Grief-Stricken
It’s a few days after Aman’s elimination. Prithvi, Sobhit and I are heading down for lunch after practice. But something hits me inside, and I don’t want it to show in front of them, so I excuse myself and head back to the dance room. I open the door, close it again, lock it, and collapse into a ball.
The tears come quick. Tears for Aman. Tears for the rest of the dancers who got eliminated, and more tears for the ones who are in danger of getting eliminated. No tears for me, whether I’d get eliminated or not. It’s just for everyone else.
My sobs are soft, so that no one listens. It’s probably muffled from outside. I bury my face in my knees and cry and cry and cry.
It’s just because Aman is out. I wonder whether it would’ve been better if he was eliminated, but he could stay in Mumbai until the show ends. However, he packed up his bags and went back to Delhi. Him not being here is like he’s dead. That’s how hard-hit I am. That’s how hard-hit maybe Prithvi is, too. That’s how hard-hit everyone is, just not as much as us boys are.
Aman was the A in ASP. He was the wise-yet-fun person who kept us grounded. He was the oldest, and he never stopped looking out for all of us, even the girls. Now, with him eliminated, the ASP group became the…the SP group? Only me and Prithvi. I don’t think even ASP lives anymore. It’s just me, Sobhit and Prithvi in the league of boys. No. One. Else.
My thoughts are interrupted by someone calling me from outside. It’s Anshita.
“Sankalp, where are you? The lunch buffet is going to get over soon, you need to have something,” she says.
“Go away,” I say back, my voice hoarse.
“Sankalp, are you in here?” She knocks on the door, and she knocks hard, so the door vibrates a little.
“I said, go away.” I sound harsh, and I regret it. But I don’t want any, any comfort now. I just want to be by myself.
She gets the message because I hear footsteps moving away from the room. I’m left in peace, but I’m done crying, too.
However, five minutes later, she returns. I hear the clinking of ceramic utensils on the floor.
“I brought you food. Aloo ki sabji, curd, and roti. And some sliced cucumbers and tomatoes and onions.”
Well, that’s nice. Even though the boys vs. girls war was still around, it was a kind gesture. From Anshita, of all people.
I swallow hard. “Thanks.”
She slides down the door to sit on the floor. “I guess it’s about Aman.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. What makes me confess? Perhaps her tone seems trusting.
“It’s not like I don’t miss Swati, if you wondered.”
“But… I thought it didn’t affect you so much. No offence, but you didn’t know her very well.”
“It does. We kept in touch with her while she was injured. We talked a lot over the phone and everything.”
I look down at my shoes and my knee pads. “Oh.”
There’s silence. Then, from Anshita, “It’s okay to miss him.”
“I know that.” I wipe my face. “But I’m a brave kid. Brave kids don’t cry. And I cried.”
I see her feet slide to the side. “I know you did. I heard it before you said, ‘go away’.”
“Sorry about that.”
“It’s fine.”
I hear a sad tune in my head. The one with violins playing ever so softly and in the minor. Shanmukha Didi told me a little about music before she left. She said that sad songs always played in the minor key. This is what the sad song’s doing. Involuntarily, my feet slide across the floor, too, in time to the music. I turn to the side and put my ear to the door.
Anshita turns, her back probably facing me. “Can I tell you something?”
“Sure,” I said.
“But you shouldn’t tell anyone I told you this.”
“Okay.”
She takes a deep breath. “When I was in Nepanagar, not only my family, but even the whole society found out I wanted to make dance my passion. As a result, most parents didn’t want their kids to play with me. In school, I had few friends, and even they diminished when they knew about me. So, to not meet the faces of people who despised what I did, I immersed myself in studies, sports, and dance practice. Nothing else. But when I joined Super Dancer, everyone else’s parents understood. Everyone understood. They welcomed me with open arms. And now I have so many friends, and I’m happy. That’s why even Swati eliminated took a toll on me. She was someone who knew that dance is important here. And so does everyone.”
I hear her sniffle a little. It’s probably hard to talk about. I can understand, after hearing her family situation during audition.
“Sankalp, you’re luckier. Everyone’s supporting you. I don’t have many people on my side...” her voice trails off.
Now, that wasn’t true. Anshita may not be in the top three, but she was high-voted enough. But I don’t know how to comfort her, so I say, “I’m sorry to hear that, Anshita.”
“I know. But I feel better with all those votes rolling in.”
Smart girl. At least she doesn’t admit she isn’t lucky.
Another thought crosses my mind. “Have you had lunch yet?”
She snorts. “Finally, someone remembered.”
Her sarcasm makes me crack a tiny smile. I unlock and open the door. Even Anshita had a few tears rolling down her cheeks. I pull the plate inside and beckon her in, too.
Closing the door again, I ask, “Why do you have to cry? It’s not you that has to suffer.”
She wipes her eyes. “I just don’t know why. I guess it all makes me sad, you of all people crying for something that’s not your fault.”
I look at her, and then the food. Tapping the plate, I say, “We can share.”
She looks at the food too, and nods. Tearing a bit of the roti, she takes a bite with the sabji. I follow suit.
