Moon at Half Past Noon

(Inspired by Darvish)

So I’ve been doing this thing.
Not”observing” like some high-IQ stalker,
but just…looking.
Because your notes, Darvish, they’re a bit much, aren’t they?
So much”suffering for the craft.”

I’ve got JEE prep and a cracked phone screen—

I don’t need more gloom.
I wanted to see if anyone is actually winning at this.

Subject 1: The Librarian at the Desk

She’s got that specific”Aunty” energy—stiff cotton sari,
smelling like Mysore Sandal soap and old paper.
She spends all day hitting books with that heavy rubber stamp.
THWOCK.

It’s the most final sound in the world.
She doesn’t look like she’s”chasing joy.”
She looks like she’s just…in the zone.
Like the rhythm of the stamp is enough.
She gave a chocolate to a crying kid

in the Amar Chitra Katha aisle
without even looking up from her register.
It wasn’t a”moment.” It was just a thing she did.
I don’t want her life(too much dust),
but I like that she’s not trying to”manifest” anything.
She’s just there.

(Me, last night: We went to Social for Myra’s 18th. The music was so loud I could feel my teeth vibrating. We drank something blue that tasted like liquid detergent and took 400 photos just to get one where nobody looked mid. I was happy, I think. Or maybe I was just busy.)

Subject 2: The Cutting-Chai Bhaiyya

The axis of the whole street.
He’s juggling four glasses in one hand, shouting at a delivery guy,
and somehow remembers that the uncle in the grey suit wants”less sugar.”
He called me”Beti” and gave me an extra Marie biscuit because it was broken.

His happiness isn’t a”destination.”
It’s the fact that he’s the only person in this 14-million-person city
who knows exactly how I like my tea.

For three minutes,

I wasn’t just another student in a coaching hoodie.
I was a character in his script.

(Me, last Sunday: Dad made us go to that Gurgaon wedding. Absolute circus. 40 degrees, heavy lehenga, and 1,000 relatives asking about my marks. But at 1 AM, my cousin and I sneaked onto the service stairs with a plate of cold paneer tikka. We watched the planes landing at IGIA and talked about running away to Goa. The air was 90% smog, but the vibe? The vibe was 100.)

You wrote about loneliness

like it’s some grand, tragic physics equation.
Which, like, okay.

But then I was on the metro and my playlist shuffled
to this stupid song from 2016,

and I remembered the exact smell
of my old classroom,

and I wasn’t solving for anything.

I was just…there. And it was fine.
That’s the thing you missed, I think.

Happiness isn’t a formula. It’s just a decent playlist you forget you have on.

My happiness isn’t a “gallery” or a “tapestry” (sorry, that’s so mid).

It’s the ten minutes after a mock test

when the world stops feeling like a trap.
It’s the specific way the rain smells

when it hits the hot pavement near the metro station.

It’s sending a brain-rot meme to the group chat and seeing everyone”heart” it instantly.
It’s finally getting to sit in my room, AC on, noise-canceling headphones on,
and just being a person.

Not a daughter, not a student, not a “bright future.”
Just…a person.

I used to think if I wasn’t screaming with joy, I was failing.
Now I think there’s this whole other country.
It’s called “Fine.”
The weather is boring, but at least I can breathe.

Your whole deal was that locked room.

That key you never found.
My whole deal is this massive WhatsApp group that never shuts up.
I’m not looking for a way out of it.
I’m just trying to find the good memes in the spam.

I see the uncle in the park doing that “laughing yoga”
and even though it’s cringe, he looks invincible.

I see the boys playing gully cricket,
using a plastic crate for wickets, shouting like it’s the World Cup final.
I see my mom humming some old Kishore Kumar song while she’s checking the lentils.

I’m just on the train.
The seat is a bit torn,

the guy next to me is snoring,
but the view of the gulmohar trees is decent.
And for now, decent is a kind of winning.

P.S. Sent that meme to Myra. She replied, “dead” in two seconds.