I don’t believe in karma or fate, but some things happened that went against the grain of my belief in the weeks after I got engaged. It was early 2015. Here we were – Shruthi and I, basking in the glory of being engaged to each other, going out for movies, parks, and restaurants, whenever we liked. Our families were happy, and non-intrusive, as there was an unwavering firmness in us… In our togetherness.
I’ve been a Chennai boy for decades, and she came from Delhi, with her beautiful mashup language that consists of equal portions of Tamil, Malayalam and Hindi with a generous smattering of English. I read serious literature, and she loved reality television. We differed in many things – cuisine, films, music, and fashion sense. But something connected us together. I found all these differences fascinating, and enriching, however much we argued. It was a period of bliss peppered with meet-cutes, with conversations that continued online as a continuum.
The pleasant flow was shaken one day: When she went to stay temporarily in her parents’ old flat in a certain suburb. I was shocked to read the address – for it was a stone’s throw away from the place I dreaded the most – where the biggest heartbreak of my life happened – opening a long-bottled-up space in my heart that I wanted to forget. Why this place again, and why me?!