Meeting Him
Back in 2020, during a phase that I would proudly call “significant and course-changing” I had written a poem called “Meeting her”. I had an epiphany during an early august evening about how I was enough for myself and how in the middle of this chaotic journey of life, I had missed giving credit to myself for putting up so well. My therapist would talk to me about detaching myself from situations and viewing them from a distance, almost as if I was a mere spectator to the yarn, universe was trying to unfold. I had been trying this for quite some time, but on a particular day, sitting on a chair in the rooftop a “not-so-crowded” Navi Mumbai balcony, I saw it — the picture that was there right in front of me from the start. I felt it in my bones that I have a soul that deserves to be appreciated and has come a long way in terms of acceptance and healing. Okay enough of the self-praise. Now flash forward to September 2021, I met my Siba. The very next day of meeting him, one of his friends asked me, “How did you feel about Siba, how was your date”. I felt a gush of bombastic words reaching for my mouth but getting lost mid-way. The orator in me couldn’t form a sentence to describe how I felt about him, I settled for one sentence that had no hesitation in coming out, “I feel he is the one for me”. A few people, including myself questioned the audacity of saying something of such weight after one mere encounter, but how I could I explain to anyone how I felt after “Meeting him”, how could I say it and say it in a manner that justice is done to the very feeling of it — that after decades of existence, in the middle of an ordinary Saturday, in a regular Kormangala eatery, it felt like my soul had come back home.
Since then, I have tried multiple times to write about “Meeting him”, about how he is a kind, loving and talented human being, about how when he looks at me and I look at myself in the brown of his eyes, I feel like eternity can pass in a moment. As much as I tried, I failed in penning down how I felt about him, a poem wasn’t enough, a caption sure wasn’t enough, words weren’t enough, the summation of all beautiful adjectives decked up with grand metaphors was not enough to describe him. But here I am, still hoping that this write-up will come close to doing justice in expressing what I feel for him
I remember when I read the book, “the forty rules of love”, all I could think about for days at a stretch is that I want something that Shams and Rumi have, a deep spiritual connection, that goes beyond the domains the rationality. In a modern day setting, I would choose to describe this connection as meeting someone for the first time and getting a feeling that you have experienced them multiple times in the past and an innate security that you will experience them multiple times in the future, till you figure what souls are made of and probably end up in stardust together. He is the shams to my Rumi. Sure, we have never sat down together to discuss the 40 rules of the religion of love, but it is in the little things that he does and the big things that he makes happen. The initial months of our love went by in a flash. I would spend most of my time with him — parties, movies, podcasts, books or just making love but what left me surprised is that the insomniac in me who I had unwillingly nurtured and fed over the years, found sleep as tranquil as a clear spring sky, when I slept next to him.
So deep rooted was the feeling of love in us, that when our parents asked us if we wanted to get married, all it took was exchanging a glance and saying “yes” in a moment. I would tell my best friend, “Rafuu I have waited for this all my life” and she would just smile knowing better than me how much i have waited for this. Like almost every other girl, I had thought about this since my childhood and heavens know I wanted to scream off of my 8th floor balcony — “I am getting married”. A couple of months past our relationship I said to him, “I have anxiety issues since my childhood”. He had known it for a while but it was the first time I had said those words. He shifted positions to come closer to me, hugged me and I stayed there holding him as tightly as I could, silently saying a prayer to the universe thanking it for beautifully coalescing the figments of my story and leading me to a person who knows and accepts me for who I am. I wept a little and he hugged me tighter, I fell asleep as soon as we went to bed.
“You are kind” I always keep telling him and he would be as modest as ever in accepting compliments. The fact is beneath all the good traits that he has — a loving son, a caring partner, a cool brother, an amazing friend, there is another layer to him, a layer that takes a good amount of time to uncover and for a fickle eye, would go unnoticed easily. This layer or the core of his being as I define it is the rare ability to give and accept love with a pure unadulterated heart.
Few people have asked me the secret to a good relationship and I would always say that it’s the little things that makes the big things happen. You care about what your partner will eat for lunch, you care enough about holding their hand when someone brings up an uncomfortable topic in a party, you care about the mildest headache that they have, you care about it when shopping doesn’t result in the perfect outfit, you care about it when a work day goes awry. You just care enough to not be able to see them upset and this care comes naturally, for a part of your soul already resides in theirs and any discomfort in your own soul leads you to care, doesn’t it?
The day following my wedding witnessed me having mixed emotions and remembrances of so many things left behind that are worth remembering and have unknowingly become a part of me — the 3 year old me running towards my Dad when the last period bell rang at school, jumping and hugging him with all my might, holding Deepa’s hand and playing ringa ringa roses, the daal that was cooked next door in Gupta aunty’s kitchen, reaching for my sister’s hand at the very sight of street dogs, the cool breeze touching my face as I sat on the stairs of D-Block at KIIT University, my tears when I hugged Rafuu on the last day of college, the warmth of the sun on a beautiful Chennai morning, the sounds of the waves at Juhu beach, the sweet silence in the pause of Mumbai when covid struck, hugging my Mum with welled up eyes the day her chemo got over, me having an epiphany of my self-worth and writing the poem “Meeting her”, me walking out the door on September 4, 2021 and meeting the man that I was always destined to meet, him holding my hand and taking the vows of holy matrimony. I felt these things so deeply and strongly as if universe was playing a short video clip of my journey. I close my eyes and start my dialogue with the universe.
“How am I getting these vivid flashes”
“Aren’t these all glimpses from your definition of home”
“Yes, have I left my home behind?”
“No you have finally come home”
Meeting him was like homecoming, as if a wanderer finally finds a reason to stay. I know I failed again in describing him for me and this write-up did not come close to what he is to me but I am so sure of the fact that my life will be a testament of my love, this life that I am going to be spending with him. We have made multiple promises to each other and we will keep each one of them. Amongst them, what stands tall is holding each other’s feeble hands when we are old and helping each other flip the pages of this beautiful journey of life till the end.
