THE FIRST PERSON I WANT TO TELL

 

Dear reader,

So yesterday, my hostel roommate went home.

She has three days of leave.

Now, obviously, why spend three days—aka 72 hours—aka some ridiculously long number of minutes, aka  unnecessarily large number of seconds  (I’m very bad at maths, apologies to my ancestors) in this  little room, sweating under a half-dead fan?

So yes.

She took her backpack and left.

Not before I reminded her to come back with a packet of homemade pickle or chips to help me survive the unforeseen future, obviously.

Anyway.

I was alone.

And then, suddenly—

POW.

The power went off.

And as always, my hyper-independence took charge.

With great confidence and determination, I walked towards the adjacent room.

Only to fall flat on my face in the hostel verandah.

Well.

It was dark.

And most people clearly possessed common sense and were safely inside their own rooms.

So, naturally, my first concern was not the injury.

It was first-hand embarrassment.

Because imagine falling dramatically in a deserted hostel corridor and then having an audience.

I would simply have to leave the country.

Anyway, I managed to get up and make it to the room.

Locked the door.

Thanks to the emergency first-aid kit my mother packed—which, at this point, I suspect contains everything except a defibrillator—I had a Band-Aid and a packet of Vicks.

I used the Band-Aid.

I am fine, if you are concerned.

The Vicks remains untouched, in case of a more catastrophic event.

But this isn't an elegy for my great adventure in the hostel corridor.

It's about what happened after.

I sat there in the dark, and for some reason, I thought:

Who do I tell this to?

Not because falling down is particularly interesting.

It isn't.

But because sometimes something happens—a ridiculous thing, a funny thing, a terrible thing, a beautiful thing—and there is one person you instinctively want to tell.

You don't even think about it.

You just reach for your phone.

Guess what just happened.

You'll never believe this.

I fell.

I saw the prettiest thing today.

I'm so angry.

I'm so happy.

I'm scared.

Look at this.

Sometimes you don't even need a reason.

You just want to tell them because they are your person to tell.

And yesterday, sitting alone in that ridiculous little room, I realized I don't have one.

Not yet, anyway.

I have people I love.

Friends.

Family.

People who would probably answer if I called.

But I don't have that one particular person whose name appears in my head before I even decide I want to share something.

Maybe because I don't want to “disturb” anyone.

Because whenever I want to tell someone something, my first thought is:

What if they're busy?

No. I shouldn't disturb them.

So I don't.

And then the thought stays in my head.

I don't have someone.

The first person I want to tell.

About the saltless curry of the hostel.

About how handsome the new K-drama lead is.

About that out-of-this-world beautiful line from the book I'm reading right now.

About the nights I can't sleep.

About a handsome policeman I saw from the bus.

About the girl in my hostel who has long hair and a toxic boyfriend.

About the clever cinema reference I used in a conversation.

About my craving for payasam right now.

About Ali Sethi and Nayyara Noor.

About how I lied to my father that I woke up early.

About my very ridiculous belief that my true love is in Chennai. 

(Not scientifically proven...)

And much more.

And perhaps that is one of the strangest kinds of loneliness.

Not having nobody.

But having something happen and realizing there is no particular person you instinctively reach for.

Maybe someday there will be.

Maybe someday I'll fall spectacularly in front of an entire hostel and, instead of worrying about my dignity, I'll immediately reach for my phone and type:

“You will not believe what just happened.”

And someone will reply:

“Oh God. What did you do now?”

And somehow, that will be enough.

Until then, I suppose I'll continue being my own emergency contact.

And my own audience.

And, apparently, my own first-aid department.

Very independent.

Very capable.

Very lonely.

Anyway.

My roommate better bring those chips.


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