lobster

  

I thought it would be hard to write this, but surprisingly, the words came out quite naturally. I wrote this less as a source of venting and more as a duty to recite a part of myself that no one else knew. A form of immortalisation, if you will. As a result, I have tried my best to keep my emotions out of the way while writing this, but you will find that some natural human sentiment leaks into a few of the words. I apologise for the same. You may read this as if it were a piece of fiction if that helps.

Calls

About a year ago, my girlfriend inquired me why she'd never seen me cry. "It's always me crying to you; you should also cry to me sometimes," she said. 

"Well, there's not much here to make me cry, Ari", I replied. 

"Well, then I'll break up with you, and you'll be in tears, and I'll finally see you cry, hah!" She had a weird sense of humour at times.

"If we break up, you'll start crying first, and I'll be busy consoling you".

She grinned, "That's also true". Her smile often caused me to lose focus on the actual words she said. 

I smiled back.

"But don't worry, I'll find a way to make you cry someday", she hadn't stopped grinning. 

June 6th, 2025 

It was summer vacation, and I was in Kerala with my extended family. We were heading out for lunch at a nice restaurant my aunt recommended. I had had an uncharacteristically light breakfast in anticipation of the restaurant's famous mutton biriyani that had been promised to me.

The queue at the restaurant was awfully long, owing to it being a holiday for Eid, so I took out my phone to pass the time and was unpleasantly greeted by a missed call from my girlfriend's college roommate and a text that said, "Please call me back, Rishi".

I've never been a fan of phone calls; I always preferred texts. Maybe it's the pressure to fill in the silences that are bound to arise when talking instead of texting, or maybe it's the fact that I always could write down my thoughts way better than I could say them out loud. In fact, Ari was the only person whose name I looked forward to popping up on my screen with a little 'slide up to answer' below it, and I always happily obliged. 

This, however, seemed important, so I stepped out of the restaurant waiting area and called her back. She picked up the phone, half sobbing and told me that the police had called her to inform her that Adrija had been in an accident and inquired if she had any mental issues or other problems. I couldn't make out everything she said over the crying, but I had heard enough to understand what had happened.

I decided the best course of action given this news would be to go back to my family, who had now found a table to sit at, and eat my meal. I approached the table, and my mom asked me where I was. I just shook my head and took a seat beside her. She looked at my hands and told me that I was trembling. I looked down to make sure, for my mom did have a habit of exaggerating things. I confirmed that she wasn't hyperbolising this time; my hands were, in fact, shaking quite violently. I had no choice but to explain the situation to my mother and ask that I be excused, as I had a few phone calls to make. 

I stepped outside to the parking lot of the restaurant and decided to get more information on the matter before dedicating myself to a breakdown. Since her roommate didn't know much, I decided the only other person I could call was her mother. She disliked me for reasons outside my control; we had never spoken, but she knew of me and my role in her daughter's life, and was thus not a fan of my existence. But almost immediately my desperation overcame my reluctance, and I called her.

What happened next was mostly a blur. I introduced myself and asked what had happened to her daughter, to which she replied that Adrija is no longer with us. I don't remember all that I said, but I doubt I said much. I do remember her crying and screaming at me, how it was my fault, how I had caused Ari to change, to be distant from her family, and that she was no longer alive because of me, among other words of similar taste. I don't think I registered all of these things at the moment; my mind had heard the first sentence and had shut down, and all that followed was just noise to me.

I asked my dad to book me a flight back home to Bangalore, and he agreed, perhaps motivated by my mom seeing me crying on the ground of the parking lot when she came to check on me. 

Most of my family members tried to console me, but it did not help much. I can hardly blame them, I myself don't know what I wanted to hear. My aunt told me it is fine to be sad for 2,3 even 5 whole days, but post that, I must be back up on my feet. My grandmother could not understand what the fuss was about, but was upset nonetheless because I would be cutting my trip short and because I hadn't eaten anything. Perhaps the only words that made me feel better were my grandfather's, who sat me down and told me that grief is a part of life and that he was sorry I had to go through it at a young age.

