I met my husband for the first time when we were twelve years old. And our first meeting left me surprised, flustered and mildly unimpressed. Over the next two years, I saw peeks of him in our school, not quite often though. But, whenever he used to see me, he would smile. At first, I would just stare at him for a while, get nervous and look away. Smiling at boys was a completely new territory for me back then. I had recently joined the school and my little life had not taken into account smiling boys who spoke of love while meeting a girl for the first time.
After a while, I watched him out of curiosity. At the moment it was not about any sort of feeling, it was an attempt at trying to make sense of a newness. By the time we were thirteen, I had started giving him a hint of a smile. I realized, if I acknowledged him, he genuinely looked happy. Strangely, it felt good.
At fourteen years of age, we finally were in the same class and we got to spend the entire day pretending not to look at each other. Nevertheless, we did start speaking sometime in the mid school year. Mostly they were one liners about exams, notes and classes. There was a time in that year, where I thought he was an extremely rude person. Later, I would know how nervous he actually was to speak to me.
As fifteen came, I grasped the concept of having a crush. He was my first crush and the entire world was unaware of it. It was my tiny little secret. During this time, we had become friends. The anticipation of school days, gaps between classes, lunch breaks and the short walk between the classroom and the school gate were coveted. We used to throw silly paper chits at each other. We used to talk a lot and at the same time so little. There were one or two offhand and carefully given nervous compliments from him, followed by my embarrassingly evident blushes. He even made a weak attempt at `a proposal. But, alas, we remained friends.
Sixteen was a serious year with boards and sadly, other interests. My crush did wane a fraction but nevertheless, was still there, somewhere and the casual flirtatious banter remained. The compliments did go up a notch and the blushes even redder. At the end of it all, there were some direct admissions and some visible frustrations. We managed though and decided again to stay friends.
The next two years would introduce us to the exciting world of cellphones, message packs and talk times for the very first time in our lives. And so, seventeen and eighteen were a series of long calls and late night messages. We were the best of friends. He was the only person who knew everything about me. He knew funny stories about my family, the fact that I used to get extremely scared at night, that I loved handwritten letters, the fact that if I liked any authors then I would read every of their books, that I started watching a great show – Friends which I wont stop talking about, my slow hums of the songs which I loved, that I hated maths and that someday I wanted to write, a lot. He used to listen to me talk for hours passionately about what I wanted to be, the things which moved me and my idea of life. And he made me believe that I could do it all. Mostly, he had complete, undisturbed and unwavering faith in me. He loved my ambition, my thoughts and my process. These two years made us closer than ever. We learnt the art of bunking classes, group studies, dumb charades and going to movies with friends. Apart from being a partner in crime in almost everything, he would also help me study and clear my doubts. He was at that point all around me.
The problem was, it didn’t take much for me to realize that what we had was a bit more than friendship. And I was absolutely certain that he was reciprocating everything which I felt. However, circumstances were such that nothing could really happen. We were going in separate directions and the other interests were rendered important. So, we never spoke about it. In a dramatic turn of events, some drastic measures were taken. Mostly by me. I applauded his loyalty and was stubborn with my righteousness. With a bundle of his handwritten letters and a somewhat broken heart, I entered nineteen without him. And it was a blur of a different kind of newness. I met new people, read new books and found new things. I missed him, very much. But, I was ready to start afresh. The year was an experiment without that one constant being and that one constant feeling. To be honest, for a while, I did enjoy the lightness of the heart.
Twenty was almost over when I spoke to him again. And everything for me had changed. The new had engulfed me so that he felt like a stranger. With bits and pieces of words describing our very different worlds, I entered into a platonic state of formal laughs along with a guarded tone. But he, he was the same. I could feel his immense happiness sipping into the conversation. The same trust and faith. The same connection. It was infectious. Slowly, I felt a sigh of relief. I realized, I finally got my friend back.
It never really was the same again post that long pause. While we genuinely cared about each other, things did not remain the same. The calls which were frequent and daily once became acutely rare. We would call each other up once in every three-four months and talk for long hours. Twenty-one and twenty-two was when the blind of friendship, which we always had wrapped around each other, became a reality.
We saw each other change from being kids to adults. We saw each other mature into people which we always wanted to be. We were proud of each other. There was maybe for the first time, no frustrations between us. It was simple and kind. Twenty-three, he got his first job and I was still in the final year of law school. My heart was so full with admiration and joy when I saw this boy who had become a man take me out for lunch with his own salary from his first job, while asking me to order anything that I wanted.
For 2 years from then, we hustled in our professional and private life. We both went through massive set backs and huge emotional turmoils during twenty-four and twenty-five. But, we always had each other’s backs. I remember calling him on those days when I was my weakest, saddest and happiest. He would always pick up and talk and listen, always supporting, always encouraging. And whenever he met me, he always would do something ridiculously sweet. He was a sigh of relief, a fresh breath and a warm smile. Talking to him would make me turn the darkness around.
I called him when I got my first job, when I fell in love, when I broke up, when my sister got married and when anything life altering happened. We didn’t talk frequently but we spoke enough. Spoke of things which mattered. We knew each other’s place in our hearts. At twenty-six, we had created an easy and comfortable relationship but the hint of something more persisted at the back of our heads.
When we were twenty-seven we finally came to accept the fact that we would always be in each other’s lives. That we always came back to us. When we first spoke of it, it was in passing and said almost as a pun. Both too scared and uncertain. Brushing aside old feelings for how could it be the same?
Later that year we decided to meet in person. It had rained quite a lot that evening and I was in a half mind to cancel. He finally had to convince me to come. He was late and I was early, which is sort of how we always have been. The calm and the impatient. When he finally arrived, I first saw his smile. The same happy smile from the same boy who would look at me sneakily in our classroom, the same boy who knew all my stories, the same boy who fought hard for and with me every time when I thought I lost. But right after the smile, I noticed the nervousness. And I knew. There were one or two sweetly given compliments from him. And after long, long years my cheeks turned red. That night both us knew that everything had changed. Again.
After sixteen years, when we were twenty-eight we finally told each other, for the very first time, the only thing which was left unsaid.
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