The Geometry of a Heartbreak

 The air in the library was thick with the scent of old paper and the frantic energy of midterms. I had exactly twenty minutes before my chemistry lab, and my notebook was a desert of blank pages. I was hunched over Jas’s lab manual, my pen flying in a desperate, rhythmic scribble, when a voice broke through the silence.

"Hey! How are you?"

I looked up, ready to be annoyed by the interruption. Instead, I saw her. She sat across from me, looking like a weary angel—tired eyes, messy hair, but possessing a radiance that made the fluorescent library lights seem dim.

"Hey," I replied, trying to find my voice.

"Are you Indian?" she asked.

"Very much so," I said, leaning back and summoning every ounce of my twenty-something bravado. I pointed to the folder on the table. "And I know you are, too, because I’ve been reading your name for the last five minutes. Sandhya Chopra, right?"

At the time, I thought I was being smooth. In reality, I was just a dork with a lucky observation. But she laughed—a bright, genuine sound—and just like that, the chemistry lab didn't matter anymore.

The Mirror and the Mask

Over the next few weeks, Sandhya became the center of my world. She was my dream girl, but she was also a mystery. She’d cut my hair in her kitchen, bring me "specially cooked" meals that were frankly terrible, and spend an hour meticulously clearing the blackheads off my nose. It hurt like hell, but I would have let her do anything just to stay in her orbit.

Then came the day the mirror shattered.

"I’ve been married for four years," she said quietly.

The words felt like a physical blow. Suddenly, her sadness—the bipolar diagnosis, the late-night crying in my arms—finally had a source. She wasn't just a girl in school; she was a woman "exported" to a foreign land, married to a life she never chose.

I was at a crossroads. I didn't want to be "the other man," but I couldn't leave her to drown in her own depression. So, I built a mental wall. I started calling her "sister" to keep my heart safe. We became a strange, inseparable unit—visiting temples and Gurudwaras, clubbing until 3:00 AM, and crying on the beach. She mended my grades and my life, while I tried to be the anchor for hers.

The Mumbai Gambit

When she left for India to "take time off" from her husband, a part of my soul went with her. Seven months of silence followed. I told myself she’d forgotten me, but when I returned to Delhi for the summer, the pull was too strong.

I found her in Batra Hospital for a check-up. When she saw me, she didn't just wave; she opened her arms like a heroine in a Bollywood epic. She looked wise, young, and entirely too beautiful for my peace of mind.

The "sister" mask finally crumbled. I was falling, and I was falling hard. I decided to make my move in Mumbai. I tracked her down, staying in a gritty hotel near Versova Beach, and asked her to meet me at a Barista coffee shop.

"Sandeep, you don’t have to pity me anymore," she said, her eyes searching mine as I poured my heart out.

"Pity? I adore you. I want every second of my life to involve you."

She laughed—not a cruel laugh, but a weary one. "I’ll give you my answer when you grow up."

"Do you mean grow up, or grow older?" I challenged.

"They are the same thing," she whispered.

"They aren't," I countered. "I love you, Sandhya. And I know you're fond of me, too."

"I do love you, Sandeep," she said, her voice dropping to a devastatingly calm tone. "But I love you like I love my brother or my mother. I can’t marry you any more than I could marry them."

The Twenty-Seventh Day

I walked out of that Barista leaving a letter and a unpaid bill. I flew back to San Francisco with a heart made of lead. For twenty-six nights, I was a ghost, weeping into my pillow, terrified that some other man was currently singing "sweet nothings" into her ear.

On the twenty-seventh day, I broke. I called her.

"I'm busy," she said, her voice sounding light, distant, and entirely unaffected. "I’ll call you back."

She never did.

I’m thirty-seven now, looking back at that twenty-year-old kid with the super-active hormones and the bruised ego. I thought I was supposed to be the one breaking hearts, yet I was undone by a girl with the face of a baby and a heart I simply wasn't "grown-up" enough to understand.

I got over her eventually. But I never forgot the lesson: Sometimes the people who mend your life aren't the ones who get to stay in it.

Reflecting on mortality, again

 My mumma got diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer and I don’t know how to help her. She just went through her first chemotherapy session and is already giving in. She said she didn’t want to continue it, that she wants to explore other options. She looks visually fatigued and almost unable to converse. This is so not like her. She was constantly on her feet even if sick. I hope this doesn’t break her spirit. 

My father also told me he has been having issues with eyesight and wants to know if he can eat something to improve it. I was lying in bed processing all of this and felt like I was sinking into my bed. 

On top of all this they refuse to get help. It’s super frustrating and I want to hold and shake them. Alas, for that I have to be with them.

I really hope my mumma recovers and my father can improve his eyesight. 

I am sad!

We are all dying

Duh, right! I am dying, you are dying. We are withering away. And when we are with the ones we love it moves even faster. A week having fun with cousins and friends feels like a second, an hour in an interview or an exam feels like eternity. Is time relative then? Maybe. But what sticks out most is that it’s also irrelevant. Time itself has no meaning. It’s the experiences and people we spend it with that gives it meaning. 

Recently, my mama (mothers brother) and my phuphad (Hindi word for husband of your maternal aunt) passed away and I am spending time going back and thinking about all the memories I have with them. How we would greet them, what they would say to us. It also makes you think about your parents and how they might not be around sometime in the future. Just like they say children can never grow old for their parents, parents never grow old for children too. We do not want to recognize their changing frail bodies, their wrinkles and their ailments. We are and want to be stuck in the moments where we were children and not them. 

Just that!

It is the last day of my 34th birthday month and my son is turning 2 in like 3 months. My parents are visiting and I am for the very first time in a long time feeling like myself. I am not sure if thats a good thing but I missed this me. 

In this increasing changing, fast paced world it is getting very hard to keep up with life. I am constantly either working, taking care of my child or doing something for the family. I usually don't even have enough time to just sit back and breathe and maybe think, reminisce about my life in India. 

I just got back from trying to put my baba for a nap. When trying to put him to bed he usually either runs around or just wails as if someone was hitting him. So you have to play dead to not give him you to react to. Eventually he just relents and lies next to you. While I was doing this today everything came rushing back. Random, unrelated memories reminded me on what led me to my life today. The funny thing is not one of those memories was from the US, where I have lived almost half my life. 

What is this? Why cant you stay and feel you belong to the US. Or is it the other way around. I just belong to India and it is irreversible. But then I tell myself there are so many people like me here. How are they so happy and so content doing what I do? Rationally it makes zero sense to be so romantic about India. It is dirty, polluted, over populated and poorly run. But romance is seldom based on sense. 

My Home!

I struggle everyday to come to peace with where I come from and where I now live. I sometime wish they were the same place. Can I just have the people and the foods from my home?

I need your attention

Is it messed up that I expect some sort of acknowledgement from someone for living through my latter teen years in acute fear of rejection and racism, alone in a primarily white country America. I arrived to Lake Leelanau, MI in 2004 and had very little understanding of “real” America. I expected to be greeted by my peers, maybe even hoarded and asked a bunch of questions about my homeland. At least that’s what most of us did back home when we met someone from a different part of the world. Instead I found that most people had no interest in me whatsoever. I got some attention from the girl but I strangely had very little interest in romantic relationships in those days.

That’s all!