Love in the Time of Gulab jamun

People come, people go. Indeed, time is the best healer of the heart. Sometimes I deeply think about the concept of time. To me, time is a magical and continuous force, existing in both fiction and reality. It’s like the pages of my journal – when I look back, I see only memories, and when I turn to the future, the pages appear empty. Yet, maybe they’re filled with words I haven’t seen yet, or maybe they’re written in another book altogether.

I wonder what stories those pages hold. The only way to find out is to take control of my pen and make the future present. But I’m afraid of losing my grip on the present, because the future and past are mere illusions – only the present is real. The pen I’ve dropped is the past, the pen I’ll pick up is the future, but the pen I hold now is my reality.

Still, I’m trapped in the disease of living in fiction. I’m a victim of my own imagination. Rarely can you find a poet in the real world, and I’m no exception.

“Eden!” (shouting) “Come downstairs now, you heard me right!”

Just as I was deeply pondering the concept of time, my mother’s voice pierced through my thoughts. Irritated, I trudged downstairs, only to find her shouting at me for allegedly eating the last gulab jamun. But I hadn’t even had one! I love gulab jamun, and it’s my favorite dessert. Yet, I was being blamed for something I didn’t do.

“Mummy, what? Who ate the gulab jamun?” I cried. “If it was the last piece, I wanted to taste it. How can you blame me?”

“Oh, that was my gulab jamun,” Mummy said, teasing me. “How can you even think of eating it?”

“Because they’re my favorite!” I cried.

Mummy chuckled and said, “Well, someone already ate it, haha! And neither of us got to have it, so it’s equal.”

Angry and disappointed, I stormed upstairs, tears in my eyes. “Gulab jamun, my love!” I sobbed. Yeah, I’m a kid, and when it comes to gulab jamun, I feel like they’re a sweet treat from heaven.

After crying enough, I got ready for my singing classes with a swollen face. Yeah, I know I’m a fool to cry this much over a gulab jamun that wasn’t even mine in the first place, but I did.

I was on my way to my singing classes with a swollen face, red cheeks, and a blue hoodie on with baggy jeans, listening to “Crossroads” while walking quietly. While looking down and walking, I lifted my head to see around a bit and then found a familiar figure.

My heart was on fire; he was looking at me, and we had brief eye contact. Then I kept walking, but he was standing there on the road, so I had to pass by him. As I went closer, looking down and not caring, he approached me, blocking my path, and asked, “What happened to you? You look a bit off.”.’ I said, ‘Hello, nice to meet you.’ He said, ‘Were you crying?’ I looked at him and said, ‘Does it look like I cried?’ He said, ‘Well, you look like a tomato.’ But before I could finish, he touched my face.

Oh my god! I was in a different dimension; my temperature rose, and my heart was beating very loudly – it was going to burst, I thought. In the whole universe, my heartbeats were audible. ‘Why is your body temperature so high? What’s wrong with you?’ he said with real concern, pleading to share it with him. How was I supposed to say it was nothing? How silly would I sound? I was crying over gulab jamun – no, I know I’m weird, but it would be too much for his little heart. I stepped back a bit and said, ‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing serious; I just have a bit of a cold.’ Of course, my nose was red because I cried – convincing enough. He said, ‘I see you’re really very cold.’ ‘Huh?’ I said.

Did he just call me insensitive? I glared at him. He smiled and said, ‘Get well soon; it’s not good to cry for one’s eyes.’ I wasn’t crying, I said, irritated. ‘Oh yeah, I can see.’ What the hell was that? Now, how am I supposed to sing in my singing class without thinking about him? I’m sorry, my little precious heart, but I think you will suffer a lot after this, I said to myself after seeing him walk away, waving back.

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