Have you ever seen a plastic bottle? Come on, I am sure you have! Sometimes, my fingers try to dig an artificial hole in that plastic bottle. That isolated hole runs solitary against my worn down fingers as I realize for the million-th time that I can’t push it back. I feel like that hole sometimes. That hole which just doesn’t fit; it doesn’t matter how hard she tries but something is always wrong. Maybe she hasn’t used enough pauses in her sentences or perhaps her hyperbole is not coherent enough or maybe, there is something awkward about the way she rests her weight on her poor left leg or is it that she has a particularly dull romantic life? It is always something wrong with the hole. Maybe there is an awkward bubble you can’t seem to jettison or is it the way my finger moved around…no, no it is the placement. It is the placement. It is the fact that the hole- she is there at all. It is this big blob of awkwardness around an empty white serene space. And then everybody would cry about how she ruined it all. It doesn’t matter how much you try, you will always be that hole in that plastic bottle nobody appreciated. You were too different, too weird, too unapproachable, too enigmatic, too senseless always ‘too’ some other suffix. Go eat a kulfi.
Because that is what I am going to do.