Hearts Still Care

Who can say where the road goes? Where the day flows? Only time.  

And who can say if your love grows as your heart chose? Only time.

I switched on Enya as my mind needed to stop its whirlwind, and this was the first song that played. These are the first lines that were sung to me.

I’ve had a tough week. Sunday was chaos, with an old relationship breaking down. It’s a trying time when you see all that you built over decades diminish in a few minutes.

Depression set in around that time. And the week has not been kind. I had a small accident with my new car. Then I had a revelation with a partner that made me realise that everything changes with time.

Irrespective of what Shakespeare said about the alteration of love, I know that there are graver and more terrible things out there: the crashing of identity, the mislabelling of gender, the murders in the name of love, and the genocide in the name of religion. But I guess every moment in time has its devastation.

We paint a kinder picture of our childhood, but I know that I had terrible trauma in those years too. They made me who I am today. This Blanche Dubois who wishes to be the modern-day Stella but fails—all the time.

Those lanterns I keep putting on the harsh bulbs of life keep burning up. And any moth, that comes close, burns. Like I burn—irrespective of all the light around me.

I am caught up in this pain that seems to abate and make me think that it’s over. But something happens with the people that I count on and it all comes crashing around me.

Saurabh came to meet me after two years. He came up to me as I went to greet him at the door. He said, “Oh my god, you look so good. You look lovely.” And I burst into tears. I couldn’t stop crying. I wept for minutes in his arms.

I suppose it’s a build-up of pain and fury at the world around me. I try to overcome this weight of being needed and wanted. This weight where I find myself comparing my character, my body, my passion, my ability, my longing to the ones around me. The weight of finding myself short in every aspect because I see myself through other people’s eyes.

I’m not macho enough. I’m not handsome enough. I’m not intelligent enough. I am not kind enough. I am not capable enough. It goes on and on—these thoughts that harass my mind and create this incredible surge of helplessness.

I can’t bear to show this. I can’t bear to keep this hidden. Then there is the ridicule of the tears. Will I be judged for them? Aren’t men not supposed to weep? Rowling would say it’s not man enough, I suppose. My tears as a man wouldn’t be real for her. Would they? But then who even is she to me in the larger scheme of things? But won’t my mother count in this scheme? My best friend? My lover?

Then Saurabh comes in. He lashes out at every insecurity and sees me. I weep.