Everything Means Nothing To Me: Part-2

I am heading to Chennai; I always do whenever I feel like I’m losing a sense of ‘myself’. Perhaps it is because I can only perceive myself to be something bigger, something grander, someone with a stable footing when I am in Chennai.

I have a history there; I exist in the memories of the people I left behind. When the wind plays with my hair, when the salty sea water washes away the loose sand stuck in between my toes, when I pass by that apartment where I spent much of my childhood, it is then that I truly realise the weight of my being. I don’t live there anymore. But I remember. I remember who I was, who I had been to people, what I had meant to them, what they had meant to me. But it had abruptly stopped.

People I had once known very dearly faded into the dangerous mist of obscurity. The more the distance grew, the greater became the lethargy to continue knowing each other. I had taken that train from Chennai to Bangalore three years ago, and that was it. Hence, I needed to go back to Chennai. I needed to grab onto as much as I could, lest disappointment should be all that remained for me. Bangalore made me feel small, insecure in my position in society, insecure about what I will even amount to. I could never gracefully adjust to this shift.

It is, however, a product of a choice that I had made; I wanted to be in IISc. I wanted to give up Chennai, in search of something bigger, grander; an idea I’ve since then started to hate — the idea of a ‘fresh start’. I hate it. It’s so invalidating, or rather, I used it to invalidate myself, especially the person I was in Chennai. I distanced myself from myself, hoping to somehow magically find a new me in Bangalore. And I had failed at that.

I was now desperately trying to piece myself back together, finding anything that would remind me of the person I am, of the person I was. Sometimes it felt futile. You must move forward, they say. But for this once, just for this one time, let me step back, back into the comfortable bosom of nostalgia. Let me cry, cry about all the futures that can’t be realised, and cry about all the futures that can be. You cannot undo.

I reach Chennai Central. The train ride back home was peaceful. I had listened to some light music while fiddling with my camera. I had texted people, a lot of them. Train rides are a good place to catch up and also to remember—remember all the sweet memories you have with them. We reserve the bitter ones for the people who no longer exist in our lives. They say life moves on. But looking back, most of the reasons why I have forgotten somebody seem trivial, childish even. A flush of anxiety and embarrassment hits me. I cannot invalidate teenagers and what they feel. I cannot invalidate what I had felt.

I finally hear murmurs in a language I can understand – Tamil. As I walk out of the entrance of the train, I immediately feel the temperature change. Bangalore would have been much colder, drier too, as if emulating the very way the city had treated me. I begin to sweat almost immediately. I check the Weather App—around 30ºC. Chennai doesn’t leave me feeling all miserable. Sweet wind flows. The wind ruffles my hair, touches the very cells that were secreting sweat moments ago. In assuaging them, it assuages me. I briefly recall my middle school geography; I vividly imagine the associated image of Land Breeze and Sea Breeze, and a lot more — the westerlies, the doldrums, the monsoon, the October Heat, yada yada. I always let out a smile when I think about my past. I genuinely feel happy about how far I have come from where I used to be.

I go to my favourite dining spot - Mamagoto. I ordered something spicy to prove that tolerance hasn’t exited my soul. I always partner what I get with a Bao. This is solely ritualistic, to honour a certain memory I can never graduate from. I follow a lot of such rituals. I think it wouldn’t be wrong to call them mental blocks, stubborn refusals to move on from a particular moment in my memory.

Whenever I come to Chennai, I don’t seem to find the will to go home. There’s so much I want to do, so much I want to explore, but it’s 9:30 PM, and my home is 30 kilometres away. So, I finally decide that the best course of action is to go home. However, the memory of my home evokes such bittersweet, conflicting emotions within me. I’m grateful I have a family. I love my family, but some things, some actions are hard to overlook. But for now, I look forward to my mom’s Katla Kalia. My mom always makes a big deal about my returning home, and rightfully so. I do believe I deserve a pompous homecoming.

I wake up the following morning. The light striking me is unusual; my room in IISc is unfortunately very dark, and I had completely forgotten how it feels to be woken by the sun. An unfamiliar, almost foreign ceiling floats above me. I had never been comfortable calling the place I was currently in ‘home’. We moved in on the day I appeared for JEE Advanced, literally hours after I had finished it. But all that doesn’t matter much. I wake up to the regular hustle and bustle of a typical Bengali Indian household — animated discussions on politics and finance over tea and indulgent gossip about some family member living in some opposite part of the country. My dad is hunched over his laptop, doing his IT job, which runs this household. It is truly because of him that I am absolved of any such responsibility, and for that, I’m ever grateful. My mom calls me over for breakfast. She serves me some Ruti Ghoogni. They serve the same in the mess back at IISc, too, but this was miles better. I put on Bloody Mary Girl by She Her Her Hers while scrolling through Pinterest, looking for outfit ideas, book recommendations, movie recommendations, yada yada.

“You’ve become a different person; you’ve gotten crazier, just like everyone in your father’s side,” retorts my mother. I realise that I have not spoken much with her after returning—only the pleasantries—for I had immediately proceeded to sleep after dinner.

“Oh! I’m just wondering about my Maths homework question, which I’m having some trouble solving,” I lie. I hide my phone embarrassingly and finally look at her face. I feel massive pangs of guilt. Why am I so distant from my own family? This was my everything for such a long time. Why do I not feel free around them? They are not bad people.

“Oh! Is it the professor who was your father’s senior? Does he know you personally? Do you talk to him? Do you studiously present yourself? He usually gives very hard questions, no? Okay, I shall not disturb you,” she responds. I nod to acknowledge the comments in a classic Bengali Boy response to a Bengali Mother question. The only sad part is that we’ve repeated this conversation, in some form or another, multiple times. It hurts me again. Why do I have nothing to speak of or talk about?