I finally feel better, thanks to Anshita. Apparently, I lost one arch-nemesis now.
Signed,
Melody Vega
The tears come quick. Tears for Aman. Tears for the rest of the dancers who got eliminated, and more tears for the ones who are in danger of getting eliminated. No tears for me, whether I’d get eliminated or not. It’s just for everyone else.
My sobs are soft, so that no one listens. It’s probably muffled from outside. I bury my face in my knees and cry and cry and cry.
It’s just because Aman is out. I wonder whether it would’ve been better if he was eliminated, but he could stay in Mumbai until the show ends. However, he packed up his bags and went back to Delhi. Him not being here is like he’s dead. That’s how hard-hit I am. That’s how hard-hit maybe Prithvi is, too. That’s how hard-hit everyone is, just not as much as us boys are.
Aman was the A in ASP. He was the wise-yet-fun person who kept us grounded. He was the oldest, and he never stopped looking out for all of us, even the girls. Now, with him eliminated, the ASP group became the…the SP group? Only me and Prithvi. I don’t think even ASP lives anymore. It’s just me, Sobhit and Prithvi in the league of boys. No. One. Else.
My thoughts are interrupted by someone calling me from outside. It’s Anshita.
“Sankalp, where are you? The lunch buffet is going to get over soon, you need to have something,” she says.
“Go away,” I say back, my voice hoarse.
“Sankalp, are you in here?” She knocks on the door, and she knocks hard, so the door vibrates a little.
“I said, go away.” I sound harsh, and I regret it. But I don’t want any, any comfort now. I just want to be by myself.
She gets the message because I hear footsteps moving away from the room. I’m left in peace, but I’m done crying, too.
However, five minutes later, she returns. I hear the clinking of ceramic utensils on the floor.
“I brought you food. Aloo ki sabji, curd, and roti. And some sliced cucumbers and tomatoes and onions.”
Well, that’s nice. Even though the boys vs. girls war was still around, it was a kind gesture. From Anshita, of all people.
I swallow hard. “Thanks.”
She slides down the door to sit on the floor. “I guess it’s about Aman.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. What makes me confess? Perhaps her tone seems trusting.
“It’s not like I don’t miss Swati, if you wondered.”
“But… I thought it didn’t affect you so much. No offence, but you didn’t know her very well.”
“It does. We kept in touch with her while she was injured. We talked a lot over the phone and everything.”
I look down at my shoes and my knee pads. “Oh.”
There’s silence. Then, from Anshita, “It’s okay to miss him.”
“I know that.” I wipe my face. “But I’m a brave kid. Brave kids don’t cry. And I cried.”
I see her feet slide to the side. “I know you did. I heard it before you said, ‘go away’.”
“Sorry about that.”
“It’s fine.”
I hear a sad tune in my head. The one with violins playing ever so softly and in the minor. Shanmukha Didi told me a little about music before she left. She said that sad songs always played in the minor key. This is what the sad song’s doing. Involuntarily, my feet slide across the floor, too, in time to the music. I turn to the side and put my ear to the door.
Anshita turns, her back probably facing me. “Can I tell you something?”
“Sure,” I said.
“But you shouldn’t tell anyone I told you this.”
“Okay.”
She takes a deep breath. “When I was in Nepanagar, not only my family, but even the whole society found out I wanted to make dance my passion. As a result, most parents didn’t want their kids to play with me. In school, I had few friends, and even they diminished when they knew about me. So, to not meet the faces of people who despised what I did, I immersed myself in studies, sports, and dance practice. Nothing else. But when I joined Super Dancer, everyone else’s parents understood. Everyone understood. They welcomed me with open arms. And now I have so many friends, and I’m happy. That’s why even Swati eliminated took a toll on me. She was someone who knew that dance is important here. And so does everyone.”
I hear her sniffle a little. It’s probably hard to talk about. I can understand, after hearing her family situation during audition.
“Sankalp, you’re luckier. Everyone’s supporting you. I don’t have many people on my side...” her voice trails off.
Now, that wasn’t true. Anshita may not be in the top three, but she was high-voted enough. But I don’t know how to comfort her, so I say, “I’m sorry to hear that, Anshita.”
“I know. But I feel better with all those votes rolling in.”
Smart girl. At least she doesn’t admit she isn’t lucky.
Another thought crosses my mind. “Have you had lunch yet?”
She snorts. “Finally, someone remembered.”
Her sarcasm makes me crack a tiny smile. I unlock and open the door. Even Anshita had a few tears rolling down her cheeks. I pull the plate inside and beckon her in, too.
Closing the door again, I ask, “Why do you have to cry? It’s not you that has to suffer.”
She wipes her eyes. “I just don’t know why. I guess it all makes me sad, you of all people crying for something that’s not your fault.”
I look at her, and then the food. Tapping the plate, I say, “We can share.”
She looks at the food too, and nods. Tearing a bit of the roti, she takes a bite with the sabji. I follow suit.
I finally feel better, thanks to Anshita. Apparently, I lost one arch-nemesis now.
Signed,
Melody Vega
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