Do you believe in coincidences? Or karma? Or that everything happens for a reason?

PS: It's my 25th birthday today!

Love, distance, & a few lessons

Every Sunday, I visit my boyfriend's home in New Delhi. I live in Gurgaon—29 kilometers away, 50 minutes by car, or 2 hours by metro. I'm grateful for the choice and option of meeting him each week. To me this is just about the long distance I can handle. When did I become this way? Dreading distance and dreaming of staying with him for the rest of my life. It actually sucks that I only get to see him once a week, but I'm pretty sure I'm looking at the glass half-empty. (*cue self awareness for down-talking myself. I am sacred. I am holy. I am a valuable thing in the world)

Be patient with me.

Four, maybe five Sundays ago, I exited the metro station with beads of sweat rolling down my face. It was 45 degrees. I swear I've never been alive on a hotter day. Boiling. Blistering. Trees turning yellow. And in that moment, my stubborn heart prompts me to walk to his house instead of taking an auto. I politely refuse the auto bhaiyas and walk past their grey uniforms, firm in my resolve to walk.

Why am I walking outside in 45 degrees of boiling heat? Because I missed my morning workout. And I feel the need to move my body. And I'll feel guilty if I don't get the chance later. Talk about being cruel to oneself—you'll remember me.

I teeter on the edge of self-love and self-loathing almost every single week. Sometimes both in the same day. Not quite an ideal human, to be honest with you. But human nonetheless.

I digress. So I'm walking the winding road to his house. Now, lucky for me, he lives in a fairyland lush with trees. Spring is almost fading from the city, but the golden amaltas still bloom. I think they're called Golden Showers. They look like fat yellow grapes drenched in glowing sun. They form the backdrop to my walk. I feel the water in my body being sucked out like a straw from my head. Reminds me of an ad we used to watch on TV. A mild throbbing replaces my thoughts.

I think, "Damn it, he was right, it's too hot to walk." Now I cannot tell my best friend, that I'm walking to his home in 45 degrees. He'll roll his eyes until they reach the back of his head and disappear. Sheepishly, I choose not to tell him until he asks how I came home. White lie by omission? I know, I know, it's silly and he'll laugh at me. Right now, I'm cursing myself. I'm halfway there and can't see any mode of transport to save me. If I book an Uber now, by the time I wait for it to arrive, I'll become a dried raisin. It'll take me the same time to get to his home. Keep walking.

As I trudged along, each step heavier than the last, I began to understand something. Sometimes, stubbornness leads us to unnecessary struggles, and it's okay to recognize when to change course.

Despite the sweltering trip, I couldn't wait to reach the gate of his house. The thought of a cold shower and his comforting presence kept me going. By the time I entered his front yard & wiped the sweat from my brow I realized how blessed I am to have him in my life. To share my high highs, low lows, & regular flows. I know he’d have come to pick me from the station if I had asked him to. He always does when he’s awake. Every week, I get to meet him, sometimes even twice. He's so precious—a kind and loving spirit. My love.

For this grace, my heart overflows with gratitude.

Thank you for reading this story. I’m grateful for your eyes, your heart, your soul. 🧡

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I said something that made Appa laugh, it’s my favorite thing about him!

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I shook like a leaf at the thought of starting a weekly newsletter in April’24. I am a moody moon maiden after all. I cry at the drop of a hat. I feel sorry for the cups at the back of my shelf. My chest swells with pride and eyes well with tears of joy when I watch my sister dance. It’s who I am. I love a good cry on hard days. A good cry on really good days. It’s an emotional release. Like grounding. Or tapping. Or boxing.

And it feels so good to be able to write to you without hesitation. Did you know my thinking language is different than English?

I was born in Delhi, and have lived with my grandparents all these years. We speak Hindi at home. English was encouraged in school, but we never followed the rules. Naturally as I grew up, I was shy of speaking in English. Even today I stutter and mispronounce a lot of words. That’s okay. I’m over the initial avoidance phase. Partly thanks to all the books I ended up reading and eventually the friends I made.

I am so grateful for your attention & wisdom. Here are some comments on my previous posts that I took a screenshot of & go back to again and again on tough days.

My Favorite Substack Publications of All Times

Deanna Thomas

writes with love.

Don Boivin

bares his soul

Candace Rose Rardon

shares her colorful world

Mike Speriosu

has a poem for every feeling

I will write to you again. I love you.

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