“Yes, yes, yes. Of course, he knows me. It’s kind of hard not to notice someone with my hooliya sitting in the first bench. Someday I’ll ask him about father, but we’re not that close yet,” I answer. I don’t want to leave my mom hanging.

She then moves on to cutting vegetables, singing along to the hit songs of Shah Rukh Khan playing in the background. I like this. I remember the times when, as a child, I would play such mixes on our CD player with her. Life used to be simple. We would watch a Bollywood movie every Sunday, and order Chinese chicken lollipops from a shop. This was before Swiggy, Zomato and the likes. I think about how convenient our society has unfortunately become. Back in that time, you’d have to search for a phone number in the Yellow Pages, ring restaurants up to place an order and hope they’d deliver on time. You’d have to call the day before to reserve a cab from Fastrack. Things felt more human and intricate back then. At every step, there was an unexplainable comfort of having a human around; it made things matter more; it fostered numerous connections. But I have lived through the change. I embraced it, and my parents did too, but in a much more laboured manner. I realised something that hadn’t quite struck me before: the older you grow, the less amenable you become to change. Change is a constant, true, but it is so difficult to abandon sweet nostalgia. Sofia Coppola comes to my head, and I quote Lost in Translation to myself.

Charlotte: I just don’t know what I’m supposed to be.

Bob: You’ll figure that out. The more you know who you are and what you want, the less you let things upset you.

I really love Lost in Translation. I love the colour grading, the music. I love Scarlet in the movie. I remind myself that I have to watch Her. I remind myself that I have so much I want to do that it’s easier to just not think about it and do nothing.

I retreat to my room. I am a mess. I can’t seem to catch a hold of myself. I feel like I’ll melt and become one with my sweat, away and gone. Why do I feel like an outsider in my own family? I have too much trauma that prevents me from doing anything I want to do, to bridge this gap. I don’t want to be alone. I need some air.

I tell my mom I’m heading out to explore the neighbourhood and offer to buy some groceries on the way. This is the least I can do to feel a part of the family once again.

‘Ask me to run errands, as you used to.’

‘Scold me for getting my clothes dirty and muddy, as you used to.’

‘Tell me that I can’t go because I don’t have your permission,’ I think to myself. But alas, it is how it is. I’m not a kid anymore; I’m a noticeable person. I’m certain that my stature brings great relief to my Bengali mother, who used to always protect me as a child, closer than her jewellery, from the legendary mango candy child kidnappers at railway stations. I cannot be kidnapped anymore, at least not without a fight.

“Oh, your dad wanted me to order litchi juice for him, so if you’re going, bring the 2L tetra pack. You can get snacks for yourself if you want. There’s nothing much I need, and if I did, I’ll Zepto it, don’t worry,” she promptly responds, not even paying heed to the fact that I’m ‘going’. She’s gotten used to it, my wanting to escape.

“Also, take a phone with you, so at least I can contact you when it’s a bit late,” she continues. Thank you! Finally, something to confirm that she does know I’m stepping out.

I want to mention to her something about how ridiculously unhealthy these drinks are, and the fact that they are pushing fifty; these drinks are loaded with sugars, and they are already prone to diabetes genetically. But I decide against it. Who am I to take someone’s happiness away? I also find something very amusing: a thought train that extends naturally from my utmost sympathy for the condition of these delivery boys. They took my job away! They took the one integral function I provided to my family away. That does hurt. I remember my childhood once again. I remember all the times I would buy a lower-quality daal or lower-quality bread so that I could fund my indulgences – sometimes the big fountain pen (to replace the one I broke in school, but didn’t dare to tell my mother about), sometimes chocolate, and always ice cream.

I put on my jogging shoes and my Moonchus. I do the one ritual that my grandmother had instilled in me as a child: I chant dugga dugga gonesho gonesho in my head and then exclaim, “Aami aaschi!” Isn’t that so very cute? Even when you leave, you leave saying you’ll come back; there is always a hope for another meeting—I am not leaving you alone. A similar expression exists in Tamil as well- ‘Naan poitu varen’. I giggle at that thought and step out.

I walk around. Nothing has fundamentally changed. I am forever in quest of that new road that I’ve never seen before, but unfortunately, there seems to be none. I decide to go to my secret spot, which someone close had once shown me. When it comes to secret spots, I always have this weird rule of thumb. You know a secret spot is a good one solely by a single metric - how many cigarette butts you see there. Somehow, humans prefer to smoke in a scenic place, where no one can find them, where they can escape from the finitude of their dreams, or their lack thereof. And surely, I find new cigarette butts around. This place is a simple opening, an opening to a small lake, from where you can look at the big bridge, which ultimately carries people across the lake. As the sun dips, there’s a heavenly scene that forms. The crimson, vermilion rays of the sun strike the water, forming a rich gradient. And the muted reflection of the skyscrapers beyond the lake forms a monstrous ensemble of shaky fingers adorned with colourful jewels. You can quietly lose yourself in this simple scene, trying to make sense of the colours, the textures and the warm, earthy scents. But that’s not why I love this place. I love seeing random cars zoom across the bridge. I do not know where they are headed or who they are. Yet, within each car is a story, an anxiety; each one is abounding in fun, and yet riddled with problems. Life unfolds within every single car; each metal bubble is a bubble of life. I’ll never know anything about them, but for this moment alone, with me staring endlessly into this vast expanse of what I think contains everything, nothing matters. Nothing really matters in this moment. You’re on a bridge, in the middle of nowhere; no matter what your problems are, there’s a good chance you cannot attempt to solve them from that bridge. That’s when epiphany struck me for the second time after the train journey: someone’s everything means nothing to me. My everything means nothing to them. My everything means nothing to me.