My Love Story





No. It’s impossible.

 
A romantic story just isn’t possible for me. I shut my laptop a little harder than my faithful friend deserved. No matter how many silly love songs I played, I just couldn’t manage a sappy old-fashioned romance story.
Why?

 
To be honest I just felt a little silly writing it. There are farmers dying, children starving, families without a roof above their heads. Yet I, a privileged girl with more education than the average Indian, sat there trying to write some shitty romantic babble. My fingers were stiff as I switched songs.

 


Just think of romantic stuff.

 


Flowers. Chocolate. Something.

 


Nope. All I could muster up were either morbid tales where the girl dies tragically, or dramatic preachy stories that tackled a social issue. I gritted my teeth.

 


What happened to the innocence of a love story? Don’t blame society for this. It’s because you can’t open your mind to this enough.

 


I wanted to expand my range. I’m young, naive and carefree, the ideal candidate for a short and sweet love story that would put pre-Bad Blood Taylor Swift to shame. Then again, the stereotypical “prim” voice in my head tells me to write about what I know.

 


You’re seventeen. It mocks. You’re a baby.

 


I call bullshit.

 





Write about things you don’t know about, I whisper to myself. This isn’t a research paper or an official article. A fresh new perspective could open up areas for debate about the nature of Indian romance.

 


Then again, Tumblr pages belonging to girls of my age group everywhere are up to the brim with this stuff.
You’re not Buzzfeed.

 


I sighed and opened my laptop once again; its comforting light soothing my own incompetence. Have I become so conditioned about what’s worthy and what’s useless in terms of the articles that I put out that I consider only ones dealing with “real” stuff important? An uneasy feeling creeps into my stomach.

 


The world’s pretty messed up, guys.

 


Maybe that’s why I sit watching Romedy Now for hours on end, or smile at the awkward romances penned in YA lit, or whisper “aww” softly (not loudly enough for people to hear, of course) at those ‘for couples’ pages on Instagram.
Or maybe it’s because love and being loved is something that human beings crave, and logic and heart might be, just maybe, a little entwined. No matter how many silly love songs I try to plug into my brain, my fingers are as stiff as the Indian Censor Board.

 


I give up and shut my laptop down. Maybe romance will come to me someday when I see love (not the flowers and candy kind that the media pushes down my throat) happen in front of me. Perhaps even to me?
I have got to stop writing posts about writing posts, haven’t I?

 

~ Mahima Srikanth

(Sent via inbox, edited by The Anonymous Writer’s Dhruvaksh Saha)



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