this post,i dedicate to every girl whom ive ever thought i had a chance with...
I was born a bastard.
A couple of years later, i became an orphan too.
I lived alone,in the slum,my ten square feet of rusty tin and corrugated iron,where laid whatever little proof that i even existed.
Id made it to fourteen like countless others,by living off the crumbs of someone else's plates,their joys, their beliefs, their lives.
Every day, i would go to the old lady's house,stopping by at the temple,not to pray,but to survive,on the remains of yesterdays prasad,that they gave away.
I could not steal,or fight to feed myself,for i was weak,simply too weak.
She taught me, out of pity,and out of love,for the son she had lost years ago.
It took me hours,even days, to learn what most learn before they turn five.
It was only through her reassurance and conviction,that i learnt,how to read,how to write,how to live.
I left her house,and treaded along a familiar path,headed to the playground.
I sat lamely at the boundary,watching the boys fight over a disputed wicket.
It was then, that i saw her.
Looking out of the window,not much older than eighteen,watching the match with brown,deep brown eyes.
Just then,the ball came by me.
They called to me,to throw them the ball.
As the child in me took charge,the notebook fell from my hand,which instead picked up the grubby sphere and let fly,with what seemed a colossal effort.
I tried,i really did.
Yet it fell,not so far away.
Laughter ensued.
I was only too used to it,and had long ago,put up walls of stone,to block out the laughter,to block out the hurt.
It worked,but,somewhere,somewhere deep inside,was a little wound,still bleeding,still burning.
Hurt,i turned my eyes away from the ruffians,muttering curses,when my eyes met hers.
She smiled.
I dont know what happened,but i felt something well up inside me.
Some part of me knew,that like the old lady,it was but pity that made her smile.
But still,i found myself thinking there was more,more reason,more meaning,more something,more anything,behind that smile.
All i wanted,even for but a moment,was to rise from my nadir,and float up,up into her balcony,into her life.
Then it all blacked out,as the ball rapped against my temple.
"SIX!" screamed the batting team,and danced joyously onto the ground.
I woke up,dazed,my head throbbing.
I looked around at the victory celebrations.
Then i looked up at her balcony,and saw her celebrating too.
It hurt.
It hurt more than my swelling head.
It hurt more than the crippled ego of this cripple.
It still hurts when i think about it.Not a lot,but not a little either.
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P.s.-i hate writing emotionally-charged pieces
-nadir means the lowest point
Ciao
