A love letter to Saj O Mathews, 20 years since

If you have had the privilege of making my acquaintance, it is likely that you know by now that I fall in love easily. All it takes is for someone to be kind to me. A warm “How is your day going?”, a small compliment, a brief smile, or even an unintended wink while avoiding dust is enough to send me into lala land. “City of stars, are you shining just for us?”

At this very moment, please know I have given parts of my large heart to at least four people. One is a straight up good looking gent. Another makes my brain jizz. One fixed my computer, and the last has beautiful, stunning, curly hair (I met her at a shop today. Overjoyed).

Most people find it funny that I play flames with the names of my lovers. This is especially so because it is likely that I’ve rarely worked up the courage to do anything else but longingly stare. This is except a few rare occasions where I act on impulse. These ones go terribly wrong.

Up until a few days ago, I assumed that I had always had this multi-lover personality disorder. However, when I recently drove past Asan Memorial school, my memory zapped back into place. I realised that a young nine-year-old man among boys, changed my life. His name was Saj. Saj O Mathews.

All in all

About 20 years ago when my family including my reluctant father shifted base to Chennai from Bombay, we lived at a beautiful apartment in Nungambakkam’s Pycroft Garden Road. I was pulled out of my Bombay school mid-year, and was bribed with shiny new stationery to continue picking my books up again in Chennai.

Asan admitted my 2.5-year-old sister and 8-year-old into its campus. The school had old paint back then. Long tables accommodating a minimum of 4 children were placed. We had to squeeze. We had to share. All the children sat on the floor and had lunch because the desks were meant for books. The Hindi they taught in class was vastly different from the “Apun bola tu meri Laila” knowledge I had. Everyone completed their sentences with the word ‘girl’ (If you don’t eat the eggs, I’ll tell to miss, girl). I could not understand a word of the general Madras Tamil slang. I don’t think they got me either.

One week in, I think Prince Saj, reigning king of boys, sports star extraordinaire, third standard topper and class leader, realised that it was time to save me.

This young man, came to my desk, dragged me by my lunchbox and taught me the floor seating plan after noticing that I too could read passages from our Hindi and English textbooks with some proficiency. I became part of his small gang of friends. There were other class toppers and sports stars amidst them including Rohita, Akshara and Nihal. I was allowed to sit at the cool table.

Everyone loved Saj. The teachers knew he had a bright future. He was a young, devout Malayali Christian boy who brought homemade cake before Christmas and after Easter. He helped his friends with homework. He elicited the perfect mix of awe, camaraderie, and jealousy from the boys and sheer admiration from the girls.

Saj knew he was loved by Akshara and Rohita. They brought and shared extra bits of special lunches mostly with him. They lent him their erasers when he needed them (he would always lose his own) and playfully ruffled his hair. Saj’s face was perfect. He was every eight-year-old’s dream.

I noticed that he also liked being liked. He would purposely shove his erasers down the table to act as though he had lost them, just to ask the girls for theirs. He would pretend to have fully read our non-detailed book ‘Tom Sawyer’ because his parents had already verbally told him the story. He also loved getting pictures clicked. You’d be shocked by the number of times he commanded the photographer at our annual day.

I found that in spite of my staunch hate for love, (I claimed to dislike romantic films but watched them fully on repeat. Kuch kuch hota hai rocks) I began falling for Saj. He was kind and always gave me the whites of his egg. He taught me how to go to the senior canteen and buy myself corn puffs. We religiously fought for the second rank. We battled for the last bits of ice cream we bought together.

He would also confide in me. He told me when his parents argued and where the seniors went to smoke. How could I not fall for this tattletale.

My first ever flames game was matched against Saj. We, of course, landed on ‘Enemies’. His and Rohita’s ended up in ‘Friendship’ and Akshara’s match always ended at ‘Love’.

I tried many times thinking that the results would change. I was clearly, never good at Maths and logic. I told him it was never meant to be. He said no.

“Why can’t I love you and them,” he asked.

Ingrained

For many years, I think we had a bunch of CDs from our time in Nungambakkam. Anuchu, during this phase, was hilarious and my father had brought a new video recorder. Her antics had to be filmed.

More importantly though, there was one video of Saj coming home on my ninth birthday. We ate cake, jumped on beds and played with a large and fairly airy ball that deflated at the end of an hour’s vigorous play. We hugged but never told anyone that we did so. I don’t think I ever watched the CD after the first time it came back home after being burnt. But a small bit of him continued to live on my book shelf until I was in class 10. Amma threw away our collection after.

I remember briefly looking up all my Asan classmates on Facebook. Did we ever become friends? I don’t remember. I doubt it.

So many couples of my generation are headed the poly way today. Saj, I think, was a pioneer among them. A leader of the free world, even at the tender age of 9.

I have loved many people since Saj. I have contorted versions of their real memories to suit my narrative over time. Saj, however, remains perfect in my head. He is untouched, kind and pure to me. I hope I never meet him again.

On days when I chide myself over loving and losing too many people too quickly, I tell myself to be kind like Saj.

I tell myself, “Why can’t I love you and them.”