“change” vs change

When you’ve been living in the same place for more than ten years, even changes follow a pattern that’s constant. There are ups and downs and adjustment and tears if you, like me, went to a college where the people are just so different from the kind you’ve been slumming with your whole life. It’s all new new new. If not, it’s even devoid of that.

This “change” is barely one fourth of your life. There are always your other friends, who’ll be there in your life forever. You can afford to be a loner in college, because you’ll still have them. You get to divide your life into partitions.

Soon, this wave of change, becomes a straight line as you get used to that as well. The comfort level goes up up and whatever’s above up. You get to weed out the people from your past who were just there, and you couldn’t make more than smalltalk with. You have that friend you always go to the library with, another friend you always go to the parlour with, and the friends you hang out at parties with, and the friends you go with to the smaller parties. You have the friends who you text 24/7 and even the people you regularly bump into are limited to a predictable few.

Everyone gets categorized. Everything’s so organized and safe.

Or maybe this is just with people like me who are so immune to craziness and spontaneity. It’s nice, but it takes away the element of surprise. And I’m the kind of person who’s forever waiting to be surprised.


So I kind of wrote my first short story ever. It’s about a girl who runs (track) and then stops running and how a part of her goes away with it. Very cliched, I know. But it’s a start because it’s the first ever story I’ve actually managed to write in an Indian setting. This has been more difficult that anything, for some reason. Writing about what I’ve lived, breathed and experienced is way harder than infusing elements (hazy emotions and vague longings) of what I know and am into something I’ve just (at most) seen and read about.

Plus, it’s actually PG rated. Very very rare. If my mom asks me what I’m writing again and is all “What’s the use of not showing your stuff to anybody?” I have something to show her. Ha.

Excerpt below.

I remember the day of The Accident, though it’s perhaps the distorted, dramatically intense version that clings to my memory. I wish it weren’t so clear in my head… what happened to things fading with time? To the happy endings that were assured after incidents like these?

Perhaps it’s the only thing I have to cling on to. Perhaps I never knew problems before that.

I’m leaning against the back door of my house that faces the main road… I’m just another girl in the big, polluted, calm, sheltered, tiring yet charming city otherwise known as Chennai…

I used to be someone else… someone who didn’t blend in so easily… who was strong enough to meet obstacles and not run away… who had friends to push her towards the spotlight even if modesty and awkwardness made her reluctantly shrink away…

I used to be someone. A girl. An individual. Where is she now?