lucky number 4.

Ive never celebrated Mappings’ birthday before, except for his first. Not because I never wanted to, or because I forgot, but because something more pressing would always come up. Polaris, college, first kisses, last kisses, friendships, hateships, love and loss. There are pressing things this year as well. Elaborate mails and leases from London for starters. Documents to be signed, decisions to be made. All bitter and frightening, and all guaranteed to alter me in some way. But bitter and frightening as these pressing issues might be, they arent as pressing as the fact that today marks Mappings’ fourth year in my life.

He wasnt my first blog, though many people seem to think so. My first blog was "Colours and the Complex" which grew from the restlessness and desire brought out by my first relationship, which I promptly deleted as soon as the restlessness and desire was deleted as well. "Colours and the Complex Part Deux" chronicled my first year in Bombay, and thanks to friends who saw words as an essential commodity like I did, I learnt to love blogging. But after a year or so, when our blogs started getting entangled with each others, causing much conflict and chaos, it made sense to back out. And delete, yet another blog. Then, I fell in love for the first time, and out of that love, Mappings was born. It was beautiful and painful and the first time I’d ever felt the emotion, and I wanted to celebrate it the only way I knew how – with words, with mappings of my selves. By the time the love faded, Mappings was too important to let go, and he has been the only blog to survive, to stay.

There is nothing about me he doesnt know. More than my best friends, more than my mother. Sometimes, he knows more about me, than I do myself. He knew things were wrong with F even before I did, his words glaringly obvious on my screen. I ignored him, I didnt know him too well then. I fearfully and grudgingly paid attention when he told me that long-distance with H wasnt working. He knows Im neither a tea nor a coffee person but that I’m both. He knows how much London really means to me and how its more than just getting my Masters over and done with. He knows that he has 4 years worth of raging and ranting saved drafts, that were too angry and raw to post, so remain our dirty secrets.

The best part about Mappings is that he grew with me. Whatever mistakes I made, personal or professional, he made them too. And the painfully few good decisions I made, he usually helped me make them. He is a more a part of me than the people or possessions in my life, simply because he is me. He is my grief, my joy, my darkest insecurites, my vanities, my calm, my uncertainties, my significance, my stupidity. He is the better, stronger, more honest version of me. Which is why it’s a trifle odd sometimes, that he’s a man.

Happy Birthday, my Mappings.


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