The sunlight crept through the small gap in the curtains in the cluttered one BHK. Vrushali lay curled up on the mattress. The sheets twisted around as Vrushali turned just like the thoughts in their head. Nestled in the heart of Mumbai, their room had a haphazard mix of everything they had ever accumulated. It was more than just furniture; it was the canvas of their life. There were books, some neatly stacked, others scattered, on everything from gender to caste, to memoirs of forgotten poets. The walls were adorned with prints of memories, each frame carefully curated, forming a timeline of joy and triumphs they often revisited. Stickers, rainbow flags, and the words “Love is Love” boldly proclaimed their space in the centre.

Today, the room felt different. The morning was heavy, laden with the weight of expectation, with the unsettling realisation that something was about to shift. Vrushali’s phone buzzed, and they jolted awake. 

Vrushali whined, rubbing their eyes, still trying to shake off the remnants of their dream. They grabbed their phone half-knowingly in instinct and were surprised to hear their father’s voice. 

“Did you apply for that job I told you about?” His voice echoed through the small room, too loud for their still-sleeping mind to bear.

Before they knew it, they were caught in a familiar argument, “No, Papa. I’m finishing my research. I don’t need a job right now.”

Their father’s voice blurred into the background as they clenched their phone, and immediately got up and started arranging the books on the table, yelling on the phone, “You never understand. I have tried so many times to explain it to you.” They cut the call in the middle cribbing to themselves, “They don’t think it’s work, right? They think I am useless… that I am wasting my time.” They walked out of their room, grabbing their emptied tea-cup from the window sill.

While walking out, Vrushali gazed through the glass of the casement and noticed that the mogra plant finally bore a new floret. 

“I should have not yelled at him like that,” they sighed. 

They could feel the ticking clock on the wall match the pressure they felt in their gut. It felt as if the phone call again ended with the familiar echo of unspoken expectations, leaving them simmering in frustration. Twenty days till when they had to return home. Twenty days till all of this would become a regular occurrence, find a job, find a groom, get married, settle down. The usual everyday conversations.

“It’s already twelve. Fuck my life,” they muttered, staring at the ceiling, watching as the light shifted across the room. They felt themselves drifting into the unknown, drawn by the breeze coming from the opposite side of the living room.

As they got ready, hurriedly packing their lunch bag and cleaning the chaos of the kitchen counter, the soft hum of a voice reading poetry in the background interrupted their thoughts. The words were familiar, almost haunting, and they wrapped around them like a cloak of melancholy.

“There’s a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill… our country moving closer to its own truth and dread”

They sighed and hit pause when they realised it was Read me a Poem, their second favourite podcast on Spotify after Desi True Crime. Adrienne Rich, whom the podcast was featuring this week was their favourite poet. Something about the confidence and celebration of sexuality and her ability to be so vocal about loving women, Vrushali could only aspire towards.

Their hands slowed down for a bit as they grabbed two slices of bread and put peanut butter on them, packed their lunch and rushed out of the house.

The world outside was hot and sunny, the bright Mumbai light casting a sheen over everything. As they walked towards their college, their thoughts wandered, rehearsing for what could be the most important meeting of their life – their PhD defence. Vrushali felt the weight of the days. Each day felt like a blend of equal parts anxiety over what still needed to be done, and a deep sadness about the end that was drawing nearer – the end of their PhD life, friends, going to tapri most evenings to grab chai, being themselves. Their parents would never get it. Their return was almost unwelcomed. They weren’t wanted but needed.

Though the defence was still a week away, they practised here and there, using exaggerated hand gestures as if trying to convince themselves of something they weren’t entirely sure of. This afternoon, they were scheduled to have a pre-meeting with their guide, going over their points with a mixture of determination and uncertainty. As they hailed an auto, the familiar face of the driver reminded them of a different time – a time before everything  changes. They wanted to remember this moment and just be. 

As the auto swerved through the traffic, Vrushali noticed a photograph stuck on the driver’s dashboard – a family photo, so ordinary yet so full of stories. They stared at it, and a memory surfaced from their childhood: the day their parents had taken them to the photo studio for the family portrait. A simple, harmless memory, but one that now felt distant, too foreign. Regardless of how hard they tried; the auto ride was a blur. They gently slipped the earphones in their ears and hit “Play”. They felt the world outside turn into an indistinct mess of colours and sounds. They snapped out of their trance when the voice of the person on the podcast drifted back in, “This is not somewhere else but here, our country moving closer to its own truth and dread…”

Vrushali arrived at the college gate, the familiar sight of their campus offering a fleeting sense of normalcy amidst the chaos of the day. The red-bricked buildings stood tall as they had years ago, unchanged, as though time had decided to stand still just for them. As they walked through the gates, Vrushali couldn’t help but think back to the first time they’d arrived here. It was a day shrouded in excitement and nerves, their father walking beside them, his face split between pride and something else – something more elusive. It had been a strange frenzy. Their father was never good at expressing emotions, anyway. Mother, on the other hand, did not even try. She hated the way Vrushali was in her 30s, unmarried-lesbian. She couldn’t even say the L word, too scared it’d be too real.

