It was in Kindergarten that I learned to say that I “loved” school. One morning, while taking me back home on the day of a strike when the whole city came to a standstill, my father asked me, “Do you like school?”. I replied, “Of course. I do.” When he asked me, “How do you feel today?” With a pained expression on my face, I said, “I feel sad today.” I suspected that I was supposed to love school.
More than two decades later, my face would assume the same expression when I said that I wished her well. She had said that she is soon having a vacation with her long-time lover. I believed that I was expected to say so. I had no right to protest. It was only later I would connect the madness, hysteria and repeated illness that followed to what happened in those days.
I did not know that she was trying to tell me something. She had no idea that I was burning, tortured between the fear of losing what I valued, and losing her forever. In the next three months, I could not write a single sentence, but I would spend the next one year writing—driving myself hard to grant what no one else can. Till I collapsed.
She never wrote to me, but in one of those days, I had noticed that in the Students’ Law Review blog of her college, she had the most touching Bio.