I've never found myself so conflicted between asking the world to leave me alone and wanting someone to hold me in an everlasting hug. I chose the former since it seemed easier to ask.

I flew back to Bangalore that night with my mother and was greeted by my father at home, who chose the approach of ignoring what had happened as a method to help me cope with it. I went to bed at 2 am and fell asleep just as the sun was coming up.

I woke up the next day with my whole body aching, my head was splitting, my chest felt like it was caving in, and I could barely move my arms. I had dreamt in my sleep that Ari had texted me and said that it was just a little accident and that now she was fine. I woke up and checked my phone to see that the dream was indeed not a premonition; a friend from her apartment had just texted that he heard what happened and was sorry. I cried some more. She was gone. There was no doubt about it.

I have started writing this two days after I got the call. I contemplated writing about this in retrospect once I was done hurting, but for once, I didn't feel like procrastinating, maybe because I cannot really see myself making it past tomorrow. Besides, Ari always wanted me to write, and I'd always refuse, but she was the most stubborn person I'd ever met; I knew she'd get her way eventually.

Writing

 I had a deeper relationship with the written word than its spoken counterpart all my life. My childhood was spent nurturing this relationship from the overload of books my mother showered me with, and the numerous creative writing competitions telling me I was the best, at least among the few who participated in my small school. My adolescence, however, was spent veering me away from getting too involved in these creative endeavours of mine and directed towards learning the math and science I was expected to as a bright student.

I reckon I was never a person with a will strong enough to stand up for what I loved and work on pursuing them, so naturally, I barely realised as my passions began to fade and slip away and just wondered why I didn't quite enjoy anything anymore. Till around 11th grade, I felt just a sort of inexplicable emptiness which was not too intense to analyse further, I could live with it just fine. Perhaps it was Ari’s commitment to her own passions that made me realise mine.

I met Ari in my 11th grade FIITJEE coaching class. We had classes Saturdays 4-8, Sundays 9-5 and Wednesdays 5-8. This was the norm for any engineering student who aspired to join a respectable college; I knew some people who had two of such classes too. I had noticed her in class way before she had noticed me. We went to the same school too, but owing to the huge population my school DPS garnered, I had never seen her in school until she walked into our class during an otherwise unassuming lunch break.

I sat in the second to last seat of the first row from the door. I was early on the first day of my 11th grade so I had chosen the prime seat, the one near the window, which meant continuous wind all day long and a good means of zoning out when the classes got too mundane, which they often did. During lunch, all my friends used to huddle up around my seat and I would sit facing them with my back to the window.

One such lunch break, I saw Ari walk into our class and beeline to the opposite side of the class to her friend; since I joined the school that year itself, I assumed they were friends from before. She had her lunchbox open in her hand and was talking excitedly with little jumps to my classmate, one hand waving around, the other holding her food, a sandwich, I think. 

She was wearing her yellow house t-shirt and a white skirt. She always looked so vibrant, so full of life. Through the years, I have seen Ari in all kinds of glamorous dresses and makeup and so forth, but to me she looked her prettiest in that yellow t-shirt adorned with food stains, mud and grime.

I turned to my friend, who also went to the same coaching, and asked him, "Isn't she in our FIITJEE?". My friend looked across the class and squinted his eyes in unfamiliarity. He and I were quite different, for one, he didn't share my inclination to subtleties. As a result, he yelled out from across the room, “Oi, you, yellow shirt, do you go to FIITJEE?”

She returned his clueless expression, “Yeah, are you in FIITJEE too?” she replied.

“We both are”, he said, motioning to me sitting beside. 

She did not acknowledge me and continued, “Well, I’ve never seen you in class”.

He seemed offended. “So what, neither have I”. He was not the best person when it came to introductions; when we met for the first time, he boasted about how he had been suspended and called to the principal’s office more times than he could count. This had given me a bad first impression of him, but I would later learn that his desire to make up stories far outweighed his true misconduct.

He then proceeded to tell her his and my name, to which she reciprocated, “I’m Adrija.” I hadn’t heard her quite right, and neither had he.

