In kunjunni, I find love
On this day that is Wednesday when our paper goes to bed, there is a palpable sense of wanting to burst out of the room when work is done at 3pm. Pages have been read, the headlines have been checked and picture captions added. An awful lot is left though. Two hours of trying to beat Google’s algorithm lies ahead of us as we find ways to make our copies SEO-friendly.
Gowri today, pulls up her chair next to mine because she wants to work on her phone that is charging. The plug point near me is the easiest to access. Some documents that need to be sent on WhatsApp are still making those incomplete green circles. It is perhaps a metaphor for our day. Halfway through the big cross that is life, with so much more left to go.
After fiddling with the wire, she sets her phone down and looks at me sideways. "Kunjunni," she says, smiling in Malayalam.
What does it mean, I ask.
"Small. I call my cat this," she says.
..
I've spent many recent nights waking up at 2 and 3am. It is a little embarrassing to admit but I've been dreaming of scary ghosts and sinister men chasing my mother and me down. On some days, the ghost is a friend. She is wanting to tell us something. "Just go. Leave," she says. Where, I wonder. From the Vettaiyapuram aranmanai in Chandramukhi where this dream is set? Or the world itself?
On other days, she hates strangers and is dead set on scaring us. We're in her room. She doesn't like it. She shakes things and makes objects levitate. It is interesting to unpack.
I tell Meera this as she holds my hand on one of these 3am sojourns. We're sleeping across each other in two small cots in Thamaraikulam during our vacation. I make my way to her bed and flop on it. "Can I hold your hand," I ask.
"Some websites say that you have some unresolved feelings with family members," she declares. "Yes, obviously. My father has been dead for many years now," I respond.
I cannot make out her expression in the dark but I'm sure she is miffed. She was trying to make a larger point. However, in seconds, her arms are hugging my stomach and her leg is over me. She has wrapped me in her embrace and is already wafting back to sleep.
On occasions oh-so-rare when I've perhaps enjoyed the company of men I've been with, an embrace like this has been a feature. Meera's intimacy rattles me. It is a hug without lust but full of all the romance that makes my friendship real.
The next morning, she wakes up and asks me why I moved back to my bed. "I only went back in the morning but I held your hand throughout," I respond.
..
Antara has brought home someone she likes. He likes her back. They are sitting across each other and twiddling each other's thumbs. In all the years of our friendship, this is the first time I watch her like this.
She is smiling, laughing and responding to the same stories we have rehashed a hundred times. We love to tell an audience about our first impressions of the other, how fate brought us together back in 2011 when we dissed on a massive group of people playing table tennis tirelessly. We both liked listening to English music and thought the crowd was, simply put, lame.
Invariably, we make some declaration about our undying friendship and love. It is an expression that Antara is still struggling to use liberally with partners but has confessed her feelings to me a million times. We kiss each other good bye every time she leaves the country and on nights when we stay up till 4am, talking about how we've changed drastically and remained the exact same. "Nobody else is as clued into my life like you are. I love you," she says, giving me a peck on the cheek.
I respond with the same, trying to top her pronouncement. "No, do you know how much I love you? More. Lots more," I say.
..
Friendships are a strange, heady mix of sisterhood and romance. In it, I am entirely safe, shielded from potential heartbreaks that are often accompaniments of erotic duels. Here, there is space to be miffed. There is space to be unloved too. There is space to ask for more.
On days when one cannot provide, there is acceptance. There is space for careful confrontation. In friendships, there are kisses and hands held. There is a playful tight slap, ass smacks and uncomfortable, side hugs. Sometimes, many times, tears too.
But outside of this, there are words — endearments, pronouncements, statements — that make me feel whole. In other romances, I have been called kanmani, kannama, kutti, Sanj.
Today in Kunjunni, I find love.
