says. I can't bring myself to tell her that I'm afraid of the medications. Yesterday, she reminded me of something she read about Radha being jealous of Krishna's flute. I asked her why she thought of it now, and she said it was because I was blushing over my new laptop.

We all understand that love means fearing the loss of those we cherish. I think I've unlocked a new fear. I'm afraid of losing the person I am with her if she leaves. I like that guy I am with her. That guy gets to write random thoughts as poetry, foolish as he may be.

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If every opportunity we have in life is just for short-lived happiness and fleeting people, what would we call that? It's not that being temporary is bad or a negative thing. But having it last a little longer might be nice, or even better, we could truly be happy. Like that one time when I was six, visiting my grandma's house for a ceremony and had to take a bath outside by the well. Father said all the bathrooms were occupied, so my sister and I had to bathe outside. Mother was not pleased. I wasn't thrilled either, but I realized I wouldn't get another silly chance like that. It was a night filled with street lights. There was one swinging yellow bulb over the well. I was shivering as Father kept drawing water and pouring it over my sister and me. Then, I ran into the warm embrace of my Mother, who had towels ready to dry us off. Just for that one moment. Temporary. The next day, Mother would push me into one of the bathrooms to bathe anyway. Maybe being temporary is good. It stays longer in our memories. We’ll cherish it for a longer time. As long as we can remember it. Or them.

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You’ve been urging me to put my thoughts into words, and I felt adrift—at least, that’s what I believed. Then my younger brother came to stay for the summer. He has this quirky routine of bathing whenever he feels even slightly grimy, sometimes two or three times a day. Curious, I asked him why, and he replied it makes him feel rejuvenated. I can’t quite relate; on some days, I’m too lazy to shower a second time. After a long day at work, I often just want to collapse into bed.

His answer, though, hit me with a wave of nostalgia, and suddenly I knew why I couldn't write. Loving you is like those carefree childhood evenings when I’d bathe, then settle in front of the TV to watch Mr Bean on Pogo, savouring the mangoes my father had brought home. Those were the moments when nothing else mattered, and the days felt infinite. I realise now that I fell for you, not as a writer, but as a child.

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MY GODDESS

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Speaking of tyrants

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— % &

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I Beg to
Disagree

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