“Your name is what?” He yelled; he never had much care for courtesy.

“Ah-da-ree-ja!” She yelled back, with a smile on her face that she thinks works perfectly in masking her amusement and conveying her annoyance to the viewer, but it seldom does.

She went back to talking to her friends and my friend got distracted in the conversation we were having at our table. I found out later that Ari had a slight recollection of the conversation but did not remember seeing me or getting to know my name in class. I looked at her for a couple more seconds and got back to our lunch break discussion of why this will surely be the year RCB wins the league.

I always kept with me a dusty, abused old rough book to write down stuff, it was a different one each time and I never really preserved these; its job was more for me to know that whatever I write down is important to me in that moment than for me to come back to it later. I opened up the latest of these books, which was a bright spiral-bound book I used to carry to labs whenever I forgot the lab record.

I wrote down in it, among other things, ‘Met a girl in school today, she’s in FIITJEE too’. I kept it casual, you don’t wanna appear all sappy in front of your diary.

Texts

Almost the entirety of my lockdown was spent texting numerous people, most of it was asking my friends to come online in Call of Duty, while some of it was with random internet people, perhaps even some juvenile romantic attempts somewhere along the way, anything to pass the time. 

I had, however, never felt elation at seeing a name pop up on my screen until Ari. I woke up with my eyes barely opening to look at my phone for new texts, I stood in the hallway with my phone at 3 per cent because hers still had charge, I doomscrolled at 1 am in the night because what if she decides to text randomly at 1:30? But none of this felt odd to me in the slightest- no time was too busy, no inconvenience too much.

The first proper conversation I had with Ari was on a Wednesday, a 5-8 FIITJEE class. I was early to the class for some reason, but she was already there. Since she lived far from school and since school ended only around 2-2:30, she used to come directly from school so there she was at 4 in her school uniform - white shirt, dark green belt and tie, and a white skirt, the same one she had been wearing since 8th grade because she didn’t outgrow it.

I do not remember what we talked about for an hour before class on that Wednesday, but I do remember enjoying it. We both went back and sat in our usual places at the opposite ends of the back row of the class as the teacher walked in. Class got over in time and I came down the steps and sat on the couch at the coaching entrance; I had to wait for my dad to pick me up, and he was mostly late to reach, a trait that I am admittedly guilty of having inherited. 

I remember quite vividly what happened next. The pretty girl I just chatted with before class came down the stairs in her characteristic little skipping-meandering steps with a vibrant red and yellow bag on her back. She looked at me for a second, smiled and plopped down, bag and all, next to me. “Are you waiting for your dad?” she asked.

“Yeah, you?” I asked.

“No, my dad’s here, he comes early anyway.” I wondered why she wasn’t leaving if her dad was waiting outside. I didn’t complain.

“Here, give me your number, I’ll give you a missed call so you’ll have mine too.” She said, handing me her phone.

“Uh, okay.” I mustered. I always was known for my charm.

“Okay, thanks, bye! I’ll see you Saturday.” She said plainly and left.

This was a bit of a big deal for me. Albeit with what might have been little real intent, she had asked for my number, which no girl had done before. It was always me asking people for their numbers, being new to the city and the school and all. I didn’t get people who saved numbers with the person's entire biodata, I didn’t understand people who could remember numbers by just the first name either; I followed the procedure of first name followed by where I know them from unless we were quite close, in which case just the first name would suffice; I found this method quite effective.

As I’m sitting there with a faint smile on my face, my phone buzzes for a second and I see a missed call from an unknown number. I save it, ‘Adrija FIITJEE’. It didn’t quite sit right with me, I hit backspace, ‘Adrija DPS’. It still didn’t quite sit right with me, I hit backspace again, ‘Adrija’. That looked better. I was desecrating the organisation of my contact list, but it’s fine, I had a feeling I wouldn’t forget her soon.

I don't recall us talking much after that until the first time she texted me. She had sent a reel of our math sir dancing to a TikTok song on his vacation. The majority of our early conversations were about different teachers we had and our mutual dislike for them; there was something oddly soothing about listening to her bitch about somebody at 1 in the night. 

