I sit at the kitchen island, my brows furrowed and an intense look on my face. My fingers fly on the keyboard ensnaring thoughts as they threaten to escape. The cooker hisses mildly in the background. “It shouldn’t have to be this hard!” I think to myself. I remember the evening before. I walked the girls along the now empty roads in my up and coming development. As I rounded the bend and walked into what seemed a crowd of women, men and children, I slowed visibly. Ammu and Pattu ran headfirst calling out to their friends of two seconds. As they disappeared into the garage of one of the new homes behind two equally small girls, I worried and sped behind them. A lady my age stood amidst her five children. I relaxed, introduced myself and started talking. Even as I was mid sentence, an older gentleman introduced himself to her and hijacked the conversation. I slunk away unnoticed yelling for Ammu and Pattu to follow me.
I walked into the house my mood darker than the night. I fumed and raged within myself. It shouldn’t have to be this hard to make friends. It seems so easy when I see other people do it. They mingle easily, laugh without care and invite themselves over for meals. Suddenly now I have friend envy. Each time I spy a group of adults enjoying a conversation, I shoot a piercing look wishing deeply for what they have.
Washing the suds away from the large anodized vessel at the sink, I wondered if their lives mirror mine. Do they anguish over what to make for dinner? When do they find the time to socialize amidst the loads of laundry and the food prep? Do they relate to each other as good friends do or do they hang on to each other for sanity and kinship in a life overwhelming them with chores and just keeping up.
Perhaps one has to be lucky in friendship as in love. Perhaps for every gaggle of girls by the corner of the street, there are hundreds more hunched over their laptops rueing their sad lives. Perhaps some dreams are just that. Dreams?