The Great Escape

Crush No. 1

Photo by Vince Fleming on Unsplash

In the grand scheme of crush stories, mine was as tragic as they come with a dash of romance. I was all of seven years old, a second or third grader in a school in Pune where boys and girls sat apart, dhurries replaced chairs, tables with long benches to share, and you had to leave your shoes outside the classroom—right next to your dignity, if you were me.

It was there that I met Suhasini. Fair, radiant, armed with kohl-dark eyes a smile that could rewrite alphabets. When she joined, she was immediately encased in an impenetrable shield of friends - Nalini (a spitfire girl) and others.

No boy dared talk to a new girl until the school bully, Dhananjay the Terrible, a permanent resident of second grade, had completed his ritual —a tradition as absurd as it was humiliating. One has to race from the school gate to the other end of the ground. Loser will have to step out, buy an egg and he will empty it down his throat. Winner takes it all… I could leave my shoes next to Suhasini’s and talk to her. Even share the lunchbox even if there was nothing yummy in it.

But fate, cruel mistress that she is, took Suhasini away for three long days. She fell ill. I fell apart.

And so, in the name of love, sorry crush else you would get offended, I did what any irrational seven-year-old would do. I bunked school.

Each morning, I left home with my school bag and lunchbox, only to execute my master plan: sneaking back inside and hiding under the bed near the main door. My sanctuary. My exile. My self-imposed punishment for a world without Suhasini. I ate my lunch in shadows, unknown to all, even Suhasini, and ‘officially’ enter home at the usual time.

On hindsight, I think it was here that song of Kishore Kumar “…Humme tumse pyar kitna yeh hum nahi janate, magar jee nahi sakte tumhare bina hum…” took birth. But I will not take any credit for that😉

But you know how toddlers ruin everything. Right?

One particularly nosy, diaper clad, barely-walking toddler, living next door, decided to rat me out in the only way toddlers know how.

Just like Woodward and Bernstein for Watergate Scandal, but long before them, in a quiet Pune household, this lone Diaper-Clad Investigative Journalist cracked the case of the ‘Missing Schoolboy.’

With the stealth of a jungle cat (if jungle cats had chubby knees and drooled a little), he crawled under the bed, his sharp eyes spotting the fugitive.

There was no mercy. No room for negotiation. He giggled—loudly. A tiny finger pointed. The authorities (a.k.a. my mother) arrived within seconds. Justice was swift. My school bunking dream was over before it even began.

The case was closed. I was ‘crush- fallen’.

What followed was swift and brutal. The sky fell. My favorite teacher stormed into our home, took control of me, not Dhananjay The Terrible, gave extra coaching so I clear exams.

And just when I thought the worst was over, the heavens themselves decided to intervene. Massive floods hit Pune, and we moved to Hyderabad.

And that was it. Suhasini remained in my heart, but I disappeared from her world. Did she ever know what happened to me? Probably not. She took a three-day break. I took a lifetime.

But rains, storms, and floods may have washed away Pune, faded into the past, but nothing could wash away my memories of Suhasini.

Sometimes, I wonder—does the heart beat just to pump blood, or does it beat for those we love? And in doing so, does it send just oxygen to the brain… or a lifetime of memories to keep love alive?

She was a doctor's daughter, must have been a doctor herself. Somewhere. Healing others.

Wherever she is, here is a 💐of love, happiness and good wishes to her.

But love is relentless, and Hyderabad had other plans for me. Enter: Shagufta.

And to my readers :💕