I read through our first chats in my current melancholy and although I knew it was true because I lived through it, I couldn’t bring myself to believe that these were two people who barely knew each other. I have always kept people at an arm's length for no reason in particular, other than the fact that that's how I'm hardwired. But somehow from day one she had torn down my defences and made me share things I wouldn’t with my closest friends.

This nightly routine proved to be quite addictive, but I loved it. I’d talk to her about everything in my life and my past and what I think my future would be for hours on end and we would not stop because we were tired, but because it was 3 am and we had school in four hours. I think I was in love way before I even had any intention of being with her.

I can gather how this would appear quite juvenile to anyone outside, but it was more than just meeting a girl for me. I had built up an apathy to the world around me that was so strong that I did not need to feign indifference anymore; it came to me naturally. I simply did not care about anything. But here she was making me second-guess texts and turning up my notifications. I did not like it one bit.

Terraces

I don’t know how Ari took her life, I don’t know any of the details concerning her death, but if I had to make a guess, I would say she probably found a spot on her apartment terrace, hopefully one that was windy with a nice view, and let go. If I remember correctly, her apartment was 15 floors. I don’t think even Ari, who was accustomed to falling due to her clumsiness, could have survived it.

She’d call me sometimes from this terrace as she was not allowed to talk on the phone at home. The wind there was so loud I could barely hear her if she was walking around while talking, so I’d yell at her over the wind to get back to cover, to which she’d say “OH right, sorry sorry” and scurry back to the spot she sat before subconsciously starting to wander again five minutes later. The wind would start again, and her sweet voice would become a faint whisper.

June 30th, 2023

A friend from my school bus had been subtly manipulating me over the past few weeks into finally asking Adrija out. I had just spent the past year in love with her without actually being able to do anything about it, so I didn’t mind the coercion my friend provided.

Ari was receiving a prize that day in our school’s investiture ceremony, which meant that if I wanted to see her get it, I had to sit through 4 hours of speeches by every important person there. It was lunch and I could not bear to sit in the hall for any longer, not to mention my friends, whom I had dragged along, were getting impatient as they could not understand why I chose to linger in this dull affair. As I was done with lunch and making my way back to the hall, I saw her walking towards me. She was dressed in formals, a loose black shirt tucked into dark blue checkered pants that hugged her body. 

Her speech was presumably over; I had missed it. I opened my mouth to say sorry, but the national anthem started playing behind us, the one that they play at the end of the ceremony. We both stood there, hands to our sides, eyes locked, while the anthem roared in the background. I mouthed, “Sorry”. She smiled, “It's okay”, she mouthed back. I spent the rest of the anthem looking at her, I did not think she could get prettier. 

I got on the bus that day and told my friend about what happened, “HOW COULD YOU MISS HER SPEECH!” she inquired calmly.

After apologising again and explaining that she didn’t seem to mind, my friend came back to her agenda, “But she looked soooo pretty today, and she was in front of the whole school, I bet someone else is gonna ask her out now”, she said. I do not know why she thought her manipulation was in any way subtle, however, being aware of what she was doing didn’t prevent me from getting influenced by it. I’d never admit to it in less honest circumstances, but that is probably what made me ask her out the next day.

It had become a tradition for Ari and I to go up to the FIITJEE terrace during every break we had. It was windy and faced the highway so you could see the cars go by; it was beautiful after dark. This particular Saturday, I had a plan laid out. Since we only got one ten minute break (it stretched to around 20 as the physics sir was always late), I figured I am to take her up to the terrace like we usually do and just say the words that needed to be said. It was going to be easy, I already knew she liked me, half our school knew, it was just a matter of getting the words out.

Perhaps it was my love for storytelling sabotaging me, but I found myself, ten minutes in, still laying exposition to my grand speech instead of making the speech itself. She looked at me with expectant eyes, with a slight twinkle in them that knew what it was I was going to say, but would wait till I said it. I looked at the time, the next class had started. We had to go back. I studied no physics in the following class, I was working out a new and more realistic plan to execute tomorrow when sir announced that he was done with the chapter and would hence leave the class twenty minutes early. 

