Unrequited Love
How we worship someone, never revealing it to a single soul, and taking the secret with us to the dust.
She was of average height, had fair skin, and a face with immaculate features. I had never seen such beauty in my entire life—the belle of the ball. She sat on my left, on a separate bench but in the same row. The girl on the right was pretty too, but she had pimples on her cheeks. She can be my backup, I thought. It was the most stressful week of our juvenile years, but with those divas by my side, the week went by quickly. We sat in the classroom, mostly writing answers in our booklets. Every so often, I would glance to my left, wishing I could watch her forever.
On the first day, during the English exam, I somehow managed to gather the courage to ask her a question about prepositions to make sure I had them correct. She showed me her answer book. She definitely likes me, I surmised. The second day was Nepali. At the end, she asked me a few questions on Nepali grammar, and I promptly told her what I had written.
When it was Math’s turn, she and the “backup” were extremely chatty and friendly to me in the morning, pleading for assistance during the exam. Never in my life had I had so many girls come to me with their plight. I just stood there, face flushed, unable to come up with any smart answers. Even when I managed to utter, “OK, I will try,” it didn’t come out right, and I hated myself for my lack of conversational skills. But I was good at math and ready for the rescue mission.
As soon as the exam started, I began writing. I could see them from the corner of my eye, looking at me with desperation. Once I finished filling out my answer book, I asked for another paper and placed my completed book on my left for her to copy. The backup's face became desolate. Wait until your friend finishes, I told her. When “my girl” was done copying, I placed it on my right for backup. I sat there pretending to write, but I was really just waiting for them to finish. When I emerged from the exam room, I was proud to have succeeded in rescuing my harem.
During the remaining days, our interactions were mostly limited to eye contact. On the last day after the exam, I was outside with my friends planning our afternoon. I noticed her in my periphery. I could see her lingering, and I basked in the moment, knowing she was nearby—perhaps waiting for me. I was stupid and lacked the courage to approach her, ask her name, where she lived, or her number. The next time I raised my head, she was gone.
Only then did it dawn on me what she meant to me. Even among my close friends, I felt lonely. I searched for her face everywhere—in crowds, in cafes, in stores, in magazines, in movies, in stories, and in my dreams. Whenever I saw a girl from behind who matched her height, I walked quickly, hoping it would be her. Oh, how many times I regretted not approaching her. I didn't even know her name or her caste, but I dreamed about her all the time. In the mornings, I lay in bed imagining our encounter—how happy she would be to see me again, how she had lost hope of ever seeing me, or how much she had cried thinking about me. I imagined she would get mad at me because I didn't approach her or ask for her name or number on that last day; she would refuse to talk to me until I hugged and kissed her.
These reveries kept me alive during those days. The afternoons were tough. The scorching sun and the quiet milieu made it feel as if the whole town were taking a nap, with nothing to entertain or pass the time. To make the situation worse, Hindi romantic songs would blare out from the radio, making me emotional. I would go down and borrow Manohar Kahaniya or other magazines from the store owners I knew. One day, my eyes landed on the face of a perfume model who looked similar to her. My heart pounded. I looked around, afraid that someone would notice my feelings. I tore the page out and slipped it into my pocket. Now and then, I would fish out the picture, look at her face, and cover my face with it.
Divya Rana became my favorite actress when I watched her debut movie because she, too, resembled her. I wanted the critics to praise her. I secretly looked at her picture a little longer whenever it appeared in any magazine. When college enrollment started, I joined Banasthali because a friend of mine said that many students from her school enrolled there. I scanned for her face in every class, but she was nowhere to be found. I went to other colleges in search of her. One day, I saw my “backup” with her friends in a Padma Kanya sari. I walked toward her and smiled when our eyes met, but her face showed no expression, and she continued talking to her friends. I was angry and felt betrayed. I wanted to say to her “pepperoni face” that the only reason she was attending college was because of me. But I didn't, nor did I ask about her friend.
I took the picture out of my pocket. The face on it, once visually stunning and elegant, was faded and discolored, like an old memory. I could hardly see her features anymore. I crumpled it and threw it in the trash.