As they entered the familiar courtyard, their thoughts were interrupted by the sudden appearance of Esh, a friend who had always seemed to have an unshakable enthusiasm about everything.

“You’re late, missy,” Esh teased, throwing her arms around Vrushali in one of those spontaneous hugs that always made Vrushali smile, no matter what kind of day it was. Esh’s bright eyes sparkled with that familiar energy, as if her enthusiasm was enough to light up the entire campus.

“I didn’t think I was that late,” Vrushali said, grinning despite themselves. 

Esh stepped back, giving them a once-over with a smirk. “You look like you’ve been running from the weight of the world, not just your PhD defence.”

Vrushali chuckled softly, but the truth stung a little too much. “You have no idea,” they said, their voice low. Vrushali smiled again. A smile that didn’t quite reach their eyes. The conversation turned quickly to the future – convocation, parties, celebrations. “We should celebrate. All of us. The great queers of this mahaan institute. I will swing by your house today, anyway.” Esh said with a wink.

Vrushali nodded, their thoughts somewhere else. They murmured, “And I leave for home in 20 days,” almost to themselves.  

Vrushali felt tired, tired of trying to please everyone, almost feeling like a doormat. Waiting for constant approval and acceptance wherever they go. Tired of the constant tug-of-war between their dreams and the reality that awaited them back home. They didn’t want to go home. They didn’t want to face the expectations, the questions, the judgments. So much for dreaming to get out of their home town only to have to go back to it again and take care of their family. Their family didn’t understand, and Vrushali knew they never would. “Papa won’t ever get it. Mummy will just stay in denial,” they thought, walking into the canteen where their guide, Dr. Narayani waited. A scholar of feminist ethics and queer politics, Dr. Narayani was every PhD student’s dream.

The conversation with Dr. Narayani was kind, supportive, but there was a hint of concern in their voice. “You need a break, Ru. You’ve worked so hard.”

“Do you think that teaching position will work out?” asked Vrushali. The guide responded with a grin, “I am asking you to take a break and you’re asking about the job, again?” Only some can afford to take breaks, Vrushali thought. 

As they left the canteen, the day seemed to stretch on forever. Their mind was a whirlwind of thoughts – home, future, expectations. They found themselves sitting alone at the tea stall, lost in their own thoughts, when Rasha, a close friend, appeared beside them.

“You should be happy, Ru. Your thesis is done. A new chapter is starting,” Rasha said, trying to comfort them.

But Vrushali’s voice wavered, and a laugh escaped them, hollow. “In Odisha… They need me. I’m 32, queer, with no work experience. Just a series of degrees no one cares about.”

Rasha was silent for a moment. Then, with a sigh, she said, “You chose this.”

Vrushali looked at Rasha for a long time, their mind racing. They had chosen this. They had chosen the path of self-discovery, the path that led them away from the familiar but suffocating world they had grown up in. Rasha’s words were hurtful, how can one be so unkind when they are in the same boat? It almost shook them. They wanted their friends to understand, at least, be there or pretend to. But here they were, one wanted to party and the other suggested that they chose this life, almost hinting as if they should’ve known better before stepping into this world.

As they walked home that evening, the streets felt different. More distant. Their mother’s voice echoed in their mind, scolding them for things they could never change. They wanted to rebel, to scream, to tell all of them that they were not broken, but whole.

But they didn’t. Instead, they bought a bouquet of sunflowers from a street vendor, their bright yellow petals a reminder of everything they had fought for – of the late nights spent hunched over books, the years spent questioning, rewriting, rethinking. The sunflowers seemed to carry a quiet triumph in their stubborn bloom, even in the face of everything they had lost. In a certain way, they were a victory – small, bright, defiant. 

When they got home, they made tea in the same meticulous way they always did with more ginger and less sugar, but this time they added a pinch of cinnamon. The clock ticked away, and another notification rang, but they didn’t pick up the phone immediately. Their mind was elsewhere – on the future, on the choices they had made, and on the life that awaited them. Nothing in the world had prepared them to fight this feeling of being alone and having parents who only loved them out of “need”. The perils of doing a PhD in this ecosystem as a queer person had become painfully clear – herded by books, buried in theory, yet invisible in the world outside the library walls. With their fellowship money gone, Vrushali did not even have the finances to stay on in Mumbai. As all these thoughts circled their mind, they knew one thing for sure – their evening plan with Esh. 

Another message. “I’m sorry, something came up. Let’s meet another time,” Esh texted. All this waiting for nothing? Vrushali thought.

With no one to be with in this quiet, fleeting moment there was finally a chance to breathe and let the weight of the week slip away. Vrushali sipped their tea alone. They couldn’t help but wonder if that “something” was the same as the unspoken things that lay between Esh and them that they had both been running from all these years. They continued sipping their tea in quiet contemplation, watching the sun sink slowly into the horizon, its golden light spilling through the window of their room. They took the last sip of the tea and placed the emptied tea-cup on the window sill, staring into nothingness.

Cover Image: Photo by Clark Young on Unsplash