This was very pleasant news indeed. I ushered her to the terrace again, surely I won’t fumble a second time. This time around I think Ari realised my struggle and threw me a line, “You said there was something you wanted to ask me, go on”. 

She was leaning against the half wall looking over the city, her hair was flying around in the wind, her waves were falling on her face as she constantly brushed them off, behind her was a sea of little yellow headlights edging closer, looking like fireflies surrounding her. “Would you go out with me tomorrow for lunch? Like as a date date, not a friend date.” I managed. 

She smiled, “Yes I will”. She later told me she was equally freaking out that day, if not more, but she certainly did a better job of hiding it than I did. 

“Okay then. I’ll see you tomorrow”. 

We left the terrace and walked down in stairs in silence. Tomorrow was to be a good day.

Love

My family was not a big fan of verbal affirmations of love, perhaps it’s just an Indian parent thing to use subtler ways to express feelings. But as a natural result, I found it hard to put into words my affection and recognise much less declare complex feelings like love. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever said the words ‘I love you’ out loud before Ari. Even saying it to Ari, I said it in text before I did it in person, I regret it slightly, but at that point I do not think I could’ve waited any longer- I had been holding it in for more than a year after all.

The last thing I told Ari was also I love you. This time there was no thought behind it; It was 4 am and I was half asleep with the phone sandwiched between my ear and the pillow, but the words flew out of my mouth like a song I had sung countless times before- because I had. The words carelessly floated through the phone to her as I drifted off to sleep in the comfort that I didn’t need to be awake to know she’d say it back.

My 12th grade informal graduation party was planned by a sketchy rich kid in school who overcharged every willing person in our grade to come to a drunk gathering in the basement of The Leela Palace. Events like this acted as an Indian high schooler’s substitute for a prom night, and as a result, most of the grade was either trying to find a date or not coming in protest. I tried to convince my class friends to come, but they bluntly refused saying that I would be with my girl anyway, I could not find a counter to that argument. It would have been fine till Ari told me that she could not make it- her parents had stopped her from coming at the last moment.

Since I had already paid the overpriced fee, I decided to join the few of my friends who were still going. I arrived at the venue an hour and a half late, and tipsier than I would have liked, to the sight of Ari standing outside in the waiting hall. She saw me and ran up to me for a hug. She was wearing a black dress coat, two strands of her hair curled up and fell on her face, she smelled of strawberries. 

She only had one more hour left, owing to my tardiness, before her parents would come to pick her up. We enjoyed our limited time, and I left soon after she did. After reaching home, I saw that she had sent me a photo, it was a picture of her wearing the pendant I had gifted her a while ago with the caption “Guess what I kept in my pocket and forgot to wear. I’ll wear it to sleep to make up for it.”

I was in bed as I typed out the words, “I love you”, and hit send. “You’re delirious, go sleep”, she replied. I smiled and went to sleep. She said it back to me the next day. I told her to stop copying me. I was officially in love.

Ari's autocorrect once accidentally wrote 'I lobster you', instead of 'I love you', and hence I found an easy way out to my reluctancy to say the L-word. But she knows what it means when I say I lobster her.

Colour

When we were still just friends, Ari told me her favourite colour was blue and asked me what mine was. I tried to think about it but realised I did not really have one. I remember when I was about five and we were buying our first car, my parents asked me what kind of car I wanted. I was pretty adamant on a red car, it didn’t matter what car it was, as long as it was red. So we bought a red Hyundai i10. Since then however, I had never felt strongly towards any single colour. 

“Guess”, I said.

“Ummm, orange?” she asked.

“Yeah, it’s orange”, I replied. I feel like she knew at some point that it was just me going along with what she was saying, but she never objected to it. She also told me that blue and orange were complementary colours, and so it was perfect. I made a mental note to look up what complementary colours are, but I never really got around to doing it.

