Who Reaches First

Dishwasher unloaded, Instant Pot on with the rice in it, the frozen coconut set out to thaw, I finally made my coffee and carried it to the study. Plugged in the two lamps at my altar, lingered just a moment on Lakshmi (the goddess) and walked over to my desk. The first email that downloaded was from Westland. A request for an excerpt from the book, a bio and a headshot.

The moment I had been preparing for since March finally came. I sent it out with a warm note and sat back. I went back to the kitchen and felt lonely. What I was feeling inside, the joy of the first step in a long public-facing process, had nowhere to go. There was not a single person I could call at that very moment who could just know what it feels like. The joy, the need to celebrate, the immensity of it all.

A few days ago my cousin turned a year older. As I scrolled through her birthday pictures, there was something incredibly, loudly joyous about it. Bright bouquets, classic cake, smiles everywhere. I was envious. I want that. I told Saathi so this morning. And he said, she is that way to other people. She pours it out, so it comes back to her. It is natural.

He is right, and being right, it stings a little.

Because here is what I know about myself. I am the one who reaches. I remember the birthdays. I keep the dates. I send the card, the message, the small something someone mentioned wanting months ago and assumed no one heard. I am the first text on the anniversary and the one who says come over, come for golu, the food will be chaos but come. I start the conversation. I have almost always started the conversation.

And when I go looking, honestly, at the last time I spoke to the people I miss, I find myself there too, reaching, sharing, asking. When the thread goes cold, it is because I am tired.

So what do I want, really. Not the cake. I know how to order a cake. Not the flowers, I can buy myself flowers, I am very good at buying myself flowers. What I want is the one wish I cannot ask for out loud without ruining it. I want the phone to ring first. I want to be the note in someone else’s pocket that they cannot wait to hand over. I want to be reached for on a morning when I have done nothing to earn it except exist, and be someone worth remembering.

The first book got flowers. My book club sent a bouquet. My cousin mailed a mug and a notebook with my book cover on it. It was a first, and firsts get marked. This is a second, and seconds get assumed. Nobody loves me less. I understand it. I probably do the same to other people. Understanding it does not stop me from wanting.

There will be cake. I will order it myself, from Wegmans, my cover printed on top. There will be flowers on my table because I will put them there. I will invite the people around me, and it will be a good day.

But I am not going to pretend that buying my own flowers feels the same as being given them. It doesn’t. Both live in me at once. Happiness at what life has brought me and a childish wish for my people to notice.

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