Ari would make beautiful paintings and often talk to me about her and others’ art. I am in no way an artistically inclined person, and I cannot lift my pen up for anything other than words. I also was never interested in knowing why an artist used a certain colour for the backdrop or why that one line being a bit too curved is a reflection of society, but her passion for art would make me happily sit and listen to her talk about a painting for hours on end if need be. Her love for her passion was quite inspiring, and it was evident how much it hurt her that she was not allowed to pursue it. Perhaps her only creative outlet was the fine arts club at our college, but her dreams were so much more than the group painting they put up every fest could contain.

For my 19th birthday, among a plethora of other things, Ari said that she was making me a painting. In usual Ari fashion, she overthought everything and could not finish the painting by the time it was my birthday. I also told her not to focus too much on the painting as our exams were quite near, and she could finish the painting anytime and give it to me at her leisure. 

The last day of college, she was dead set on finishing the painting, but I stole her away from her brushes to go on a date since it was the last time I’d see her for a few months. I never saw the painting, and I'm not even sure if she finished it. Knowing her, it was finished ages ago, but she kept doubting whether it was perfect. I can never see the painting now; I don’t even know what it was about, but I do know she’s probably somewhere making another one for me, and relieved at being able to start over.

I also realised that I don't really need to know what the painting was about because it wasn't the first and certainly not the most important painting she has done for me. Ari was responsible for bringing colour to my life in a way that didn't require canvases or brushes. Her smile poked a little hole through your heart, and her laughter seeped in and filled up crevices you didn’t know existed. She had brought so much life and colour to the world I had kept monotonous on purpose, that perhaps she forgot to leave some on her palette. 

I kept rewriting this paragraph to make it a better reflection of her influence on my life, but at about my fourth attempt, I realised that was simply not possible. I have tried my best, but ultimately, I lack the ability to put it all into words. But if anyone wishes to know my favourite colour, it's orange.

Endings

The day Ari died, my mother said, “We can never really know what someone is going through, despite how close we are. Some people just don’t share to shield others”. It was said to console me, but it barely helped. It seemed to describe me more than it did her. This was quite disturbing.

I did not talk to Ari the day before she died. Seldom did a day go by without me feeling the need to talk to her, but the previous night we had been on call till around 4 am, so I didn't text her anything in the day. I intended to call or text her at night before sleeping, but one of my friends happened to call during dinner, so I finished quickly and ended up playing till I fell asleep. I did not think about her till the call the next day.

I feel like somewhere subconsciously I knew this was going to happen. She had never talked about it directly to me but somehow when I first got the call, it was sadness that gripped me, not shock or surprise. I spent no time thinking it could be an accident, that she wouldn’t actually do it. I did not go through denial, which I am told is the first stage of grief. I just knew it had happened and sat myself in that cloud of helplessness for however long it has been till today.

I've been told it's futile to think about if she'd still be alive if I had made that call or at least a text to check up on her, but I can't help it when I know with certainty if I had talked to her she would have told me everything that was troubling her, I know that I would have helped her, and I know that she would still be here.

I realised how hypocritical it sounds of me saying this; I was never one to talk about things that pain me every day, even to her, because just her being there was enough for me to keep going. But Ari wasn't like that; she was strong enough to talk, but in a moment of vulnerability, she had no one near her, and a phone call perhaps seemed too far. Maybe she knew if she talked to me, it’d save her, and that’s what she was afraid of. I did not understand this at first, but now I know it's not about not having people to save you, because she did; it's about not wanting to be saved. 

If science has taught me anything, it is that nothing in this universe is ever lost, it only changes from one form to the other. Perhaps the laws of conservation apply to pain as well. As Ari died, she did not take her pain with her, she simply passed it on to her loved ones- friends, family, me. If what I feel now is the pain she felt on a daily basis, I could not imagine being so selfish as to blame her for what she did. I am glad she is now free of that pain.

July 17th, 2025

Ari, I am not mad at you. Today, I am not even sad. I understand. I will lobster you always.

---

The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom it’s invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of the two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s the terror of the flames. And yet, nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.

thank you.